LLOYD, PAUL R. by Hags Page A

Why would I ask
him?” Bob turned his palms up with a puzzled expression on his face.
    “He’s an angel.” Micah smiled.
    Bob’s eyes sprouted question marks.
“He is?”
    “Bob, you don’t think Ahlman Brown
is an angel?” Micah asked.
    “Why would I think so?” Bob
shrugged.
    Micah stood up, grabbed Bob’s head
with both hands and kissed him on the forehead.
    “Told you he was a perv.” Barbara took
another swig of Guinness, but kept her eyes on Micah.
    Micah returned Barbara’s stare.
    Barbara broke eye contact. “Don’t
even think about kissing me.”
    Micah said, “I’m not. Well, I am,
but what I want to ask is how you feel about Ahlman Brown.”
    Barbara grinned. “Are you really
thinking about kissing me? Right here in front of God and Bob?”
    “Yep. Told you guys I wasn’t much
of a praying person. Besides you’re a pretty girl with a kissable face.” Micah
sat down while Bob returned to his plate of food.
    Barbara smiled at Micah. “Hmmm,
thank you. I’ll take that under advisement.”
    “And what about Ahlman?” Bob asked.
    Barbara dismissed the question with
a wave of the hand. “Wouldn’t think of kissing him.”
    “He an angel?” Bob asked.
    “He’s a jerk,” Barbara said. “So
full of himself.”
    Bob pointed at Barbara with his
half-eaten sandwich. “You don’t think he’s an angel, then?”
    “Course not.” Barbara picked up her
bottle of stout.
    Micah planted his beer can hard on
the table making a splash. “Something happened during prayer time. Before you
prayed, you were both fervent believers in Ahlman Brown as a heaven-sent angel.
    Bob looked surprised. “You’re
right. We’ve been freed from a demonic presence, a sort of mind control.”
    “I need another beer,” Barbara
said. “This ain’t Sunday morning.”
    Bob finished chewing a bite of
sandwich, drank some beer and said, “So, Micah, who’s your friend?”
    Micah shrugged. “My friend?”
    “Yeah. Somebody hired the country’s
most expensive legal team and bailed you out despite a multimillion-dollar bond
payment. They’re putting you up in this mansion and feeding you enough for a
small army.” Bob waved an arm over the food spread.
    “I’m my friend.” Micah pointed a
thumb at his chest.
    Barbara pulled a stout bottle neck
out of her mouth. “You paid with your own money?”
    Micah glanced at Barbara. “Yeah,
why?”
    Bob said, “Because, despite what
the news people say about you being wealthy, all we see is a jailbird ex-con
with no visible means of support. No offense.”
    Micah chuckled. “None taken. It’s
my father’s money. He died and left it to me.”
    Barbara pushed her red hair away
from her face again. “So you’re loaded?”
    “Kinda.” Micah raised an eyebrow.
    “So why are you living in a fixer
upper?” Barbara asked.
    Micah said, “Wanted something to do
while I figure out what to do next. Besides, I’m not comfortable around money,
especially if I didn’t earn it myself.”
    Barbara blinked with her deep green
eyes a few times. “Why don’t you stand up straight and walk proud? You’re
stooped shouldered like a sad sack just out of… oh, right, you are out of
prison. Why don’t you spend some of the dough? You know, travel, do stuff. Pick
up a gorgeous redhead. That sort of thing?”
    “If I knew a gorgeous redhead, I’d
ask her out.” Micah feigned a straight face, but couldn’t prevent a smirk from
creeping across his lips.
    The sandwich, the one Barbara had
taken two bites out of, hit Micah between the eyes.
    “You know someone?” Micah wiped his
face with a napkin and laughed.
    Barbara shook the Guinness bottle
and sprayed stout at Micah’s face.
    “Wait, no fair.” Micah ran to the
kitchen and came back shaking a can of soda.
    “Noooo!” Barbara screamed as she rambled
out of the room with a spray of soda streaming down her back.
    “You didn’t tell me there would be
a food fight,” Bob called from under the table.
    “How about a