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known what to do with himself. So he’d bought a frozen-yogurt franchise and supervised that. He was a stickler for rules, and he was always popping up out of nowhere. He’d worked out a whole Goody-Goody philosophy, even though there was only him and a staff of four. “Draw ’em in hungry, send ’em out happy” was one of his mottos. “A little extra topping equals a little extra business” was another. For Sam, his five days a week were pretty much a cakewalk, because there were so many eateries in the food court that he never had morethan a couple customers at once. He didn’t like the cleanup or the yogurt-machine maintenance, but other than that it was easy money—and a good excuse to get out of the house and away from Teddy for long stretches of time.
    But the hat. What a nightmare. It was a blue baseball cap with the top of a brown waffle cone sticking out high on one side, and the bottom, pointy end sticking out low on the other, so it looked like the cone had come down out of the sky and pierced Sam’s skull at a diagonal. The cone was topped with a round, white polyester blob that was supposed to be frozen yogurt and a cherry that dangled like a tassel. And, of course, the words GOODY-GOODY were stitched across the front. Franchise stuff Mr. Webber had been delighted to receive in the mail a few weeks ago, along with a new list of suggested company rules, one of which stated that if you were behind the counter, you wore the hat. It would have been better, Sam thought, if the cone had been turned upside down, like a dunce cap.
    He held out as long as he could, but Mr. Webber wasn’t going anywhere until he put that hat on hishead, so eventually he dug it out from under the counter and put it on.
    â€œThat’s better,” Mr. Webber said. “Now what’s this about a miniature marshmallow?”
    â€œYou put a miniature marshmallow in the bottom of the waffle cone while it’s still hot,” Sam said in a flat voice, his enthusiasm gone now that he was under the weight of the hat. “It seals off the bottom so it won’t drip.”
    â€œThat’s great, Sam. You’re using your head. I like that. Now, I’ve got some shopping to do, but I’ll be back shortly, and I don’t want to see you looking like all these other mannequins, you understand?”
    â€œAbsolutely,” Sam said.
    Mr. Webber turned to go, but then glanced back over Sam’s shoulder. “Vanilla’s low,” he said. Then he wandered off through the food court.
    Stuck in the hat , Sam thought wearily. From the walk-in cooler he got a bag of vanilla mix as large as a king-size pillow, then climbed onto a footstool, hefted the awkward blob up, and flipped it over, twisting its spout open. A wave of milky liquid glucked out in surges, and gradually the bag got lighter.
    â€œPretty impressive,” said a voice behind him, “for someone who has a cone jabbed through his head.”
    He started and turned around. “Melissa, you scared the hell out of me. You know what would happen if I dropped this?”
    â€œExtra cleanup tonight?” She pushed her straight jet-black hair back from her face.
    â€œLet’s just say you could make a disaster movie out of it. The Goop. How are you?”
    â€œThe usual.” Melissa shrugged. “You’re still coming over Monday night, right? There’re going to be six of us this time.”
    â€œYeah, I’ll be there.”
    â€œWithout the hat, I hope.”
    â€œ Please . Webber’s snooping around, keeping an eye on me. It was an okay job until this cone-head thing started.”
    â€œHow did I not think of that? You are a cone head!”
    â€œAll right. A little sympathy for your friend, okay?” Sam climbed down from the footstool. “Did you get your pictures of the Pistol Museum?”
    â€œTwo rolls. And they let me photograph theinside of the old jail. I