EIGHTEENJohn played Mag’s Bar and Grill on Wednesdays and Fridays; on Tuesdays, he provided ambience for The Staghorn, a fine-dining establishment that specialized in farm-raised venison; Thursday saw him at Three Rivers Wine Lounge. Saturday night, though, at five-thirty, Mike took over.
“I really kind of don’t like this,” he told Sandie uncertainly, poking his head out of the vestry with a flash of Ordinary Time green. “We’re worshiping. That’s not to be used for whatever he’s using it for. I mean, it’s great if he wants to sing in church, but the whole point is to make a joyful noise unto the Lord, and I’m not really sure he gets that concept.”
Sandie shrugged and looked at John for help, but John was more interested in the large church calendar pinned to the wall.
“I think he wants
