Southern Fried by Rob Rosen

Author:Rob Rosen [Rosen, Rob]
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf
Tags: MLR Press LLC; Print format ISBN# 978-1-60820-435-9; ebook format ISBN#978-1-60820-436-6
Published: 2012-06-15T06:30:54+00:00

116 Rob Rosen

I echoed his smile. “Does it start with a P and end with an ellingham?”

He was already leading me out of the study. “Exactly, boss.

And she’s worked here forever. Roy might’ve been a plant, but no way is Stella. Hates anything to do with the good senator from South Carolina or his Georgian son. Plus, she loved your granny.

And, and this is the biggest and of all, no way are two sissy boys going to Savannah all alone. We got the brains, but now we need some brawn.”

I hated to say it, but he had a point. Zeb and I were cute as all get out, but that’d only get us in the club without a cover charge.

And Robert E.’s office wasn’t no club. “Is she working today?” He was rushing me down the stairs now, then out the back door. Stella was bent over a workhorse, saw ripping through a thick slab of wood. We ran over. She stopped and lifted her goggles. “’sup?”

So we quickly ‘supped her. She nodded throughout. Then she smiled when the whole Pellingham thing got introduced into the story. “Fucker,” she spat. Literarily, I mean. With chew. Redman, I was soon to find out. Better than a cigarette, I supposed. Mostly.

“So, we’re heading to Savannah?” she asked. “To that fucker’s law firm?”

I nodded. “Well, um, yeah. We are. But I couldn’t ask you to come. Too dangerous.”

She set the saw down. “Uh, you just asked me. Why do you think you just told me that whole friggin’ story? Besides, you’re the boss; something happens to you, I’m out of work.” Team spirit. Yippy. “Thanks, I think.” She laughed, huskily, boobs bouncing beneath a way too revealing tank top. I doubted that Stella paid for cover charges either. She was hot, in a roller derby sort of way. “Don’t thank me just yet. Anyway, I’m glad to help. Anything to screw over those Pellinghams, I’m all for it. Now wait right here.” We did just that, whistling while we waited, inhaling the sawdust fumes.

She returned a few minutes later, pistol in her grip. “I keep one southeRn FRied 117

in the car. Lucky for you, I’m a crack shot. Trained by the best of them.”

“Lucky for us,” I groaned.

Then we ran back to Zeb’s car. It was now late afternoon and we were all starving, so we stopped at a Popeye’s along the way for a super quick lunch, just to get our juices flowing. No rescuing on an empty stomach. Anyway, I was shocked when we pulled up. On either side was a KFC and a Church’s. Grease triplified.

“What gives?” I asked, pointing at all three establishments.

“Fried chicken, Trip,” Zeb replied. “Staple food around these parts.”

“What’s the difference?” I asked, eyeing the trio.

Stella laughed. “KFC is southern-rooted; Popeye’s is Cajun-style; and Church’s is Texan, with jalapenos thrown in for good measure. Me, I like Popeye’s best. Spicier and crispier.”

“Same here,” chimed in Zeb. “Plus, they have better sides.” To which I couldn’t help but ask, “But what if you don’t like fried chicken?”

They both sucked in their breath.

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