Read Online Sweet Jiminy by Kristin Gore - Free Book Online Page B

over in Baileyville makes it. I can get you your own if you’re interested. She don’t come life-size, though,” he added with a chuckle.
    â€œHow does she taste?” Roy asked with a grin. “Dish me some of that barbequed brisket so I can test ’er.”
    From behind the counter, Grady complied. Roy splashed a generous dose on the brisket and took a bite, then grimaced. Grady nodded knowingly as he put the bottle back on the shelf.
    â€œI know,” Grady lamented. “Great package. Godawful flavor.”
    â€œYou coulda saved me the trouble,” Roy grumbled.
    Grady shrugged.
    â€œEveryone’s got their own tastes,” he replied. “You mighta liked it.”
    Roy looked glumly at his remaining barbequed brisket.
    â€œAt least give me something good to forget that,” he requested.
    Grady rummaged beneath the counter.
    â€œHere’s the best we’ve got. Also new, not as sexy.”
    Grady squirted some hot sauce out of a plain plastic bottle. Roy sniffed it warily, then took a bite. He smiled, brisket sticking out between his teeth.
    â€œNow, that’s a hot sauce,” he pronounced happily. “What’s that one? I’ll take some of it to make Helen’s pork chops edible.”
    Grady turned the bottle to show him.
    â€œIn Foo-ego?” Roy asked.
    â€œEn Fuego,” Walton said from over Roy’s shoulder. “It means ‘on fire’ in Spanish.”
    Roy was startled by Walton’s sudden closeness. He jerked a little, then pushed his plate away.
    â€œNo, thanks. I don’t eat Mexican.”
    Grady shrugged.
    â€œJuan from Tortillas gave it to me. It’s good stuff,” Grady said.
    Grady said “tortillas” like it rhymed with “vanilla” or “Godzilla.”
    â€œTor-tee-yas,” Walton corrected. “The two ‘l’s make a ‘y’ sound, and the ‘i’ is pronounced like a long ‘e.’ ”
    Both Grady and Roy ignored him. Walton tended to know too much about everything.
    Tortillas had opened three months ago, much to the surprise of the Fayeville residents. Some of them were aware that the apartments at the western end of town had seen an influx of Mexicans in recent years, but no one had really tuned in to just how many were now actually calling Fayeville home. Previously, the immigrants’ presence had been temporary. A group of them would arrive to help work the harvest and then leave again. Then, suddenly, they’d stopped leaving. And then more of them had come. There were plenty of jobs for them, that wasn’t the problem. It was just a surprising development for a town that had thought of itself as strictly black and white—and mostly white at that—for its entire history. Mississippi wasn’t Texas; this was the Deep South. And this was brand-new.
    â€œI thought you only bought local stuff,” Walton said.
    â€œIt is local,” Grady answered. “I told you, Juan gave it to me. He makes it.”
    Roy just shook his head.
    The bell over the door announced another patron.
    Roy shifted in his seat, hoping to see their old friend Travis Brayer walking in. He knew that Travis was still bedridden—had been bedridden since the month his son announced his race for governor—but Roy hoped nonetheless. He loved Travis, and he planned to visit him soon. They had business to discuss.
    It was a young woman. As the door slapped shut behind her, she looked around nervously, like a trapped rabbit. She struck Roy as vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place her. He turned back to his beer.
    Jiminy had never been inside Grady’s Grill before. Her eyes watering from the thick cloud of cigarette smoke, she walked over to the table Walton had returned to.
    â€œIs now an okay time?” she asked.
    Walton glanced at Roy and Grady, then indicated the empty chair across from him.
    â€œSo you’re interested in