A Bad Day for Pretty by Sophie Littlefield Page B

the bottom up.
    It wasn’t such a difficult lesson as far as Stella could see—why folks ever figured to get anywhere if they couldn’t be bothered to spare a kind word for the people who did all the work. If you woke up with the flu and wanted to be squeezed in with the doctor, why, you’d better darn well be sweet to the scheduler. If your cable TV went on the fritz, hollerin’ at the customer service gal wasn’t going to get you anything but transferred to the wrong department.
    And if you wanted to make time with the sheriff, you had darn well better play nice with Irene.
    “I just call it like I see it,” Irene said primly, returning to her In Touch .
    “Well … I do hate to miss him,” Stella sighed, turning as if to go. “Seein’ as I was going to go pick up some Pokey Pot sandwiches and I know how fond of them he is.”
    In truth, it was Irene who favored the barbecue joint on the other end of town, a place that simmered its pork shoulder Carolina style until it was reduced to tender, vinegary shreds and tucked it into soft white rolls baked fresh every morning. Irene, who had to man the desk through the lunch hour, usually had to make do with whatever she brought from home.
    “Oh, I’d hate for Goat to miss out,” Irene said, snatching up the phone hastily. “Plus I wouldn’t mind one a them myself.”
    Stella tried to keep from smirking as Irene stabbed at the button on the intercom. “I know you’re in there, Goat Jones,” she said, “and if you don’t haul your ass out here this instant, I’m gonna shred up your This Old House magazine what just come in with the mail.”
    She replaced the receiver with a satisfied little smile, adding “He sure does love that magazine,” just as Goat’s door burst open and he stood there, six feet four lanky inches in a tan polyester uniform, glowering at the pair of them.
    “Women,” he said with venom. “God’s sent me a plague of women, when all I’m trying to do is mind my own business. And every one of y’all bent on causing me pain.”
    “Nothin’ you ain’t got comin, I’m sure,” Irene murmured, focusing on her celebrity gossip while Stella tried to look innocent, a trick she’d been polishing for quite some time.

EIGHT

    Stella nibbled at a french fry, watching Goat try to eat his fast-falling-apart sandwich. Between the dripping sauce and the overstuffing that had gone into his Pokey Pot Junior, more of the sandwich was landing on the plate than was making it to his mouth.
    Stella, who had a couple decades of Pokey Pot experience, had long ago developed a two-pronged approach to their sandwiches: Eat enough of the middle with a fork to ensure that when you picked up the remainder, the innards would stay put.
    The other key was to order the Pokey Pot Baby. It was a rare person who could polish off a Junior at lunch—and Stella knew only a handful of people who’d ever made their way through a Big Pig. Nonetheless, a greasy paper sack holding a Big Pig, its top folded down several times and stapled, sat next to her on the table, a reward for Irene, who had come through for Stella in the clutch.
    “I hear you have a date tonight,” Stella couldn’t resist saying.
    Goat swallowed hard and dabbed at his mouth with a paper napkin, then took a long drink of sweet tea. “Ain’t a date,” he managed to get out.
    Stella shrugged. “Oh … a professional thing, then.”
    Goat didn’t say anything. He frowned and glowered at the table. Stella couldn’t help noticing that frowning lined up all the hard planes in his face in a breathtaking display of masculinity.
    “Uh, probably having to do with that dead gal,” she went on. “You all figure out who she is yet?”
    Goat flicked a glance at her, just long enough for Stella to read the blip of intrigue there. “You know I ain’t gonna talk to you ’bout that, Stella.”
    “Oh,” Stella said, keeping her expression neutral. “Only reason I ask, is, maybe it would give us