John Brown’s Body

“Ain’t no girl soccer player,” growled Terry, but he took it.

“You know,” said Terry, opening the bar careful, like he didn’t want to get any on his hands, “one of the things I like about the Florida Panhandle, one reason I moved down here from the Chicago cold, is that people take their food seriously here, particularly breakfast. I’m just not myself before coffee.”

“And eggs,” said Blackbeard, cranking up the car. “And grits. Maybe a biscuit or two for the road, while you’re at it. Course, being yourself isn’t always an improvement.”

Terry sat fuming; staring at the granola bar like it was to blame.

“Maybe, problem is, we’re always eating,” said Blackbeard.

They pulled out onto Highway 98, heading west. Blackbeard was driving. He was the senior partner, had been a detective here in Panama City Beach in the Sunshine State when Terry was still walking a beat up in Chicago, stealing apples or whatever it was they did up there.





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