He walked away, reaching for one of the fried green tomatoes. “Nobody makes these like Pearl does, Trip. This is pure South, this is.” He popped it in his mouth, then another, sucking the grease off his fingers, his eyelids fluttering. Gross, I know. “Suppose I do know something. What would it be worth to you?”
“Do you know something?” I asked, peeved that I was suddenly being blackmailed. And by the likes of him, no less.
“I said suppose I know something,” he replied. “Then what?”
I crossed my arms over my chest. “What do you want, Jeeves?”
“Walter,” he corrected, wagging his finger at me.
“What do you want, Walter,” I amended, fairly choking on the word.
He paused, a new look appearing on his face. It was for the briefest of moments, really, a hiccup in time, but I recognized it ju
