Free Scorched Eggs by Laura Childs Page B

seriously. Radio is so . . . disposable.”
    Suzanne thought about making a nasty crack about sticking a newspaper in the bottom of a birdcage. But she was a friend of Laura Benchley, the editor and publisher of the
Bugle
,
so instead she said, “I don’t have anything for you, Gene. I don’t
know
anything.”
    Disappointed, Gandle began slouching his way back toward the door. Then he turned and called back at her, “When you figure something out, I expect a call from you. You owe me one!”
    â€œI don’t owe you anything,” said Suzanne as Gandle slammed the door.
    â€œWho was that?” asked Toni. She’d slid through the swinging door so quietly she might have been a cat on the prowl.
    â€œGene Gandle. Sniffing around for news on the fire.”
    â€œMore like skulking,” said Toni, glancing out into the parking lot. “What a putz.” She paused, squinted, and said, “Uh-oh.”
    Suzanne tensed. “Don’t tell me Gandle’s coming back in?”
    â€œNaw,” said Toni. “Junior just drove up.”
    Junior Garrett, Toni’s estranged husband, was a character in and of himself. He barely held down his job at Shelby’s Auto, lived in a secondhand trailer home that was parked illegally out by the town dump, and had never seen a junker car that he didn’t fall in love with. He was your basic sixteen-year-old juvenile delinquent in a forty-three-year-old man’s body.
    The door rattled loudly, then Junior strolled in, carrying a large amber bottle. Dressed in his typical black leather jacket and saggy jeans, a silver wallet chain dangling from his belt, Junior took his own sweet time, as if he didn’t have a care in the world.
    Toni put her hands on her hips in a gesture of confrontation. “What are you doing here?” she asked.
    â€œGot something to show you ladies,” said Junior, a smirk on his dark face.
    â€œWhat’s that?” said Suzanne.
    Junior thrust his bottle forward with all the excitement of someone who’s just stolen a quart of water from the fountain of youth. “This here!” he said excitedly.
    â€œIt’s beer,” said Toni, peering at the bottle, definitely not impressed.
    â€œBut not just
any
beer,” said Junior, undaunted. “It’s
craft
beer.”
    â€œCraft beer,” Suzanne repeated. God help her, but she found this man’s chutzpah and constant stream of crazy ideas absolutely mesmerizing. Once again, she felt like a charmed mongoose drawn to a dangerous cobra.
    â€œIt’s my own brand,” said Junior, angling the bottle to show off a scruffy-looking brown label. “Hubba Bubba beer. Pretty neat, huh?”
    â€œWhere’d you get it?” said Toni.
    Junior grinned stupidly, then waggled his head and did a little jig in place. “Hah, hah, I
made
it!”
    â€œYou. Brewed. Beer?” said Suzanne.
    â€œSeriously?” said Toni. And then, “Where?”
    â€œIn my bathtub,” said Junior. “Like I said, it’s
craft
beer. That means you brew it in real small batches until it catches on and develops a cult following.”
    â€œYou think some swill you cooked up in your dirty bathtub will draw a following?” said Toni. She did everything but let loose a loud, derisive hoot.
    â€œSure,” said Junior. “This beer thing is a huge trend. Don’t you get it? Haven’t you heard of microbrewing?”
    â€œI have heard of it,” said Suzanne. In fact, she had a feeling that every beer aficionado and his brother-in-law were brewing micro beers and dreaming up wacky names like Hound Doggie and Red Demon and Buster Boy Beer.
    â€œHave you made any sales yet?” asked Toni.
    â€œAh,” said Junior. “Now you’re talking about distribution, a critical component of my marketing effort.”
    â€œWhat
is
your marketing effort?” Suzanne asked.
    â€œI was