Free Killer Punch by Amy Korman

car. “I can’t believe Joe still hasn’t texted me.”
    Just then, Eula locked up the greenhouse, put the top up on her Miata, did a three-­point turn, and carefully steered down the bumpy lane and back out onto Route 192. She took a left back toward the expressway, presumably intent on getting her Jersey tomatoes back to the country club by 6 p.m. and never glancing in the direction of our grove of trees.
    â€œI’m starving,” announced Bootsie. “I’m trying to decide if I should send these pics of Eula right to the tomato committee, or wait till she wins, and then discredit her right then and there. I need food.”
    â€œYou finished lunch barely two hours ago,” I told Bootsie, who shrugged and told me that her whole family has to eat six meals a day, and that she was protein-­loading for an upcoming tennis tournament.
    â€œI’m kinda hungry, too,” agreed Sophie. “Look at all these tomato fields around here!” She paused for a second, staring down the road as recognition dawned on her small face.
    â€œYou know what, this road looks real familiar,” she said. “See that barn with the faded Budweiser logo on it, and that farm stand with the sign in the shape of a chicken?”
    We peered down the empty two-­lane road, where only the chirp of crickets could be heard in the afternoon sunshine. Down the road, there was indeed a barn, the Bud logo, truckloads of squash and veggies for sale, and the bird-­shaped sign.
    â€œI know where we are!” yelped Sophie. “We’re less than a mile from the best restaurant in Jersey. Take a left at the giant chicken!”

 
    Chapter 8
    â€œ Y O U ’ RE GONNA LOVE Midnight Tony’s!” shrieked Sophie three minutes later, as we bounced down the unmarked road she’d indicated.
    Suddenly, just past a field of zucchini, a large parking lot and spotlighted structure appeared that would have been right at home on the Vegas Strip. The exterior of the structure featured columns, statues of Zeus and Apollo, and a large fountain near the front door. The music of Michael Bublé was emanating from hidden speakers.
    I blinked. Midnight Tony’s projected a fun vibe, to be sure, and the parking lot was already close to full at—­I consulted my watch—­four in the afternoon.
    Next to us, a group got out of large BMW sedan with New York plates. All four arrivees were dressed to the nines, the men in sharp-­looking dark suits and their wives fully decked out in sexy summer dresses and heels. I looked first at Waffles, who was wagging and drooling next to me, eager to check out the action, and then down at my outfit: khaki shorts and Target tank top.
    â€œI can’t go in—­this place looks pretty fancy,” I told Sophie, self-­pity swelling up inside me. “Plus I need to keep the air-­conditioning on in the car for Waffles. I’ll take him for a walk around the parking lot while you guys grab some food.”
    â€œDon’t worry!” Sophie told me. “Dogs are welcome at Midnight Tony’s! He operates outside most of the standard health and licensing rules, since Tony’s friends with tons of politicians. Here,” she said, digging inside her gold purse. “I have a caftan in here that I was gonna see if you wanted—­it’s perfect for ya!”
    Two minutes later, I was inside the caftan (which wasn’t so easy to wriggle into, even in the roomy backseat of a Range Rover), which was a flowered Lilly Pulitzer number that must have been way too long on Sophie, but just grazed my ankles and had a really cute pink seahorse pattern. Sophie gave me a quick coat of mascara and lip gloss, since she carries a full makeup kit at all times, and we were ready to go.
    â€œThis place smells amazing!” crowed Bootsie.
    Midnight Tony’s was indeed scented with a heady aroma of tomato, garlic, sausage, and