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I ll go dugger around, I said.
Might be a good idea to take somebody with you, he said.
I hadn t thought of that, I said, but Miranda might find it interesting.
I was thinking maybe somebody who could watch your back, he said.
You re thinking it might be dangerous?
You never know, he said, seeing as how it smacks of skullduggery and all.
ART DIDN T hesitate when I asked if he d be willing to accompany me to
Georgia. When you want to go?
Whenever you can, I said. I was supposed to be testifying this week at
Garland Hamilton s trial, but that particular engagement seems to have been
postponed for now. And UT doesn t start fall classes for another couple weeks.
How short a leash are you on with this Internet assignment?
If we left early in the morning and could get back by late afternoon, I can
probably swing it, he said. The chat rooms don t start heating up till
around three or four, and they stay pretty lively till bedtime. Tiffany needs
to be in school all day anyhow that s where innocent little
fourteen-year-olds are supposed to be between eight and three-thirty. Unless
it s the weekend, and then they re sleeping late.
Tomorrow?
Tomorrow, he said.
How bout I pick you up around six-thirty? That would put us down there
around eight.
How bout five-thirty, he said, so we ve got time to grab breakfast at a
Cracker Barrel down Chattanooga way?
Deal, I said. I ll buy.
I think your buddy Grease should pick up the tab.
You re right, I agreed. Grease ll buy.
Be good for you to get out of town for a day, he said, and away from the
Hamilton stuff.
He was right about that, too.
CHAPTER 14
Page 44
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FRIDAY MORNING DAWNED HOT AND BRIGHT, AND BY the time it dawned, Art and I had
been on the road for an hour already. At seven we bailed off the interstate at
the Ooltewah exit, about ten miles north of Chattanooga. The acres of asphalt
outside Cracker Barrel were virtually empty.
This parking lot is nearly as big as Neyland Stadium s, I said.
An hour from now, it ll be full, said Art. You d have to wait thirty
minutes to get a table.
I wouldn t, I said.
Wouldn t have to?
Wouldn t wait, I clarified. I love the food here. Great breakfast, great
vegetables. But I m not willing to wait half an hour to get it.
Me neither, said Art. I might be, though, if they d ever get the biscuits
right.
You re boycotting them over their biscuits?
Not boycotting, exactly, he said, but less likely to fight the crowd on
account of em. You d think a place that prides itself on southern country
cooking would make a decent biscuit, but theirs are sorry. Heavy and doughy,
too much baking powder, or maybe they re even using Bisquick. The ones at
Hardee s are ten times better. Golden and crispy on the outside, light as air
on the inside.
Hardee s does make a better biscuit, I agreed. We should point that out to
Cracker Barrel. In the spirit of constructive criticism, of course.
I have, he squawked. I do. Every blessed time I eat at a Cracker Barrel, I
fill out one of those customer-comment cards. Your biscuits are sorry, I
say.
That s your idea of constructive criticism?
It gets more constructive after that. Make better biscuits, I tell em.
Hire a biscuit maker from Hardee s. You d think they d get the message. But
they never do not unless they ve been hiring folks from Hardee s and then
making them follow the same sorry Cracker Barrel biscuit recipe. I ve pretty
much given up now. Always get the corn muffins instead.
The corn muffins aren t bad, I said.
They re not, he said, but at breakfast you really want a good biscuit. And
anyhow, you d think
Yeah, you d think, I said. This world is a vale of tears, Art rife with
injustice and disappointment.
And sorry biscuits, he said.
The peach pancakes were delicious, and the smoked sausage was worth every
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