Read The Soprano Wore Falsettos for Free Online Page A

Jesus.”
    “So, what happened?” Nancy asked.
    “Little Bubba came in and took the whole platter while I was in the bathroom. He plopped down in his chair and started eating. He just threw the devotions on the floor. Look there,” she said, pointing at the half-eaten cookie in his hand. “That’s the last one left.”
    “So what did you do?” I asked.
    “I yelled at him and told him to get out. He said he wasn’t going anywhere and to shut up before he shut me up for good. So I hit him.”
    “You hit him?”
    “Yep. I hit him with the skillet. Two hands.”
    I walked over behind the chair and looked at the back of Little Bubba’s head. I heard the ambulance drive up outside.
    “You certainly did hit him,” I agreed. “And maybe more than once.”
    “Maybe,” said Ruthie. “Do I have to go with you?”
    “I’m afraid so,” I said.
    “He shouldn’t have eaten those cookies. I get very hungry while I’m talking to Jesus.”

    • • •

    “Well, that’s as much excitement as we’ve had for a few months,” said Pete.
    “And thanks to brilliant police work, the culprit has been apprehended and is safely in the Watauga County penal system,” I added.
    “Yes. Brilliant indeed. It’s a shame that all the criminals in our fair city don’t call the police department to report their crime and wait in their homes to be arrested.”
    I chose to ignore him. “Where’s Noylene? I need to get something to eat.”
    “Over at her shop. She’s opening up in about a month. I think she’s going to call it Noylene’s, even though I tried to talk her out of it.”
    Noylene Fabergé was Pete’s head waitress, albeit “head waitress” was strictly an honorary post. He had given her the title so he wouldn’t have to give her a raise, but Noylene had finally graduated from Beauty Correspondence School and was ready to open her own shop. She was now a licensed beautician.
    “Anyway,” said Pete, “Collette’s in the kitchen. She’ll be out shortly. I thought you’d taken to eating lunch over at The Ginger Cat.”
    “I can’t do it anymore. The soup is good on Thursdays, but there are only so many watercress and blueberry duck finger sandwiches you can eat.”
    Collette came strolling up. “What’ll it be, Chief?”
    “Reuben sandwich,” I said, my mouth beginning to water. “Fries and coleslaw. And don’t skimp on the corned beef.”
    “You’ll find the fixings in the walk-in,” said Pete. “The recipe’s hanging on the salad fridge.”
    “I’ve made them before,” said Collette. “I remember.”
    A Reuben sandwich wasn’t on the menu, but Pete kept the corned beef, sauerkraut, Swiss cheese and Russian dressing on hand for special orders.
    “There should be a couple of beers in the walk-in as well,” Pete called after her. “Bring those out, too, will you?”
    “Are you allowed to serve beer?” I asked.
    “If the cops don’t catch me.”
    “You should be okay. I’m pretty busy today,” I said. “Hey, did you hear about Kenny Frasier?”
    “Nope,” said Pete.
    “He’d been given a prescription for medical marijuana by some quack doctor back in 1985. So last month, he calls the FBI and asks them if he can get another one. He tells them that his prescription expires in a few months, and he’d like to keep growing his crop. He says that the doctor told him that the prescription was good for twenty years.”
    “I always wondered how Kenny could afford a new truck every November. I figured he was stealing tobacco out of the barns,” said Pete, as our beers arrived. “What did the feds do?”
    “Well, they got his phone number and his address, and they told him that they’d bring his prescription right over.”
    “I’ll bet they did. Was medical marijuana ever legal in North Carolina?”
    “From ’79 to ’87,” I said. “I had to look it up. Anyway, the feds showed up at Kenny’s farm, and guess what? He had a whole field of the stuff growing behind his barn. You