She Drives Me Crazy. Leslie Kelly

Claire said as she glanced toward her watch. “Store closes soon, and I’ve got to get home and feed my family. I don’t guess you or Emma Jean got to finish your shopping either?” She looked down, sheepishly. “I still feel awful about that. If you see Em, tell her I’ll come by soon to apologize and catch up on old times, okay?”

      He wouldn’t be seeing her. No doubt about it. But he merely shrugged, then bid Claire goodbye.

      True to his word, Virgil came strolling up Market Street right on time. Virgil, two years younger than Johnny, was one of the Bransom-Walkers. Meaning, his mother, a rather well-liked member of the Bransom family, had married a no-account Walker thirty-odd years ago. Their offspring were marginally more respectable than the plain old Smith-Walkers, such as Johnny and Nick. Their own mother hadn’t been much higher on the socioeconomic scale than their father, though Johnny was the first to admit she was pretty much a saint in their eyes.

      Virgil didn’t mind the Walker prejudice. He’d never aspired to do much more than tinker with his junkyard-bound hot rod, work as a handyman doing odd jobs and have a happy marriage with his wife, Minnie. Since he came from another side of the Walker family—one that seemed to have escaped the bad-marriage curse that had affected Johnny’s—he might actually have a shot at achieving his dreams.

      Virg didn’t much look like a Walker, except for his dark blue eyes. He stood a good six inches shorter than Johnny and weighed forty pounds more. Still, Johnny had always considered Virgil as much of a brother as Nick.

      “This the porn star’s car?” Virgil asked.

      Getting out of his car, Johnny shot Virg the kind of quelling look that had been known to make even Sheriff Brady watch his mouth. “She’s not a porn star. The car belongs to Emma Frasier. I told her I’d get somebody to bring it over to her grandma’s house because she hurt herself and couldn’t drive.”

      Virgil whistled. “So, Emma Jean Frasier’s the porn star? The woman in the thong underwear who slipped in All-Tempa-Cheer and fell in the store today is Miss Emmajean’s granddaughter?”

      “Thong underwear?” Johnny bit out.

      Virg nodded. “Black and tan. Jungle pattern. Leopard spots.”

      Johnny rolled his eyes even as he gulped at the sudden visual of Emma Jean’s underclothes. “Nobody saw her underwear, Virg. Spots, jungle or anything else.”

      “Tom Terry said…”

      “Tom Terry is a nasty old reprobate who plays pocket hockey looking at the mannequins in the window of the dress shop. You gonna believe him? Or me, your flesh-and-blood relative, who was standin’ closer to her than anyone when she fell?”

      Virgil looked disappointed.

      “And she’s not a porn star.”

      Virgil’s disappointed expression grew more sad. “You sure?”

      He nodded. “You remember her, Virg. Do you seriously think she could have left Joyful and gone off to make adult movies?”

      Virgil glanced into the distance, smiling like a man reminiscing over a particularly fine meal or a good cigar. “Oh, yeah, she coulda.”

      Virgil was saved Johnny’s fist in his gut by virtue of their blood kinship. “I don’t mean physically,” Johnny snapped. “Do you think the hoity-toity daughter of some rich people who live overseas would star in stag films?”

      “They’re not all stag films,” Virgil argued. “Some are really art. Sleepless With A Paddle shoulda won an Oscar.”

      Johnny didn’t even ask.

      “Virg, will you just drive the damn car over to the Frasier house? I’ll follow you and give you a ride home.”

      Virgil looked like he wanted to argue about it, but shrugged and got into the convertible instead. “She’s got long legs,” he said as he bent down to adjust the driver’s seat forward. “Porn stars always have long legs.”