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The hardware store was on Broad. I took a shortcut through the Burg, hit Broad, went one block, and parked in the small lot attached to the hardware store. I ran inside and gathered together a bag of charcoal, fire starter, and one of those mechanical match things.
“Is this to barbecue?” the checkout kid asked.
“Yeah.”
“You should get a couple bundles of the special wood we’ve got. You put it in the grill, and it makes everything taste great.”
“Sure,” I said. “Give me a couple bundles.”
He swiped my credit card, and I started to s
weat. Barbecuing was expensive. Thank goodness I had the extra job with Rangeman.
I threw everything into the trunk alongside the groceries and peeled out of the lot. I stopped for a light, and an old guy got into the backseat.
“Out!” I said. “I’m off duty.”
“What?”
“Off duty.”
“I’m going to the senior center on Market.”
“Not in this cab you’re not.”
“What?”
“I’m off duty!” I yelled at him.
“I don’t hear so good,” he said.
“Read my lips. Get out.”
“I got rights,” he said.
The light turned, and the woman behind me gave me the finger. I stepped on the gas, raced the half mile to the senior center, and came to a screeching stop at the wheelchair ramp. I jumped out of the cab and yanked the old guy out of the backseat. I got back behind the wheel, made sure all the doors were locked, and took off. I looked in the rearview mirror and saw the old guy was standing there, waving money at me. I hooked a U-turn, drove up to him, snatched the money out of his hand, and kept going. Three dollars. Good deal. I’d put it toward my credit card.
I had everything on the list, so I pointed the cab toward Gooser Park. The sun was struggling to shine through scattered clouds, and the air was crisp. Perfect weather for a barbecue.
I TURNED INTO the park and cruised the lot, looking for a space close to the cook-off area. If the event had been held on a weekend, the lot would have been packed to overflowing by now. As it was, it was only half full. I’d been told they scheduled the event for a Tuesday to obtain better television coverage. Fine by me. I was happy not to have to battle a couple thousand people for a parking place and private time in a portable potty.
I did the best I could with the parking, loaded myself up with the groceries, and set off for our assigned space. All over the field, teams were working at marinading meat and chopping vegetables. The air smelled smoky from applewood and hickory fires, and the barbecue kitchens were colorful with striped awnings and checkered tablecloths. Except for our kitchen. Our kitchen looked like the Beverly Hillbillies were getting ready to barbecue possum.
The green awning over our area advertised Maynard’s Funeral Home. The grill was rusted. The table was rickety. A handwritten sign with our team name was taped to the table. FLAMIN’. The rest of the name had been ripped off. I assume this was done by a horrified cook-off organizer. Grandma and Lula were at the ready, spatula and tongs in hand, all dressed in their white chef’s jackets and puffy white chef’s hats.
I dumped my stuff on the rickety table. “I’ll be right back,” I said. “I have to go back for the charcoal. I couldn’t carry it all at once. Where’s Connie?”
“She should be here any minute,” Lula said. “She got a late start on account of she had to write bail for some drunken loser who pissed on the mayor’s limo.”
I walked back to the cab, got the rest of the stuff out of the trunk, and my cell phone rang.
“We got lucky,” Ranger said. “We found a camera watching a touch pad in one of the houses you targeted. I had Hector install a video system of the area, and we can monitor it from Rangeman.”
“It’s going to be interesting to see who’s doing this. There’s a good chance it’s someone you know.”
“I just want the break-ins stopped. It’s bad for business, and I’m tired of riding surveillance every night. I assume you’re at the park?”
“Yes. I’ll be here all afternoon. The cook-off ends at six to night with the judging.”
