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“We have a big griddle, six burners, and a warming oven. Darren’s mom said it’s up to us how we want to cook stuff. Darren puts everything on the griddle, but his mom likes to use the fry pans. The refried beans are in the slow cooker. There are more cans of them underneath the counter. There’s only one thing on the menu, and it’s always made the same unless someone doesn’t want beans. This is a bare-bones burrito. You take a warm tortilla, you use this measuring cup to add scrambled eggs, you glop on some beans, and you squirt the magic secret hot sauce all over the eggs. Darren’s mom says it’s fresh eggs and hot sauce that keeps them coming back for more. There are a bunch of squeeze bottles of hot sauce next to the slow cooker.”
“What about plates?”
“No plates. We have wrappers. They’re in a stack at the end of the counter.”
“I hope none of my fans are here,” Lula said. “They would be real disappointed. There’s no way for me to use my artistic talents.”
“I guess they’ll just have to settle for the hot sauce.”
There was a lot of activity in the area. Most of it coming from organizers and vendors. Ranger was watching from the other side of the street. He nodded to me, and I nodded back. Morelli was standing in the shadow of the Flamin’ Ribs and Hot Dogs food truck next to mine. Wulf was lurking a short distance from Ranger.
The public started trickling in at eight o’clock. The bands wouldn’t start until ten, so this was a time to shop and socialize. We had our first customer a little after eight, and by nine o’clock we had people standing in line. I was on the griddle, and Lula was on the fry pans. I was soaked with sweat, and my hair looked like it had been electrocuted. It was pulled back in a ponytail, but it was total frizz with tendrils coming loose from the elastic band and sticking to my flushed, sweaty face. My only consolation was that I thought Lula looked no better.
I saw a couple cops and some Rangeman guys wander past the truck. It was good to know everyone was in place, and I was relieved of the burden of capturing Waggle.
At nine-thirty a large man with a lot of gold chains around his neck came to the truck and asked me for Victor’s burrito.
“Sure,” I said. “Where’s Victor?”
“He’s getting ready for his set.”
“The owner of the truck said I was supposed to personally give the burrito to Victor.”
“We’re doing things different today.”
“Sorry, I can’t just give anyone Victor’s burrito. You’re going to have to move along. We have a line here.”
The gold chains guy got on his phone and talked to someone. He looked over at me and shook his head. He looked down at his shoes. He paced around and talked some more. He hung up and came back to me.
“Victor wants his burrito,” Gold Chains said. “He won’t go on until he gets his burrito.”
“And?”
“And either you give me the burrito, or else I’ll shoot you.”
“You’d shoot me over a burrito?”
“I’ve shot people for less.”
Morelli was on his cellphone, and Ranger was meandering across the street, walking in my direction.
“Personally, I think you’re just trying to cut the line,” I said to Gold Chains, “but I’m going to humor you. Step back and I’ll make your stupid burrito.”
He took a step back, and Ranger and two of his men quietly disarmed him and removed him from the area.
Ranger returned moments later. Morelli was still in place. Lula had kicked off her shoes and was working barefoot.
“Look at me,” she said. “I’m a burrito-making machine.”
This was true. She was making two to my one. We had large wire baskets of eggs on the counter, and we’d already gone through one entire basket.
I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned and was face-to-face with Victor Waggle.
“I need my burrito,” he said. His eyes got wide as he recognized me. “You! I know who you are. You’re a cop.”
“Not exactly,” I said. “I’m a bail bonds enforcement agent.”
“I don’t like them either,” Victor said. “Where’s Darren and Minnie Mouse?”
