Free Mustard on Top by Wanda Degolier

stiff, canvas tote, Theo returned. He dropped the bag on the floor and unzipped it. He lifted out a crowbar, and for a terrible second, Helen thought he meant to beat the machine. Instead, he wedged the bar in a gap and pushed down.
    “Cooker’s ready.” Larry called out.
    Thankful, Helen hurried to the other hot dog maker and loaded it up. She returned to find both Theo and Ben, holding onto the crow bar.
    Theo counted. “One, two, three. Push.”
    The pair, their biceps bulging, knocked into each other, yet the crowbar didn’t budge.
    “I can’t get leverage. Can I try it by myself?” Ben asked.
    Theo moved out of his way. Grunting, Ben put his weight into it. A loud ping was followed by Ben falling down. He’d scrambled to his feet.
    “Are you okay?” Helen asked.
    “Fine. Let’s test it,” Ben said.
    Theo stepped next to him and flipped the switch. The cooker vibrated. There was a chunk, and the grill started rotating.
    Helen turned to the people waiting, lifted two fists in the air, and shouted, “The cooker is working!”
    A cheer came from a handful of customers.
    Theo turned to them and bowed. “I’d like to thank all the people who have given me this opportunity.”
    A jumble of voices across the boardwalk distracted the customers. People moved from the counter and began gathering into a circle around something else. Being the owner of the closest business, Helen stepped out of Hot Diggitys to take charge. She wedged herself between people, to get nearer to the circle’s center.
    “Get back. I can’t breathe.” Came a disembodied voice.
    People ebbed back as others moved closer. Helen was squeezed on all sides. “Excuse me. Let me through.”
    A gap opened between shifting people, and Helen pushed through popping into the center where a man struggled to sit up. A green Florida Gators baseball cap sat askew on his head while blood trickled in two rivulets down the side of his face.
    “Who here has called 9-1-1?” Helen shouted.
    “I have,” someone called out.
    The man in the Gators cap put one foot on the ground as if he meant to stand. Helen put a hand on his meaty shoulder. “Maybe you shouldn’t move.”
    “I’ll be all right,” he drawled.
    Blood was beginning to soak his shirt. “You’re bleeding pretty bad.” Helen turned to ask someone to get the first-aid kit from Hot Diggitys when she noticed the large, red bag with the white cross, appearing to float above the sea of onlookers.
    “Who in the fuck hit me?” The injured man staggered to his feet. He swayed forward as the crowd, reacting as one, moved out of his way.
    “You should sit before you fall,” Helen advised. She wished an ambulance would arrive.
    “Fuck this hurts.” He pressed a hand into his head wound as he stumbled to the side. Helen caught his arm, but that did little to steady him. Blood ran between his fingers and arm.
    The red-and-white medical bag, carried by Ben, was lowered to her side. “What can I do to help?” Ben asked unzipping the bag.
    Helen gave him the hint of a smile. “Thank you.
    She retrieved a wide roll of gauze and requested, “Sir, please sit.”
    “Fuck off.”
    “We need to stop the bleeding.” Helen held up the gauze.
    He grabbed the roll from her hand and jammed it into the wound. His eyes widened as if in shock and he stutter stepped backwards. Ben caught him.
    “Let go of me.” The man spun toward Ben. Ben let go, but stayed close.
    Where was the ambulance? “Did anyone see what happened?” Helen asked.
    A gray-bearded man wearing a cowboy hat stepped forward. “Something shot from your restaurant. I heard it whizz by.”
    The hot dog cooker? Helen swallowed her anxiety. “Maybe. If—”
    “I’m her attorney, and she has no comment,” Ben said.
    “What!” Helen shot him a look meant to fry his insoles. “I can handle this, Ben. If something shot out of Hot Diggitys, I’ll take care of it.”
    “You did this?” The bleeding man teetered toward her. One hand