Free Cinco de Mayhem by Ann Myers Page A

certainly seemed jolly, to use Addie’s term. He gripped my hand and told me how much he missed seeing me and Cass. “You girls should come ’round for hot dogs or frito pie. Best in town, right here!” He patted his cart proudly.
    Under other circumstances, I would have been tempted by his gourmet dogs. I stood back to admire the menu. “Wow, green chile and cheese dog? Frito pie dog? Don, these sound great. If I hadn’t already eaten . . .” And if my stomach wasn’t rolling from the crime scene. Adding Fritos, chile, cheese, onions, lettuce, and tomato to a hot dog would not be a good choice right now. In my peripheral vision, the crime tape fluttered. I wondered about Don’s choice of venue. He often wheeled his cart to the trendy Railyard District or over to the state office buildings to catch the nine-to-five crowd. It seemed rather morbid to sell hot dogs within eyeshot of a murder scene. Was it possible that Don didn’t know what happened?
    Oh, but he did know. “Yep, that’s why I’m here,” Don said, in answer to my tentative question. “I owe a lot to that slandering slimeball, Napoleon. If he hadn’t fired me, I’d never have started this cart. Best thing I ever did. I’m my own boss now.”
    â€œSo you obviously heard from someone . . . ?” I prompted.
    He repositioned his hat, tugging the brim down to shade his eyes. “Pretty much everybody knows. In fact, I heard you and Flori held a pancake celebration this morning. I do love Flori’s pancakes. If I’d known, I’d have hauled myself out of bed early.”
    â€œWe didn’t intend for a celebration,” I hastily clarified. “Flori is so worried about Linda because of the fight she had with Napoleon yesterday. It looks bad to the police. Maybe you heard about that too?”
    Don massaged the thin line of facial hair connecting his flaring, almost-handlebar mustache to his goatee. In his bartending days he’d worn hip black vests and sported an intentional five o’clock shadow like my ex. Now he wore a denim shirt, jeans, cowboy boots, and a bolo tie. Maybe his days in film had taught him about costuming.
    He continued to rub, his thumb and index finger meeting at his chin. “I saw that fight. The tail end only, but I could hear it from blocks away. Linda stood her ground. I like that in a woman. The police are fools to think she’s involved, no offense meant to your ex there, Rita. Manny and I are drinking buddies. Next time I see him, I’ll tell him what I think.”
    I told Don that I appreciated his support for Linda. “I already told Manny the same thing,” I grumbled. “He won’t listen to me.”
    â€œPower in numbers,” Don said, bobbing his head in affirmation of his own platitude. “We’re all gettin’ together to help Linda, you tell her that.”
    â€œWe?” As far as I knew, Don’s hot dog cart was a one-cowboy operation.
    â€œUs food carters. We’re gonna stick together from now on. No more rogue warriors. All for one and one for all and all that. Ah, here’s another one of us now.”
    A van towing a cart swung in toward the curb.
    â€œA new food cart era is beginning,” Don said grandly.
    And another suspect is arriving, I thought, recognizing Crystal’s juice cart.
    Don waved in Crystal as she backed up her van and angled her juice cart next to his. Crystal’s dress and sweater matched her juices, bright red and orange. Her long dark hair bounced in loose curls down her back and her makeup was equally bright. She greeted Don with a lipstick-preserving air kiss. I got a wave and a cheerful, “ Hola , Rita.”
    Don and I helped her unload her van, lugging out jugs of ag ua fresca , sweet fruit juice lightened with water. For a woman who’d been shut down yesterday, Crystal had prepared a bounty of juice for today. I read the labels as