14
“Exactly. But not just any sauerkraut. This is The Wurst brand. It’s only sold at one place in the city: 'The Hot Dog Hacienda' down on 4th and Main.”
“Thanks, Ed,” I said, looking off into the distance. “It just goes to show you: in this town, if you can’t speak up, you’re better off not saying anything at all.”
The cook froze. He reached under the counter, but he wasn’t grabbing a bun. I dived over the counter, scattering relish like emerald rain. We tumbled into the kitchen, crashing through a wall of oversized mustard packets.
I pulled up to the pier in a cloud of tire smoke and several flattened cardboard boxes. The crime scene was crawling with cops. I stepped over the yellow tape, which was actually a giant piece of fettuccine left over from the Mayor’s luncheon.
“Frank, get down to the docks,” Captain Ed Hocken’s voice crackled over the radio. “There’s been a murder. A high-profile case. The victim was a mime.”