“They did,” Miguel agreed. “But they had already called it before they transported him.”
I glanced at Miguel. “How did he die?”
“The police said he didn’t tie down his refrigerator well enough and it fell on him.”
Uncle Saul removed his hat for a moment and stood with his head bowed, eyes closed.
“That isn’t a fit way for a man to die.” Ollie shook his head.
“I wonder what we’ll do now,” Uncle Saul said. “Will the race go on or will we all go home?”
There was a loud meow from the front of the Airstream. I knew what Crème Brûlée’s vote was on the matter.
“I heard the producers are deciding what they should do,” Miguel said.
There was heavy pounding at the back door. Alex’s assistant peeked inside. “Everyone stay put for now. We’ll let you know what’s going on when they make a decision about the race.”
“So all this was for nothing?” Delia grabbed a biscuit and started eating.
“Good idea.” Ollie grabbed one, too. “We might as well eat them. They won’t be any good after a while.”
“Maybe we could give the biscuits away.” I considered the possibilities. “It would be better than all the food going to waste.”
“Couldn’t we sell them?” Ollie wondered.
“No. We don’t have a sales license for Charlotte. The show’s producers handled all of that for the race,” I explained. “But there’s nothing saying we can’t give them away.”
Chef Art knocked at the door to tell us what Alex’s assistant had already said. When I told him I was going to give away the biscuits, he was thrilled. “What an opportunity! You have a great mind for business, Zoe. Let me round up a few local reporters.”
At seven A.M. we were out on Trade and Tryon streets in the heart of downtown Charlotte. Chef Art had found a few interested reporters. We gave them biscuits, and they did some live feed to go with the story about what had happened to Reggie.
It wasn’t long until all the food truck drivers were taking the food they couldn’t use out on the streets, too. It was much better to be out on a sunny morning giving people food than to sit inside and worry about what would happen next with the food truck race.
If we went home, we went home. I wasn’t sure that wouldn’t be for the best anyway after what had happened to Reggie. Maybe I hadn’t liked him, but his death had put a pall on the whole idea of the race.
We got the trip to Charlotte and a night out at a hotel. The show would probably pay for our trip home, as they had for our trip here. Chef Art and the other sponsors got their names out there for their time and money. The rest of us had a chance to have our names on all the advertising.
I wouldn’t lose any sleep over it.
It was a little sad to have to tell enthusiastic Charlotte customers that they could only get my biscuit bowls in Mobile, but that went with the territory. When I could get my products online, they could buy them frozen there. The biscuit bowls wouldn’t be as good but at least they could experience them without a trip to Mobile.
Delia had stayed with the Biscuit Bowl and Crème Brûlée while we’d given out all the biscuit bowls. We got back two hours later, and she told us the producers were ready to make a statement about the show.
“You go on, Zoe,” Uncle Saul said to me, sweating from the hot, humid air on the street. “It’s your food truck. The rest of us don’t need to be there.”
“We don’t need to be,” Ollie said, “but we want to be. I want to know what happened with Reggie.”
“Me, too,” Delia added.
“That’s fine,” Uncle Saul said. “You all go. You can tell me what happens next when you get back.”
“We’re supposed to meet at the cool-down tent,” Delia said.
– – – – – – –
The cool-down tent was set up to help alleviate the summer heat that everyone would be working in with a fine, cool mist. We were supposed to be in some of the hottest weather of the year from Charlotte to Mobile in the next five days. The large tent was also set up to be a meeting place, centrally located in the group of food trucks.
Miguel, Ollie, Delia, and I went back out on the street. Food truck teams were making their way toward the cool-down tent.
Alex Pardini was on a stage with a microphone beside the tent. Cameras were up there with him and panning on us out in the crowd.
“Don’t get your hopes up, Zoe,” Miguel cautioned as we waited for everyone to arrive at the stage. “I don’t think they’ll go on with this after Reggie’s death.”
“I’m prepared for that,” I told him. “It was a fun trip, if nothing else. I haven’t been to Charlotte in years.”
When it looked like everyone from the nine remaining food trucks (including ours) was there, Alex greeted us and gave us the news.
“A terrible thing happened here this morning,” he said. “Food truck driver Reggie Johnson, the owner of the Dog House from Mobile, Alabama, was found dead in his trailer. He was accidentally crushed by his refrigerator. We will never forget him as a daring and valiant competitor.”
Everyone applauded. The cameramen moved from place to place in the street to best get images of our reactions to the news. Police officers held back reporters and the crowd that had come to watch the race.
“We had a big decision to make, folks.” Alex bowed his head for a moment as though it was a difficult, personal decision for him. “Should we continue with the Sweet Magnolia Food Truck Race? Or should we end it right here? The producers made their decision. Now they want to hear from you.”
There was only a moment before food truck drivers began yelling out their answers.
Alex acknowledged a few of them after admitting that he couldn’t hear everyone at the same time. “Daryl Barbee from Grinch’s Ganache: what do you think we should do?”
Daryl stood beside his wife, Sarah. He was a very short man with a large cowboy hat that seemed to swallow his head. “I think we should honor Reggie by continuing the race.”
There was a loud round of applause following his words.
Maybe I was uncharitable, but I was thinking—He’s got cupcakes ready to go.
Alex held up his hand, and everyone got quiet again. He called on Bobbie Shields from Shut Up and Eat, a food truck that served loose meat sandwiches and the biggest pickles I’d ever seen.
Bobbie was a large woman who liked wearing colorful Hawaiian dresses and dozens of bracelets. She shouted out her answer. “We should go on! Reggie wouldn’t want us to stop.”
The applause was deafening on the street around me.
I felt like I knew Reggie well enough to guess that he wouldn’t really care if the race went on or not. I’d pegged him as more the if I’m not in it, it doesn’t matter category. But I was probably being negative again.
“All right.” Alex smiled fabulously at all of us. “It’s time for the vote. Everyone who wants to continue, raise your hands.”
It wasn’t even close. The only two food trucks that didn’t want to continue were Chooey’s Sooey, an Asian food vendor, and Stick It Here, the pot sticker and kebab food truck.
Everyone else cheered when they saw their victory.
I admit that I voted to continue. Maybe if Reggie and I had actually been friends, it would’ve been different. Fifty thousand dollars is a lot of money. If that made me a bad person, so be it.
I was curious, too, as I looked at Alex’s dazzling smile. What was going on in his head? Did he feel like a bad person for arguing with Reggie before he’d died? And what had they been arguing about?
Maybe Reggie didn’t like the interview Alex had done with him.
The producers had moved the challenge to noon. That gave everyone time to prepare—even teams like ours who’d given away all their food. Miguel raced for his car. He’d already located a supermarket where he’d shopped last night. I was sending a list of what we needed to the email on his phone.
Ollie, Delia, and I ran back to the food truck. Everyone around us was moving fast. Most had given away their food, as we had. That probably meant shopping and cooking for all of them. Anyone not out of their food truck at noon, and selling their primary food with sweet potatoes in it, would be disqualified.