THE FOOD TRUCK was packed with eggs and ready to go by seven o’clock, but it was without a driver. Darren was alternately dozing, rushing to the bathroom, or ranting nonsense. Mrs. Boot didn’t have a license and didn’t know how to drive the truck.

Lula and Jamil were parked next to Carl’s SUV. They’d made a couple feeble attempts to get to the house, but had been beaten back by the chickens.

“Darren would be setting out right about now,” Mrs. Boot said. “There’s traffic when you get up close to the street fair, and if the truck isn’t in its assigned spot by eight o’clock the spot will get given away.”

I’d contacted Ranger and Morelli when I was at the courthouse and arranged for undercover men to be positioned around the food truck. If the food truck didn’t show up, the men would still be on location to take down Waggle, but it might be messy. The food truck would make it clean.

I went out back with Mrs. Boot and looked at the truck. It was old, but it seemed straightforward. It didn’t have eighteen gears and double clutches. It had the basics. Steering wheel. Brake pedal. Gas pedal. Recognizable gear shift.

“I guess I could try this,” I said.

“I can go along and help,” Mrs. Boot said. “I usually go with Darren.”

The last thing I wanted was Darren’s mom caught in the middle of a police operation.

“I’d rather you stay here and keep an eye on Darren,” I said. “Lula will be there to help me.”

I got a ten-minute crash course in burrito making food truck style, and an additional five minutes of parking instruction. I climbed into the truck and got behind the wheel.

“Drive carefully,” Mrs. Boot said. “Try not to break too many eggs. If you follow the driveway through the tall grass, it’ll take you out to the road a short distance from where your friends are parked.”

The engine caught on the second try. I was cautious on the gas and eased the truck along the crude dirt driveway. I followed the ruts through the grass and stopped holding my breath when I reached the road. I met up with the two Rangeman SUVs, and Lula transferred over to the food truck.

“We’re back in the food business,” I said to Lula.

“It was meant to be. It’s an act of God.”

It didn’t seem right to pin this fiasco on God, but I guess at the end of the day, he was the bottom-line guy. Or girl. Or gender-neutral entity.

I crept along the road, past the junkyard and the high-rent parking area. I followed Mrs. Boot’s instructions and looked for the food truck entrance.

“This is real organized,” Lula said. “Someone’s put some thought to this. It’s got professional-made signs, and the gang members aren’t killing each other. Not yet, anyway. I suppose it’s still early.”

Jamil left me at the truck entrance, and my safety was transferred over to the Rangeman contingent on the inside. I handed an envelope filled with cash to the gate master, and in return I received a location number. I slowly rumbled along with my eggs and tortillas and stacks of fry pans.

“Here we go,” Lula said. “Number fourteen.”

I got the truck into position, and I opened the canopy. “How are we going to do this?” Lula asked. “I didn’t make burritos at the deli.”

“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?”

“Darren is sick,” I said. “I’m helping out.”

“Hey!” someone yelled. “It’s Victor Waggle!”

In an instant, the truck was surrounded by a crush of fans. Ranger’s men and Morelli’s men were on the perimeter, trying to work their way through, and the fans weren’t liking it. There was a lot of pushing and shoving. Someone threw a punch, and a fight broke out. The customers were smashed up against the truck, and the truck was rocking on its wheels.

“Get away from my truck,” Lula shouted at them. “What’s the matter with you people? Where are your manners?”

Someone tried to climb into the truck through the service window, and Lula threw an egg at him. It broke on his forehead and slimed down his face. A roar went up from the crowd, and I felt the truck begin to tip.

“Abandon ship!” Lula yelled.

Too late. The truck flopped over on its side, dumping eggs, beans, fry pans, and hot sauce everywhere. I went to my hands and knees, and instinctively crawled to the door.

Event security was mixed in with the police and Rangeman guys, pulling people off the truck and pitching them into the crowd.

I made it to the door and got to my feet. Victor followed. I saw the flash of a knife blade, and someone screamed. Victor grabbed me from behind, and put the knife to my neck. The blade sliced into me, and I saw a drop of blood soak into my shirt.

“No one move,” Victor said. “Back off or I’ll cut her head off.”

Everyone froze.

“Drop your guns,” Victor said.

About a hundred guns clattered to the ground.

“I’m walking out with her,” Victor said. “No one even twitch because I’m not in a good mood. All I wanted was a goddamn burrito.”

He pushed me forward, I heard a loud BONK, the knife fell out of his hand, and he crashed to the ground.

Lula stood over him, holding a fry pan. “Burrito that,” she said. “And you shouldn’t use the Lord’s name in vain. It’s not nice.”

Waggle was facedown on the road. He had a big gash in the back of his head, and he wasn’t moving. An event security person flipped him over, and he opened his eyes.

“What the fuck?” Waggle said.

There were a lot of men, wearing a variety of uniforms, doing crowd control, pushing people back from the truck. Morelli cuffed Waggle and called for medical. Ranger was at my side. Someone handed him a towel, and he pressed it to my neck.

“It’s not a dangerous cut,” he said. “It’s bleeding, but it’s not deep.”

I nodded. “I’m okay.”

I said I was okay, but my teeth were chattering and my eyes were tearing up. A medic pushed his way through to me and examined the cut. I declined a trip to the hospital, but I got the wound cleaned and bandaged. Waggle was strapped to a stretcher and trundled into an EMS truck with a police escort.

“What’s the plan?” Ranger said to Morelli. “One of us is going to have to get her cleaned up.”

I looked down at myself. I was head-to-toe raw egg and refried beans.

“Your turn,” Morelli said. “I have to stay with Waggle.”

Ranger grinned at Morelli. “You trust me in the shower with her?”

“No. I trust her. Plus, it’s going to take you an hour just to get the egg out of her hair, she’s got eight Steri-Strips holding that cut together in place of stitches, and if I find out anything inappropriate happened in the shower I’ll kill you.”

“That sounds reasonable,” Ranger said.

Lula was nearby, giving an interview to a local cable station.

“I don’t usually have beans in my hair,” she said to the woman with the microphone. “This isn’t my best look.”

“I’m leaving with Ranger,” I said to Lula. “Jamil is waiting to drive you home.”

Lula looked over and waved at Jamil. “Hey, sweetie,” she said. “I’ll be ready in a couple minutes.”

Ranger opened the door to his apartment, and I stepped inside. Lights were low. The air was cool. I stood in the hallway and a glob of refried beans fell off my jeans onto the immaculate polished floor.

“Sorry,” I said.

“Babe,” Ranger said, “it’s just beans.”

I shucked my shoes and jeans, stripped off my T-shirt, and carefully made my way to Ranger’s bathroom. I had a waterproof patch over my cut, so in theory I could shower. Under other circumstances, using Ranger’s shower would be a luxury. He has limitless hot water, expensive shower gel and shampoo, and fluffy soft towels. Today it was a chore. My cut was throbbing, and the egg had dried in my hair.

Ranger cut the elastic that was holding my ponytail and turned the water on for me.

“Do you need help?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “I don’t want Morelli to have to kill you.”

“I appreciate your concern. Let me know if you want to risk it.”

Ranger left the bathroom, and I dropped my remaining clothes. I stepped into the shower and stood under the hot water until it felt like the goo in my hair was beginning to soften. I soaped up with his Bulgari Green shower gel and shampoo and rinsed off. I could still feel bits of eggshell stuck in my hair so I washed it two more times.

When I finally stumbled out of the shower I thought I smelled pretty good, but I was exhausted. I blasted my hair with the hair dryer, wrapped myself in a towel, and went to stand in the middle of Ranger’s walk-in closet.

“No clothes,” I said.

Ranger took one of his perfectly folded black T-shirts from the stack of black T-shirts and dropped it over my head.

“No undies,” I said.

“Can’t help you there,” he said.

“Is my hair okay?”

He tucked a strand behind my ear. “Not an eggshell in sight.”

“And the bandage on my neck?”

“It looks good. We’ll change it tomorrow morning.”

“You have a wonderful shower,” I said.

Ranger moved me out of the closet and pointed me in the direction of the bed. “My bed is even better. And your boyfriend didn’t say anything about inappropriate behavior in my bed.”