“Uh, sir. You can’t come in here without a shirt on.” I pointed to a hand-painted sign behind the cash register. NO SHOES? NO SHIRT? NO TAMALES.
“Pay up, you old goat!” His stocky companion didn’t laugh as much as he brayed like a donkey. “Heee . . . haw!”
“I ain’t never” The tall man’s cheeks flushed bright red above his mustache.
“Only every single time you enter a new chili cook-off.” His friend, who wore his lank, black hair parted in the middle and pushed behind his elephantine ears, stuck a plump hand in his friend’s face. “Hand over my five dollars and button your dang shirt.”
The tall dude cut his eyes at me. “Hold your horses, Whip.” From the bag around his neck, he withdrew a roll of bills, peeled off a five, and flung it at him.
Before it could hit the floor, his companion plucked the bill from the air. “Don’t pay him no mind. He insists on going around half-naked no matter the occasion.”
The he in question fisted his hands at his sides. “You’d better watch that lip, boy. Lucky’s Naked Chili has won more cook-offs than anyone else in this entire salsa-swigging casita.” Muttering rude comments under his breath, Lucky buttoned every last button, threw a bolo tie around his neck that he fished out of his pants pockets, and tucked in his shirt.
“Howd—”
“Answer the blipping question.” Lucky, the formerly shirtless of the two, lunged closer. “Is this where the chili contestants are meeting?”
“Yes, sir.” I plastered on a smile and gritted my teeth. “All contestants and their posses are welcome.”
The two exchanged puzzled glances. “Was that a requirement?” Whip, the shorter one, smoothed a strand of lank hair behind his ear. “To bring a posse?”
“No, and neither is ordering. Would you like menus? Or are you here for the meet and greet?”
“Menus, if you would be so kind, senorita,” said Lucky, taking his hat in his hand, spreading his manners on thick when thin would’ve impressed.
“Don’t mind my friend. That’s Lucky Straw and I’m Whip.”
“I figured that out.” I handed each a menu. “Gentlemen, welcome to Milagro and Broken Boot’s First Annual Charity Chili Cook-Off.”
Whip drew a deep breath and sighed. “Whatever smells so divine, that’s what we want, darlin’.” He was making serious eye contact as if I held the power to declare the winner of tomorrow’s contest in my hot little hands.
Carrying a tray of margaritas, Aunt Linda hurried past. “Come on in, fellas. Let’s get you signed up.” One glance at her beautiful face and figure, and they trailed behind her like two lovesick calves.
I followed along to where Uncle Eddie sat alongside a leathery-skinned woman with shoulders as wide as his own.
“What are your names, boys?” Bridget Peck wore a neon yellow ICA visor over her cloud of gray curls, and a matching golf shirt. If it were up to me, I’d burn her headgear for failing to do its job. Her skin was red and sun-beaten, and unfortunately, starting to peel. God forgive me, her skin made me think of the side of a barn left too long without a paint job. And if anyone within a mile radius had a doubt she was the ICA official on duty, she flashed her yellow and red badge and whipped out her official letter of introduction from the president of ICA.
“Bridget, cut the snuff. We’ve only attended two dozen of these here cook-offs,” Lucky said, smoothing his mustache with a bronzed knuckle.
For a long moment, she studied the two chili cooks from their boots to their eyebrows. With a dramatic sigh, she shook her head as if bewildered. “Nope. Don’t know you. Show me your IDs and I might return them.” Her high-pitched laugh squeaked like a rusty door hinge.
With matching scowls, they retrieved forms of identification, Whip from his wallet and Lucky from the medicine bag inside his shirt. “Bridget Peck, four years is too long to hold a grudge.”
Her face turned a pale pinkish color. “Seems to me that four years might not be long enough, considering what the other person did to land a body in jail overnight, which caused her Thunderbird to be towed and her prize chili pot to be stolen out of the backseat.”
Lucky swallowed hard. “Now, Bridge, it’s not my fault you didn’t pay your tickets in Highland Park. Those highfalutin cops don’t play.”
“Was it or was it not you who told the police officer that my registration sticker was out of date in an attempt to keep me from entering the Highland Park Presbyterian Chili Cook-Off?”
“How was I to know they’d throw you in jail overnight?”
Her jaw clenched so hard I thought she’d start spitting teeth. “Not to mention, the police also took possession of my daddy’s Colt .45 from under the front seat, where it lived since the days when my daddy drove that Thunderbird back and forth to Texas Power.”
“He made it home to the missus one night too many, if you ask me,” Whip muttered.
“I heard that, mister. Don’t think I’ve got wax flowing from my ears.”
Bridget made a big production out of poring over their pictures before eventually locating them on the list of registered chili contestants. She retrieved their preprinted application forms from her plastic file box and tossed them on the table. “Welcome to the provisional ICA Broken Boot Charity Chili Cook-Off. Make sure to sign at the bottom, and don’t skip any lines.”
Uncle Eddie handed each man a black pen with a pair of boots on top, his idea of a promotional tchotchke. “Keep the pen, boys, and check out Two Boots while you’re here, the best dance hall in Big Bend County.” My uncle told the truth. We owned the best and only dance hall in three counties.
As his friend signed his waiver, the short fellow named Whip pulled a pair of frameless glasses from his pocket and
