by Fiona Grace
“I’m fine,” she said. “Just a bit sticky.”
“Do you want me to get you another soda?”
“No, it’s okay. I don’t want you to miss the competition.”
“Ah, don’t worry, the preamble goes on for ages,” Sebastian said. “I’ll be back in a bit.”
And with that he headed off.
Ali looked back at the stage. During the ruckus with the collage boy, two other competitors—both male, both fat—had taken their seats on stage, and the bikini-clad women had set up further protective plexiglass dividers and sick buckets. There was just one seat left to fill. The fifth competitor.
“And now,” Mad Frank bellowed into the microphone. “It’s time to give a very warm welcome to your reigning champion! The fourteen times crowned winner! The unrivaled master of pizza, burgers, and bagels! Everyone’s favorite porkster. It’s Gilbert The Gobbler!”
The crowd went crazy as a very large man came waddling out on stage. He was wearing his own merchandise, the same as lots of people in the audience. He was clearly the crowd favorite.
He took his seat and the bikini women headed backstage, before returning with plates of buns and hot dogs.
“And here comes the food!” Mad Frank announced. “With thanks to our local sponsors—Seaside Sweets and Sullivan’s Steakhouse.”
Oh no, Ali thought. Poor Seth didn’t even get a shoutout!
Maybe it was a good thing he’d stormed off. He probably would have blown a gasket had he been here to hear that announcement!
“Now,” Mad Frank said. “The rules are simple. Our contenders each have one hundred hot dogs and ten minutes to consume as many of them as possible. But folks, here’s the twist. This is the first ever double dog contest in the history of competitive eating! Two dogs, one bun! It’s never been done before!”
As the crowd roared, Mad Frank pointed at the big screen behind him. “Let’s get that timer up!” The image changed from a close up of his face to a big red stopwatch. “The current world record for hot dog eating in ten minutes is seventy-seven,” Mad Frank continued. “Will any of today’s contenders become world record holders? It’s time to find out! Contenders, get ready…”
Each of the five people leaned forward, poised over their stack of hot dogs, ready to grab one the moment the clock started ticking. Up in his tower, Mad Frank hovered his hand over a big red button. The whole audience seemed to be holding their breath in anticipation.
Then Frank exclaimed, “Let the eating begin!”
He slammed his hand down on the button. A loud claxon sounded, making Ali jump. A confetti cannon exploded. Then everyone on stage launched for their first hot dog.
As the contestants on stage shoved food into their faces, the crowd went crazy, shouting out the names of their favorite contenders. “Gilbert! Gilbert! Gilbert!” was definitely the loudest cry of all.
Sure enough, Ali saw that Gilbert The Gobbler was off to a flying start, and as the clock on the board reached fifteen seconds, Mad Frank cried, “First double dog down! Gilbert The Gobbler takes an early lead!”
He was already half through his second dog when Frank cried, “Queen Eunbi slides into second place!”
With a surge of pride, Ali focused on her new friend. The petite woman had managed to wolf down her first double dog in twenty seconds, and was trailing behind the leader by a mere five seconds. Ali simply couldn’t help herself. She started to cheer.
“Eunbi! Eunbi! Eunbi!”
Over the PA system, Mad Frank’s voice loudly exclaimed, “Bottomless Pit Bob is coming in in third place! Oh, and that’s two dogs to Gilbert! In just twenty-nine seconds. He’s tearing ahead.”
As the race continued at a feverish pace, Ali glanced around looking for Callihan. He’d been gone quite a while now, and she felt bad he was missing out on his favorite guilty pleasure just because of a spilled soda. Hopefully he was still able to see what was happening from wherever the bar was.
She turned back to the stage. Only this time, she noticed a change in Gilbert’s expression. A strange look had come over his face. Perhaps it was determination, or just the unpleasantness of having so many hot dogs churning around in his guts, but he was starting to look very unwell indeed…
Though she was supposed to be supporting Eunbi, Ali found herself focusing more and more on Gilbert.
Suddenly, he stood bolt upright and brought his hands up to his face.
“It appears that Gilbert the Gobbler has overpaced himself!” Mad Frank cried. “Batten down the hatches, front row, it’s about to rain!”
But rather than vomit into the bucket provided, Gilbert the Gobbler beelined for the stage exit.
“I take it back,” Mad Frank said, sounding slightly confused. “It looks as if Gilbert’s disqualifying himself, and is off to the vomitorium!”
There was a brief moment of disappointment in the crowd who’d been so enthusiastically cheering for their favorite, but they soon turned their attention back to the ongoing competition. This must be how things went in competitive eating contests, Ali presumed. But she couldn’t help but feel disconcerted. Especially because of the way Gilbert had staggered to the stage steps, clawing at his throat. It didn’t look like he was about to vomit to her, it looked like he was choking. And if he was going to be sick, why not just use the buckets provided? Wasn’t that the reason they were there in the first place?
Ali didn’t know what to make of it, but the two stewards hovering in the wings made her feel uneasy. Especially the looks on their faces as Gilbert staggered down the steps toward them, and the way they quickly ushered him away and out of sight.
Frowning, Ali felt compelled to check the man was okay. If he was choking and the whole “vomitorium” comment was a way of keeping the onlookers in the dark about the truth, then she couldn’t help but feel a sense of personal responsibility. It was her food he was choking on, after all!
She started muscling her way to the backstage area.
“Ali? Where are you going?” came Sebastian’s voice.
He’d just made his way back to where they’d been standing with a new soda for Ali.
“I think one of the competitors is in trouble,” Ali said. “I’m heading backstage to check.”
She pushed her way toward the cordoned off area, inching her way through the crowds. Then she flashed her pass at the security man, and he gave her a mean look before allowing her to pass.
Ali rushed along the pier, looking for the stewards and Gilbert. She spotted a tent, much like the rudimentary one the refreshments had been kept in, with First Aid written above it. She ran to it and burst inside.
Gilbert the Gobbler was lying on his back, with the two stewards crouched either side. Then the two stewards drew back onto their haunches and stared at one another with stunned expressions on their faces.
One of them shook his head. “He’s gone.”
Ali gasped.
Gilbert the Gobbler was dead.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
As the sounds of the competition taking place on the stage continued, backstage a hush of stunned horror descended.
Ali watched on, numb with disbelief, as the unbelievable scene unfolded before her eyes. Gilbert was lying on his back completely still. The stewards who’d been attempting to resuscitate him before seemed at a total loss now that the reality was sinking in that their efforts had been in vain. Neither seemed to have a clue about what to do now they were with a dead body. Ali doubted they’d even been trained for such an eventuality.
“Maybe we should call nine-one-one?” one of them suggested to the other.
“Yeah. Good idea,” the second replied, before looking up and glancing around helplessly. “Do you think we should tell Frank, or wait until the contest is over?”
It was only then that Ali became aware of all the other people in the tent. Staff members in their Mad Frank T-shirts were crowding and jostling to get a better look. They all started murmuring among themselves, trying to decide on what
the next step should be in such an unprecedented situation.
“Ali?” came a man’s voice from behind. “What’s going on?”
Ali swirled. It was Emilio. She’d forgotten all about him in the chaos, and only just remembered now that he’d returned to the backstage area after his fight with Seth.
As he approached, his gaze slid over her shoulder, and he gasped with horror as he stopped dead in his tracks and turned a sickly color.
“Is that Gilbert?” he asked in a shaky voice.
Ali nodded.
“Is he dead?”
“I think so.”
Emilio grasped his mouth and paced away. “How?” he muttered to himself. “How is this happening?”
Before Ali had a chance to say more, she spotted Callihan coming in through the tent’s entry flap. He must’ve found a way past the bald security guard, probably by flashing his badge.
“Seb!” she called, arcing an arm above her head.
His gaze found her, and he beelined across the floorboards toward her.
“Ali? Are you okay? What’s going on?”
Ali simply pointed to the body on the ground.
Taking one look at Gilbert, Callihan grabbed for his badge and stepped forward.
“I’m with the police,” he announced, showing his badge to Mad Frank’s stunned backstage staffers. “I’m taking command of this situation. Everyone please step back.”
Relief washed over the faces of the two baby-faced stewards, still crouching helplessly beside Gilbert. Ever since he’d staggered off stage toward them while clawing at his throat, they’d both looked totally out of their depths, bewildered by the catastrophe taking place. With Detective Callihan assuming the authoritative position, they’d been absolved of the pressure of responsibility, and they hurried to the other staff members standing by, joining in with their gawking and whispering.
Detective Callihan made shooing gestures with his arms and the staffers took several more paces back, fanning out into a crescent moon shape. The whole thing reminded Ali of farmers herding sheep into formations, and she couldn’t help but wonder how different things would’ve turned out if a competitive sheep herding contest had rolled into town this weekend rather than a competitive hot dog eating one. She’d be safe in her bakery none the wiser, rather than standing here staring into the face of a dead man.
Once Detective Callihan had gotten himself a bit of breathing room, he snapped into action. He crouched down beside Gilbert, sliding a cell phone from his pocket as he did, and peered at him closely, all the way from toe to crown, while simultaneously pressing buttons on his cell phone.
“Elton,” he said, putting the phone against his ear. “We have a situation at the pier.”
Ali’s first thought was that Detective Callihan was extremely professional. Impressively so. Half a minute earlier he’d been on a date with a girl watching his silliest college guilty pleasure, and in a moment’s notice everything had changed, and he was now solely in charge of an entire investigation and a tent full of witnesses. But then her thoughts turned to the more troubling technicalities of the situation, and she couldn’t help but note how Detective Callihan had chosen to contact his murder detective partner first, rather than, say, the paramedics, or the coroner, or the police. Maybe it was protocol for the partner to be informed when one of them accidentally came across an unforeseen and spontaneous situation while off duty. Or maybe there was something Detective Callihan was seeing in this situation that Ali was not…
“Sebastian,” she said, stepping forward. “You don’t think—”
But he cut her off sharply with a raised hand. “Ali, step back,” he commanded. “I’m sorry but I can’t discuss anything with you at the moment. Please. Step back with the others.”
Ali was slightly taken aback by his abruptness, and she shuffled back until she was in line with the rest of the staff. As soon as she did, Detective Callihan went right back to his cell phone conversation with Detective Elton.
He’d treated her like she was any other witness, and Ali realized with a horrible sinking feeling that that was because she was. His abrupt demotion of her from his date to a witness told her everything she needed to know. He was suspecting foul play.
Ali paced away, a whole new pit of despair opening up inside of her. This couldn’t be happening! It had to be a horrible nightmare.
The tent seemed to be caving in on her, and Ali staggered toward the sliver of light coming through the tent’s exit flap. The closer she got, the louder the audience and noises from the stage became. Had it all gotten more intense, or was adrenaline sharpening her senses? How uncomfortably incongruous it now suddenly felt to know the competition was continuing on in blissful ignorance, oblivious to the drama taking place behind the scenes.
As if reading her mind, Detective Callihan covered his cell with his hand and suddenly bellowed, “Will someone stop the contest! Shut this thing down!”
A young female staff hand leapt into action, scurrying for the staircase that connected to the stage and bounding up them two at a time.
But it was too late. Ali heard the claxon timer sounding and the blast of confetti cannons, as Mad Frank’s amplified voice proclaimed, “This year’s winner is Bottomless Pit Bob!”
Then a rushed, breathless, female voice came out of the sound system. “Frank. Frank. We have a problem.”
Ali realized too late what was about to happen. Mad Frank’s microphone was loud enough to pick up the young staffer, and her voice was being projected to the entire audience, a hundred strong crowd of Gilbert The Gobbler’s die-hard fans, and to several live-streaming broadcasters. Ali could do nothing but stand by helplessly as the inevitable happened.
“It’s Gilbert,” the staffer’s panicked voice boomed. “He’s dead.”
And with those words, pandemonium broke out.
*
“I need backup!” yelled the security guard.
Ali and the staffers around her rushed out of the tent and quickly discovered the security guard at the cordon had been overrun by people trying to get backstage. Among those he was trying to hold back was a very eager film crew.
“Let us through!” they cried. “We’re the press! We have journalistic rights!”
“You’re a cable TV station,” Ali refuted as she rushed forward to help, standing shoulder to shoulder with the guard in order to keep their voyeuristic, prying eyes away.
“Can you tell us what happened?” the film crew continued, ignoring her pleas. “Is Gilbert dead?”
The crowd surged forward, making Ali and the guard strain to keep them back, and a microphone was suddenly shoved under her nose.
“It’s not—my place—to comment,” Ali stammered, fighting to keep her footing. She cringed as the sound of her own voice echoed through the air, amplified by the enormous sound system. Then she cringed even harder when she realized the camera pointing at her face was probably being projected onto the big screen behind the stage as well. For someone who hated being in the spotlight, this was an embarrassing nightmare of epic proportions.
But it was also so much more. It was extremely distasteful to the dead man lying in a tent behind them. Yet that sentiment was clearly not shared by those around her. One of the younger staffers, a steward who reminded her of Teddy ten years and fifteen pounds ago, decided to grab his moment in the spotlight.
He blustered forward, chest prostrated like a proud peacock, and grabbed the microphone. “I’m a witness. What do you want to know?”
“Can you tell us what happened?”
“Well, Gilbert’s dead, obviously,” the young man began.
“Are you certain?” the film crew pressed.
“Totally. Absolutely. I saw him die right before my eyes.”
Ali grimaced. This was all so undignified. Poor Gilbert deserved respect and privacy at this moment, not to have his death used as fodder from an attention-hungry audience.
“How did he die?” the camera crew continued.
Ali realized he probably hadn’t actually seen Gilbert die, and maybe it was for the best that this young man had chosen to be the spokesman after all. The longer the possibility of foul play was kept on the down low the better.
“What did he choke on?” the crew continued. “The dog, or the bun?”
“The medics say it was the bun,” the boy said, continuing to lie with ease.
Uh-oh, Ali thought, looking down at her Seaside Sweets T-shirt. If the film crew actually had any “journalist integrity” to speak of, they’d realize soon enough that the baker of the buns Gilbert had supposedly choked to death on was literally standing in front of their faces.
Time to vamoose, Ali thought.
Plenty more staffers had joined in the human barricade now, so she slipped out and headed back toward the medical tent. A bunch of people were hovering around outside, among them Emilio. He had his arms crossed against his middle, and was staring down at the floorboards under his feet with a thousand-yard stare.
“Emilio?” Ali asked. “You okay, buddy?”
His gaze snapped up to meet hers. “Callihan kicked us all out.”
She nodded, and was about to ask whether anything else had happened, when she was interrupted by the sound of footsteps clattering toward her. She looked over to see Mad Frank, Bob, Eunbi, the other two competitors, and the bikini-wearing ladies come racing across the backstage area, looking horrified. Tears of panic were streaming down one of the bikini-women’s faces.
“Ali?” Eunbi cried in an agonized voice. “Is it true? Is Gilbert dead?” She reached forward with both hands, like a child seeking comfort.
Ali took them both and squeezed with as much compassion as she could. “Yes. I’m so sorry, Eunbi.”
Eunbi let out a small strangled noise of distress.
“Was it his heart?” Bob asked.
“I don’t know,” Ali told him, shaking her head. “He’s inside.”
