Cinco de Mayhem by Ann Myers Page A

chips next to the olive oil, sugar, and cocoa already set out for her so-called healthy muffin.
    I gaped at her. Practicing the deadliest and slowest martial art is one thing, but purposefully asking a health inspector over? Flori was brave. Maybe too brave for her own good, not to mention the café’s.
    â€œWhy?” I demanded. “What’d you say?”
    She smiled, sly as a tai-chi-practicing fox. “I told him we had a few questions. Questions about his dealings with Napoleon.”
    I winced. Flori kept on explaining. “Now, his name’s Gerald Jenkins, and my sources say there is indeed talk of him being buyable. Word is, you can pay your way out of bad inspections.” She thumped the bag of chocolate. “I’ll bet you that he takes bribes the other way too, bribes to cook up violations. That’s what I intend to ask him about.”
    â€œIsn’t this against your Art of War practices?” I asked, dreading any encounter with the man in the ill-fitting suit. “I mean, would your guy Sun say to invite the enemy to our café?”
    I sneaked another peek. Jenkins was approaching the only empty table, the one overlooked by the mariachi band. He frowned, rightfully so, at the trumpet player. My mind flashed through possible public health and safety violations involving creepy mannequins.
    â€œPiffle,” Flori said, straight from Addie’s British Empire playbook of scoffing sounds. “The Art of War says to gather information on your enemy. ‘Those with all the information win,’ or something like that. In any case, we don’t have time to fool around being coy. It’s like flirting. Best to be direct.”
    She made a tush-pinching gesture, grabbed the coffeepot, and was out the door before I could object. I tugged down my shower cap and followed Flori into battle.

    M r. Jenkins!” Flori exclaimed. “So good of you to come. Coffee?”
    Jenkins straightened to a more upright slouch. He eyed the coffeepot, craning his neck around it as if he had X-ray vision for germs.
    â€œFine,” he said, after perusing the spotless pot. “But I prefer my own cup.” From his oversized coat pocket, he produced a plastic bag holding a thermos. He unsealed the bag and removed the top cup, daintily grasping the handle with the tips of his right index finger and thumb. Twisting the thermos top off too, he said, “Refill this while you’re at it, and I’ll need something sweet. One ofthose cookies.” He pointed to a jar of bizcochitos, New Mexico’s official state cookie.
    Flori poured and took a seat across from him. Making a show of using hygienic tongs, I selected three anise-flavored cookies from the jar and placed them on a clean plate. I pushed the plate in front of Jenkins, pulled a chair close to Flori, and perched on the edge of the seat. No way could I get comfortable by this man.
    â€œMr. Jenkins, we’ve heard that you had a certain business arrangement with the recently deceased Chef Napoleon.” Flori leaned in, thrusting out her chest. This, I guessed, was not one of her flirting moves. More likely, she had her tiny tape recorder strapped to her brassiere again.
    Jenkins sniffed then sipped his coffee. “My business is food establishments and making sure they meet city codes.” He took a cookie and looked around Tres Amigas, his gaze lingering on the ceiling and the festival of Cinco de Mayo décor. An orange and pink piñata donkey swayed, seemingly on its own. Horrified, I watched as it stirred up a faint puff of dust, lit by a sunbeam.
    Flori leaned in so far that she was practically lying on the table. “That’s not what we heard. Tell him, Rita.”
    Tell him what? That I’d insinuated to Albuquerque’s finest news crew that he was dirty and possibly involved in a brutal murder? Flori nodded to me, encouragingly.
    â€œYou know,” I said, vaguely yet