PANDINI CAMPAIGN HEADQUARTERS, 7:15 A.M.

Zengo’s day with Pandini started early. He monitored the tycoon’s endless morning phone meetings, marveling at the way in which Pandini could go from one call to another without missing a beat. Zengo was exhausted just watching.

Following Pandini around was even more tiring. The tycoon liked to visit each of his business enterprises every day, and he had campaign stops to make too. And everywhere the panda went, the press was sure to go. They hounded him relentlessly. Pandini dealt with each rude intrusion with his usual combination of charm and misdirection. But they swarmed him like sharks, always hungry for more.

Finally, it was obvious that Pandini had had enough. He winked at Zengo as they entered his club Bamboo, not yet open for the day. Once behind the main door, Pandini locked it. “Come with me,” he said. “We’re going out the back way. And we’re going to visit an old friend of mine.”

Pandini seemed to have cars and drivers at his command. One was waiting for them at the back door of the club. They hopped inside. Carpy was at the wheel. “To Frank’s!” said Pandini.

Zengo thought they’d be heading to the nearest hot dog stand. But instead, they went way down to the oldest part of town, to the original Frank’s Franks. It was a proud local institution—a little battered and beat, but as much a part of Kalamazoo City as Town Hall or Founder’s Rock, and the original model for the Frank’s Franks stands that had popped up around town.

Here, they went in the back way and entered the kitchen. There was an old-timer manning the grill. He looked up and beamed. “Howdy, Frank!” said Pandini. “How are the dogs rolling?”

Zengo was astounded. He had no idea there was still an actual Frank at Frank’s. He was looking at a living legend.

“Hey there, Mr. Pandini!” said Frank.

“Now, now, please call me Frank, Frank!” said Pandini. He proudly gestured around the grill station and glanced at Zengo. “Isn’t this place the best?” He took a big sniff. “Just smell those frankfurters!”

Zengo had to admit the dogs at the original Frank’s Franks did smell pretty fantastic. Even though it was only mid-morning, he felt his stomach growl.

Frank looked at Zengo. He could spot a customer at a hundred paces. “How about if I fix you up a footlong with extra onions?” he said.

Zengo started to protest. He hadn’t eaten an actual meat hot dog since he was a kid. But he could see that Frank would not be denied. Zengo accepted the juicy concoction with both hands. Before he knew it, he had swallowed half of it. “This is . . . delicious!” he said, his mouth full.

Pandini said, “Another satisfied customer.”

Frank beamed.

“You know, when I bought this business, I wasn’t just trying to find another way to make a buck,” said Pandini to Zengo. “I’ve been coming here my whole life. Nobody, but nobody, delivers a hot dog like Frank. I wanted to give him the chance to share his genius with a bigger audience. This here’s the original operation—and it’s the place where we take all the Frank’s Franks cooks to learn hot dog making from a master.”

“Mr. Pandini saved my bacon a few years back,” said Frank to Zengo. “I was about to go out of business. I had started to think people just didn’t like hot dogs anymore.”

“Nonsense!” said Pandini. “They just needed to be greeted by the irresistible smell of Frank’s Franks, no matter where they were in the city!”

While they were talking, Zengo had been trying to eat the second half of his hot dog as slowly as possible. It was the best thing he had ever put into his mouth, and he never wanted it to end. No wonder O’Malley was so crazy for this place. “That was incredible,” he said to Frank, who smiled and handed him another. Why not? He’d be sure to eat an extra-healthy dinner.

With a fond farewell, Pandini and Zengo left Frank’s Franks and headed back to Bamboo. Once more, they went in the back door and outfoxed the ravenous reporters. Up in Pandini’s office they found a flustered Irving Myers.

“Take a look at this new ad from McGovern,” he said. He clicked the remote and a flat-screen television lowered from the ceiling.

Patrick McGovern appeared before the Kalamazoo City skyline. “We live in a great city,” said McGovern. “A great city filled with great people—and great businesses. There is nothing more important than keeping the businesses in this city humming. As mayor, I promise to do that for you. A good economy makes a great city.”

The scene changed. Now McGovern was standing in front of Nutter’s Nut Factory at closing time, hundreds of squirrels streaming out. “Nutter’s Nuts is one of the most important pieces in Kalamazoo City’s economy. It is a flagship employer in our fair city, and has been for years. My mother, Alice, raised me on her own on her Nutter’s Nuts salary. And what do you think Frank Pandini Jr. would like to do with this important enterprise?” The scene shifted again. Through clever use of computer graphics, the factory appeared closed, shuttered, out of business.

“That’s right, fellow citizens. Frank Pandini wants to drive this fine company out of business and put all its hard workers on the bread line. And once that happens, all the small companies will follow suit—if the workers are on the street, how will the shoemaker make a living? The corner grocery? The barbershop? I promise you, that will never happen on my watch. In my administration we will do everything we can to keep Kalamazoo City strong and its businesses growing.

“A vote for me, Patrick McGovern, is a vote for a great future for Kalamazoo City!”

Irving Myers clicked off the television and started walking around in a nervous circle. Pandini just kept shaking his head back and forth.

Zengo was furious. “This is so unfair! You’re trying to keep schools and restaurants safe for kids with nut allergies! And how can McGovern claim that you don’t care about small businesses! Look at what you’ve done for Frank’s Franks!”

Pandini smiled sadly and sighed. “He’s just trying to win an election. I hope I never have to stoop so low myself.”

Myers was gnawing on his fist. “The average KC citizen will eat this ad up. We have to absolutely nail the debate tonight. The polls are rocky as it is. If you don’t come through with a definite win, we’re sunk.”

“I was going to talk to you about that debate,” said Zengo. “I’m a little worried about us letting Pandini step out in front of the public again after what’s gone on the past few days. Especially since we have no idea who is behind this threat.”

Myers circled back to face Zengo. “That is what you are supposed to be taking care of—Pandini’s safety. Why don’t you actually do your job and leave the campaign decisions to us!”

Zengo started to fire back himself, but Pandini put up a hand. “Irving is right, Rick,” he said. “We’ve got to see this through.” He turned to Myers. “And I don’t want you to worry about the polls. We’ll be fine.”

Myers was not comforted. “Maybe you aren’t going to worry about the numbers, but I am!” he said. “And I’d like to take some time right now to go over strategy.”

Pandini sat down at his desk and motioned for Myers to take a seat. Myers looked around at Zengo. “Alone—okay, chief?”

Chief. They were treating him just like the people down at the station. He looked to Pandini, but he just shrugged at Zengo and said, “Why don’t you take a break for a bit, Rick?”

Zengo eyed Myers with suspicion. What was his game plan? Did he have more than just his reputation at stake in this election? Reluctantly, he stepped outside.

Just as he did, his phone vibrated. It was O’Malley. Just what he needed—someone else who always treated him like a kid.

“Hey,” said Zengo. “What do you want?”

“To see you, sooner rather than later,” said O’Malley. “We thought we had a hot lead on the case. We even arrested a suspect—A. J. Nutter, Jacob Nutter’s grandson. Plazinski made us release him—lack of evidence—but we think there’s a thread here worth pulling. Can you meet up?”

“As it happens, I do have some free time,” said Zengo, more than a little curious.

They made a plan to meet at Mulligan’s, just down the street from Bamboo. Probably not a coincidence that it was O’Malley’s favorite greasy spoon.