Thirty seconds later, the sedan door opened. A man in a suit that cost more than the cart stepped out, wiping sweat from his brow. "Hot one, Tony," the man said, reaching for the blue cup.
Little Joey grabbed his cup, his tongue already stained a radioactive yellow. "Thanks, Tony. My dad says this stuff is the only reason he doesn't move to Florida."
Tony stood behind the frosted glass, his white apron streaked with neon syrup. He wasn’t just a vendor; he was a neighborhood referee.
"Coldest thing in the city," Tony replied, his voice low. "Bottom of the cup has what you're looking for. Don't let it melt."
The boy nodded, oblivious, and skipped away. Tony turned back to the ice, his face hardening. He grabbed the Blue Raspberry bottle—the signal. He poured a generous, unnecessary amount over a cup of plain ice and set it on the counter.