The Chef Page 5

  Of course, my ex is right. But I can’t tear my eyes away from that statuesque creature with the blond hair and blue dress whispering soothingly to Dodd and stroking his chest. Watching her calm the beast like that makes her even more appealing.

  To get my attention, Marlene tugs on my bandaged arm. I yelp in pain, but reluctantly follow her out.

  But before we leave the restaurant, I steal one more look at that alluring beauty. I’m not a fan of Dodd’s, but I’d love to get to know his colleague.

  I know I’ll never go into business with him, but all the same, I’m thinking that a follow-up meeting with Dodd—with his female companion nearby—would be a wonderful thing.

  Just to be polite, of course.

  Chapter 13

  I’M STANDING with Marlene at the valet station waiting for the attendant to bring around my car. With my unhurt hand, I’m fishing through my wallet, looking for a few bills to tip him with, when I hear a voice call to me.

  “Mr. Rooney, wait!”

  I turn to face this unknown woman coming out of the LBD front door—and I practically do a double take.

  It’s the blonde in the blue dress.

  She knows me? And wants to talk to me?

  “Mr. Rooney,” she says again, now standing at my side, a bit out of breath. “I’m so sorry you had to witness that. Lucas can be…a bit of a perfectionist. I hope it didn’t ruin your evening.”

  “Are you kidding?” Marlene interrupts. “We got a free dinner and a show.”

  I subtly elbow my ex-wife to get her to keep quiet and let me do the flirting.

  “Not at all,” I say. “The food was exceptional.”

  “Thank you,” she says. “And Lucas…he appreciates culinary talent. And he likes to nurture it. I know he talked to you two about possibly going into business.”

  Interesting, I think. She knows about the business proposal, so she must work for Lucas in some sort of management or business capacity. Earlier, like the typical dumb male, I thought that with her stunning good looks she was possibly a hostess or something similar. Yeah, dumb indeed.

  “Well, it certainly is an interesting proposal,” I say. “There’s a lot to consider, but I tell you, I might have to come back here to discuss it with him further, to get some additional details.”

  I hope this lovely woman doesn’t hear the exasperated sigh coming from Marlene, because my business partner knows I’m talking straight-up bullshit. But she knows what kind of flirtatious fellow I can be, so she’s letting me yammer on.

  “Oh, I’m glad you’re considering it,” the woman says, relief in her voice. “We really hope you and your partner find your way to working with us. We’re all such huge fans of Killer Chef.”

  My eyes flick down to the woman’s left hand. Seeing no engagement ring, I decide to take things up a notch.

  “Is that so?” I ask. “I’m usually there working the grill. And I always like to…keep an eye on our customers. But I don’t remember seeing you around. I’m sure I’d remember.”

  The woman blushes a bit. It’s adorable. Marlene is impatient and sighs again.

  “You caught me,” she says, smiling. “Lucas has a team of assistants who scour the city for interesting food and bring it back to us. I’d love to visit your truck sometime, but I’m usually cooped up in the back office. Handling the books, dealing with payroll, haggling with suppliers, that sort of thing. It’s not exactly what I thought I’d be doing with a master’s degree in Renaissance art history but”—and her cheerful voice slides into a regretful tone—“life doesn’t always go the way you think it will, does it?”

  “No, it certainly doesn’t,” I answer. I stare deeply into her enchanting brown pupils and her gaze stays with me. “Although sometimes, life has a way of pleasantly surprising you.”

  We share a little smile, a fleeting moment of connection—which is interrupted by the toot of a horn. I turn to see the valet pulling my silver Impala up to the curb.

  “I don’t think I got your name,” I say to the woman, knowing I wasn’t about to leave without that little fact.

  “Vanessa,” she answers. “Vanessa McKeon.”

  We shake hands. It’s professional, but I swear she holds on a second too long.

  “It was a pleasure meeting you, Vanessa,” I say, my hand feeling warm from her touch. “Despite the drama, we had a wonderful evening.”

  “I’m really glad to hear that, Caleb. And I hope you take my husband’s offer seriously. He knows what he likes, and he’s very good at spotting special talent.”

  Ugh. Hang on. That asshole Lucas Dodd is this angel Vanessa McKeon’s husband? I’m so disappointed I can practically taste it.

  “Well, with you as his wife, I congratulate him on his talent-spotting skills,” I say. “Good night, now.”

  I hand the young valet a few dollars, then slide into my car with its engine running and slump behind the wheel. Marlene gets in beside me, chuckling and singing out loud: “Caleb and Vanessa, sittin’ in a tree…”

  “Very funny, Marlene. Very mature, too.”

  “Oh, lighten up. So you can’t sleep with every hot piece of ass in New Orleans—just most of them. It’s still early. Plenty of time to go to a bar and pick somebody up.”

  I check my watch. She’s right. It’s not even nine o’clock. I could go out. Or, if we opened up Killer Chef right now, we could still serve a ton of customers.

  “Nah, there’s something else I feel like doing instead. Let’s go cook.”

  “Caleb?” she says, lowering the window on her side to bring in some fresh air.

  “Yes?” I say, following her lead on my side, feeling the warm night air slide in.

  I slowly drive out and stop at the intersection with St. Charles Avenue. Long lines of tourists stream across the crosswalk in front of us.

  Marlene says, “Please take this in the spirit in which it’s offered, dear ex-husband of mine, but you’re being an idiot.”

  “Marlene…”

  “I know you think you’re indestructible, but you’ve got bumps, bruises, aches and pains, and a bandaged hand. You just got out of the hospital. You nearly had what little brains you have smashed out on the ground by those gangbangers.”

  “Marlene…”

  “And I don’t mind that you’re not at a hundred percent, but if you go start cooking tonight, you’ll be sloppy, you’ll make mistakes, and you’ll drop stuff. And that means you, and you alone, will be disappointing our customers. And hurting our business. And I’m not going to let that happen. So, big handsome fella, the only thing you’re doing is dropping me at home, and getting your sorry and aching ass to bed for another good night’s sleep. I’ll see you in the truck tomorrow.”

  The way is clear ahead of me, and I just have to shake my head. Hate to admit it, but my ex is right.

  I start to ease out onto St. Charles Avenue, and then a low roaring noise catches my attention.

  I suddenly brake and lean my head outside, looking up.

  There.

  One, and then two, Black Hawk military helicopters are flying overhead, slowly passing over the Garden District, at a low altitude.

  Marlene is looking as well. “Those belong to the police?”

  I ease my way back into my car. A horn impatiently sounds behind me.

  “No,” I say. “The NOPD doesn’t have helicopters, and the state police use Bells. Those are Black Hawk. National Guard or Army.”

  I make a left-hand turn, thinking of what those SWAT cops said the other night.

  Something’s spooked somebody.

  “Must be a drill, huh?” Marlene asks.

  “Must be,” I say, though I know deep down that no, something bad is out there in my Crescent City, scaring both the locals and the military.

  And I can’t do a damn thing about it.

  Chapter 14

  THE NIGHT after our gourmet meal and amateur WrestleMania hour back at LBD, Marlene and I park our truck on the corner of Orleans Avenue and
Salcedo Street, right in the heart of Bayou St. John—a leafy, tranquil residential neighborhood, far removed from all the hubbub of the French Quarter. Since we didn’t have much time to prep ingredients that evening and will be doing most of it on the fly, I’m hoping for a relatively slow shift.

  Fat chance.

  Fifteen minutes after we open, there’s a line stretching down the block. After thirty minutes, it’s snaked around the corner. I deliberately didn’t post our location to any of our Killer Chef social media accounts, which have a combined following of more than two hundred thousand people, but I should have known word would spread. Not that I’m complaining. When you’re running a business, popularity is a great problem to have.

  It’s also an exhausting one.

  And sometimes, a potentially dangerous one.

  As I’m finishing up two orders, Marlene comes next to me and says, “Looks like three of your friends are in line tonight.”

  “Really?” I say, pleased at what she just said. Since I’ve left the force—hell, even after my beatdown four nights ago—I haven’t heard one word from any of my buds on the force, not a one. I realize it’s the tone of the time and politics, that nobody out there wants to be seen with someone accused of killing an “innocent” civilian, but it’s still a lonely feeling.

  I wipe my hands on my apron, move over to the side, look out the serving window at the long line of customers, trying to see which detective or cop or if even my old boss, Cunningham, is waiting in line, but I don’t see a familiar face.

  But I do see three guys, dressed in yellow sweats and yellow hoodies, staring right at me with hate.

  I go back to my station, slide the food over. “Order up!”

  The night goes on. With the three gangbangers getting closer and closer as happy customers slide away with their orders, Marlene says, “Whaddaya gonna do?”

  “I might spit in their food,” I say, “but just my luck, a health inspector might be out there in line, too.”

  “Caleb, shouldn’t you make a call?”

  I get back to the stove. “To report what? Three men standing quietly in line wearing yellow? Those guys weren’t in the crew that was with Ty and his baseball bat.”

  “Fine,” she says, digging through her pockets, taking out her phone and putting it on a shelf, between a stack of paper boats. “One of those yellow jerks does so much as lift their voice, I’m calling 911.”

  “I love it when you stick up for me,” I say.

  “Up yours, Caleb, I’m protecting Killer Chef.”

  I feel better getting back to work. That’s my Marlene.

  The three guys come closer and closer, and even the other customers in line can sense something is off about them. The gangbangers aren’t saying anything, aren’t making any threatening moves, aren’t doing a damn thing.

  Which is out of place. Everybody else in line is slightly buzzed, or talking loudly, or taking photos of the line or selfies, some dancing in place to music from a nearby nightclub. But these members of the Franklin Avenue crew are stoic and hard-looking, just patiently moving forward with the rest of the line, and customers in front of and behind them are giving them lots of space.

  Even if they don’t know what’s going on, these hungry folks in line are smart enough to stay as far away as they can from potential trouble.

  I focus on chopping, cooking, plating, sliding the food over, and then there are four customers in front of them, then three, then one, and—

  They just stand there.

  “Help you fellas?” Marlene asks, as harried and friendly as ever.

  No answer.

  “Guys?”

  Their faces are determined, humorless, and I stand next to Marlene, making sure the three of them can see the knife in my hand.

  I say, “Good evening, gents, what’s your pleasure tonight?”

  The lead one slowly lifts up his hand, makes a pointing gesture at me with his finger, waving it back and forth, back and forth, and says, “Shit, man, our pleasure is gonna be any night we choose.”

  The other two laugh, and then they walk away.

  I go back to my station.

  Marlene remains her take-charge self. “Next!”

  After another hour of frantically toasting baguettes, slicing up chuck roast, and flash-frying shrimp, my apron is soaked through with sweat. Plus I’ve run out of raw jalapeños, my lifeblood when I’m cooking, and our food stocks are just about gone, too.

  The gangbangers haven’t come back, which is fine.

  They were here to send a message, and their message was certainly received.

  “That’s all she wrote, folks!” I call to the dozen or so customers still waiting, who let out a collective groan. “I know, I know. Life is so unfair sometimes. But I’ll make a deal with you. If the sun rises in the morning, Killer Chef will reopen. Sound good?”

  The crowd starts to disperse, and Marlene and I begin to clean up. We’re nearly finished when I hear a knock-knock-knock against the closed service window.

  “Sorry,” I say, loudly, without looking over. “Truck’s closed for the night.”

  But the tapping continues.

  “I admire your determination, I really do, but—”

  It’s quiet.

  Then there’s insistent knocking on the rear door.

  “We’re closed!” Marlene yells.

  The knocking doesn’t give up.

  Marlene reaches up, takes down her phone, her thumb over the keypad to dial 911 if need be.

  I guess I could stay here until the knocking goes away, but suppose it doesn’t? And what if it’s not a couple of drunk bachelorettes looking to score some angel wings pastries before stumbling off to bed?

  I go to the door, picking up one of my large, sharp Korin Gyutou knives along the way. At home I have a backup piece, a 9mm Smith & Wesson M&P, and that pistol should be here where it could do some good, not home, gathering dust.

  I grab the handle, give it a turn, and shove the door open.

  Chapter 15

  AND NEARLY hit Vanessa McKeon straight in her gorgeous, flawless face.

  She laughs and skips back, and says, “Boy, when you say you’re closed, you really mean it!”

  I feel foolish holding the knife and hide it behind my tired butt, but in truth, after all the work tonight and the disappointment of not seeing friends in line and the unsettling view of the three gangbangers making a threat, it’s a sweet treat seeing Vanessa standing there before me. From the soft glow of a nearby streetlamp, her blond hair and light-pink floral-print dress look almost radiant.

  I’m not as tired anymore.

  I turn and Marlene makes a teasing kiss-kiss face, and then she shoves her phone back in her pocket, starts wiping down the near counter again.

  “Of all the po’boy joints in all the towns in all the world, you walk up to mine,” I say with a grin, stepping back for a second to put the Korin Gyutou down, then stepping out of the truck. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “I was hoping for some culinary pleasure,” she replies, smiling. “I had to work through our staff meal at the restaurant earlier tonight, and I didn’t feel like sticking around and eating leftovers. So I thought I’d swing by Killer Chef for one of your legendary sandwiches. But I see you’re closed. Maybe another time.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I say. “That time is now.”

  “Are you sure? Really?”

  Biting her bottom lip, Vanessa excitedly scans the chalkboard menu hanging on the front of the truck. She looks so cute doing it, I hate to stop her.

  “That list won’t help you much,” I say. “We ran out of just about everything on it. But if you tell me what you’re in the mood for…”

  “Hmm,” she says, nodding. “In that case, I’ll make it a chef’s choice. Rumor is, he’s pretty talented.” Another sweet smile my way. “But I don’t believe everything I hear. Just what I taste.”

  With an idea already taking shape in my mind, I hop back into
the rear of the truck. I drop a pat of butter into a frying pan and fire up the freshly cleaned stove.

  Marlene exhales loudly and puts her hands on her hips.

  “Seriously, Caleb?” she says. “After we just finished scrubbing this whole place down?”

  “Relax. I’ll re-scrub it,” I say, moving the frying pan around in smooth circles so the butter will evenly spread. “It’ll be spotless before we reopen tomorrow, I promise. Cut me a little slack, would you? And cut me some onions and green peppers, too.”

  From the fridge I remove a catfish filet and lay it into the sizzling pan. I sprinkle it with salt and pepper, then baste it with an improvised glaze of honey, cayenne, and cardamom. Once the fish has been blackened on both sides, I set the steaming filet onto a toasted baguette, dress it with some sautéed peppers and onions, and top it off with a few strategically placed dabs of horseradish. Along the way Marlene is muttering under her breath about having to work late, messing up the truck after it’s been cleaned, and doing all this to help her dumb ex-husband get laid.

  I ignore her with a grin and focus on the food, and I wrap the whole thing in wax paper and step outside to serve it personally to tonight’s guest of honor.

  “It smells incredible,” Vanessa says, gently breathing in the fresh scent while holding the sandwich in her petite hands. “Can you tell me about it?”

  “Well, I’d say it’s a very interesting creation. It’s sweet on the outside. And very appealing. But it’s sharp, too. A little spicy. Surprising. And very tempting.”

  Vanessa gives me a look. Then takes a big bite—and lets out a little moan.

  “Mmmm. I didn’t know it before now, but this is exactly what I wanted.”

  “I know the feeling,” I reply.

  Vanessa smiles coyly. She’s about to take another bite, but instead she hesitates, then starts rewrapping the sandwich.

  “I’m sorry to run,” she says softly. “But I told Lucas I was on my way home. I don’t want him to get worried…or, well, you know.”