After they leave the force, most cops I’ve known like to hit the links. Or the bottle. Or maybe get a little place on the Gulf Coast, do some fishing, take it easy.

Me? I got rid of my NOPD uniform shirt, threw on a fresh black T-shirt and apron, and went straight back to work.

Marlene moved the truck after the lunch shift, and this evening Killer Chef is parked on Elysian Fields Avenue, a main drag through the heart of the Marigny, a colorful neighborhood known for its legendary jazz clubs and bumping nightlife. Today is no exception. It’s barely dusk when I arrive and the party is already in full swing.

Though I’m not looking forward to this conversation, I was hoping to pull Marlene aside for a minute or two before dinner service to fill her in on what happened. But since a line of hungry customers is already winding around the block, I see she’s decided to open up the truck a little early.

Tossing a few jalapeños into my mouth, I jump right in and give her a hand.

I spend the next four hours grilling up slabs of juicy, rum-glazed pork belly. Deep-frying heaps of Cajun-battered shrimp and oysters. Stirring a giant, simmering vat of kidney beans and spiced ham that’s so thick and rich, I worry my arm might fall off.

The shift is exhausting. Endless. But like always, it’s pretty damn exhilarating. And after a day like today, it’s just the distraction I need.

Once we’ve closed down for the night, Marlene and I finally have a chance to talk. Mopping the sweat from my brow, I tell her all about my review board hearing earlier that day. About how shitty I was treated. About my heart-to-heart with Chief Cunningham. About my decision to throw in the towel as a cop. Recounting all of it, I feel a whole range of emotions, from worry to relief, just like I did when it was happening. But I try to keep my story as matter-of-fact as possible.

Usually chatty, my ex-wife listens in total silence. When I’m finally finished, she turns to me, squints a bit, and asks, “So what are you going to do now?”

“That’s easy,” I reply. “You’re looking at it. I’m gonna keep cooking up a storm with you. I was thinking I’d man the grill in here full time. I want to work on a couple new recipes for us, too. Mess around a bit with the menu. Maybe even—”

“I meant now,” Marlene interrupts, bringing me down to earth. “Are you going to sanitize the prep counters first or scour the gumbo pot? This truck ain’t going to clean itself, pal.”

I shake my head and laugh. So does Marlene. When we were married, this woman drove me nuts. But lately, she’s the only one who keeps me sane.