“But seriously, I think that all sounds like a great plan,” she says as we get back to work. Marlene tears off some sheets of plastic wrap and covers our metal food-prep bins, filled with chopped garlic, onions, peppers, and celery. I give the food-splattered stove top a few sprays of cleaning solution and start scrubbing it down.

“And especially with Mardi Gras around the corner,” she continues, “Lord knows I’ll be glad to have the extra help. Things are going to get real crazy, real fast.”

That’s putting it mildly. These next two weeks here in the Big Easy? They’re going to make New Year’s Eve in Times Square look calmer than a knitting circle.

“I’m proud of you, Caleb,” she says. “I know it wasn’t easy doing what you did. Standing up for what’s right. That takes some real balls. And you got ’em.”

“I guess you would know,” I say with a little smirk. “From personal experience.”

She pretends to gag. “Ugh, don’t remind me!”

When the last of our leftover food has been put away, the fridge reorganized, every surface wiped down, and each pot and pan and utensil washed and dried, I turn off all the inside lights and appliances and padlock the rear doors.

Marlene, meanwhile, heads around to the front and gets behind the wheel. She starts up the engine, which makes the truck growl and shudder.

“Want a ride back to that filthy bachelor pad you call a home?” she asks.

“No, thanks,” I answer. “It’s a beautiful night. I’m gonna walk. Do some thinking.”

“That’ll be a first,” she says. “Oh, well. Catch you later, Killer Chef.”

She puts the truck into gear and sputters down Elysian Fields Avenue.

I take a moment to soak in the scene—the people, the music, the energy—then turn and head in the opposite direction. I’m about to start crossing Royal Street—

When a car cuts me off, nearly running me over.

“Hey!” I exclaim, leaping backward. “Watch where you’re—”

Only then do I recognize the speeding vehicle. It’s the same black Ford Explorer with the shiny chrome rims I saw earlier in the day.

The driver is a guy in a yellow knit cap.

The front-seat passenger has got on a baggy yellow tank top.

And in the back, still wearing his yellow shirt and tie from the review board meeting this afternoon, is Ty Grant.

With an icy glare, he mimes a handgun with his index finger and thumb, then “shoots” me through the open window as the SUV roars on.

By instinct, I reach for my real gun holstered on my belt—but of course it’s not there.

All I can do is watch as the vehicle picks up speed, rounds the next corner, and disappears into the night, with one angry gangbanger who’s vowed revenge against me.

Now what?