The three of us slowly step out of the truck, hands up, and a sergeant and trooper come over and say, “No civilians allowed here, sorry. Get moving … the city’s under martial law and the French Quarter is being evacuated of all civvies.”

Marlene is somber and quiet, definitely not her usual self. “How … how bad is it?”

“Shit, ma’am,” the trooper says, an African-American private who looks angry and determined. “Dunno about that, but at least the shooting’s died down. Look, you gotta get walking.”

Vanessa says, “Can we drive our truck?”

The sergeant—an older Hispanic woman—says, “I’ll be, the famous ‘Killer Chef’ … no can do, sorry. No civilian traffic allowed.”

I say, “Sergeant, I’m former NOPD. I’ve got vital information about the attack … can I borrow your radio equipment?”

The private laughs. “Yeah, if any of it was working. Seems like we got the wrong frequency crystals for our radio gear. Your government at work.”

The three of us walk gingerly along the nearly deserted streets, passing through two checkpoints manned by the state police—luckily, we weren’t searched, because I would have had a hard time explaining my hidden pistol—and we get to my home in Tremé. At this point, it’s as safe a place to be as anywhere else.

In other words, not that safe at all.

The streets are alive with moving traffic, none of it civilian. Fire trucks and EMS ambulances. Cruisers and unmarked vehicles. Additional National Guard Humvees and trucks. There’s a haze of smoke and a feeling of fear as the three of us keep up a steady pace.

I’ve lived in New Orleans my whole life. I’ve lived through riots. Through Hurricane Katrina.

I’ve never seen anything like this.

And if Billy was telling the truth, there’s more to come.

As calm as it now looks, that thought nearly freezes me with fear.

“You brought your keys, right?” Vanessa asks as we finally shuffle up the path to my town house. “Or are you going to have to bash this doorknob off, too?”

She smiles and touches my shoulder. It’s the tiniest gesture, but it means the world, after the day we’ve all had.

“If y’all are going to be this lovey-dovey,” Marlene says, “I’m gonna sleep in the hammock in the backyard. I’ve been through enough hell today.”

After I get the door open we head straight for the living room and all collapse on the sofa.

“Should we put on the news?” Vanessa asks, arching her back in exhaustion. “See what they’re saying?”

Marlene springs to her feet. But she strides over to my bar cart, not the TV.

“I’ve got a more important question,” she says. “What’s everybody drinking?”

As she fixes us some well-deserved old-fashioneds using my finest bottle of twenty-year Lagavulin Scotch, I flip on the television.