He’s been in that chair for twelve years, ever since a man he was tailing as part of a case got rattled and shot him, severing Gordon’s spine and permanently paralyzing him. But his sense of humor, his smarts, and his connections all across New Orleans remain as sharp as ever.

I grasp his hand and say, “Gordon, again, thanks for helping me out. It made the biggest difference.”

He gives my hand a strong squeeze and says in his cultured voice, “Well, old friend, if that’s what you think, I’ll drop my threats … if in addition I receive an extra-large serving of your famed waddle.”

“Of course,” I say, “and it’ll be on the house.”

His smile is as cheery as ever. “I have no doubt … but Caleb?”

“Yes?”

“Before you scamper back and start cooking and ignoring Marlene’s insults, I need to ask you this: what’s next?”

“What do you mean?”

He swivels his chair around, looks at the line of hungry customers stretching away, many leaning left or right to take selfies in front of my truck. He says, “Oh, you have quite the business here, friend. But suppose Marlene decides she’s had enough? Or your feet and joints start aching too much? Or your lungs start acting up because of all the smoke and grease you inhale?”

Marlene leans out the window, gives me a sharp glare that says, Get your ass back in here and get to work!

“I’ll figure it out then, I guess,” I say. “I don’t think any kind of official police work is going to be in my future … I burned a lot of bridges, insulted too many higher-ups along the way.”

“And also along the way, you saved hundreds—if not thousands—of lives,” Gordon says. “Here.” He passes me a manila envelope from a pouch on his wheelchair.

“What’s this?” I ask.

“Your future, if you want it,” he says. “The application for becoming a licensed private investigator in the great state of Louisiana. It’s not a cakewalk, Caleb. There’s an intensive forty-hour course, followed by a rigorous exam. And if you pass, congratulations, you have to work for a sponsoring agency for six months before taking on any of your own cases.”

I gingerly hold the envelope. It should feel heavy with all of the paperwork inside, but instead it feels as light as a feather.

“You think I have what it takes to be a private investigator?” I ask.

“After the events of the past few weeks, I do,” he says. “And so do many others. I’ve gotten numerous phone calls, inquiring if you were available to help in some … complex cases. And Caleb, I’d be honored to be your sponsor when the time comes.”

I nod. “I’ll think about it.”