“Kill-er Chef!” someone starts to chant. “Kill-er Chef!”

Others quickly join in. “Kill-er Chef! Kill-er Chef! Kill-er Chef!”

I look over at Marlene, expecting a grateful smile, maybe even a high five.

Instead she’s angrily folding her arms.

“Way to go, Caleb,” she says, her angry voice grinding out at me. “Are you going to be making special meals for every drunk asshole who calls me names from now on?”

“Come on, Mar, don’t be like that,” I say. “Would you rather a video go viral of me getting into a brawl with a college student? Or one that shows Killer Chef keeping the peace with great food instead?”

She shakes her head. “Just get back behind the stove and let me handle customer service, all right?”

I give my feisty ex-wife a mock salute and I’m about to return to cooking, when I hear commotion outside.

I move closer to the service window, look out.

In the middle of a triangular half-block patch of public park known as Bienville Place, two people are having a physical altercation as others look on, not doing a thing.

One of them is a big lug of a man.

The other is a petite woman.

And she’s screaming in terror.

CHAPTER 10

The sight of an innocent person in trouble triggers something deep inside of me. It flips a switch, flushes a wave of adrenaline, instantly putting me on alert. I can’t resist it even if I wanted to.

“Caleb, wait—” Marlene calls to me.

But I don’t hear anything more from Marlene as I throw open the rear truck doors and burst outside into the cool evening.

Still wearing my apron, I shove my way through the confused crowds ambling up and down Decatur Street and run toward the screaming woman.

Just before I get to her, I see her assailant—he’s wearing a bandana over his nose and mouth—yank her pocketbook out of her hands, knock her down, and take off running.

I’m itching to pursue that brazen son of a bitch, but first I want to make sure she’s okay. I skid to a halt and kneel down beside the victim, a twenty-something African-American woman with a few strands of plastic beads around her neck. Her peach-colored blouse has a giant tear down the side. She’s shaken and crying but otherwise looks unharmed.

“Ma’am, I’m a po—former police officer, are you hurt?” I ask.

“I don’t think so … but he took my bag!” she sobs to me. “With my phone, my wallet, everything!”

I point to the nearest gawking bystanders I see, a middle-aged husband and wife, watching wide-eyed. From their socks and sandals, I deduce they’re European tourists.

“Hey, you guys speak English?” I call out.

“We are English,” the man says with a crisp accent.

“Do you know what 911 is?” I ask. “Okay, great. Stay with this woman and dial it now!”