I uncoil my garden hose and start spraying Killer Chef’s shrimp-and-crossbones logo with water, washing off the last of the soapy suds, when a couple of the kids across the street yell out, “Hey, mister, watch out! Watch out!”

I turn, and a man pops up from the other side of the truck, and I nearly turn the hose on his face full-force—thinking at least the cold blast of water would knock him back—but then I lower the hose and say, “Shit, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

It’s not Ty Grant, nor anyone from his posse, nor anybody wearing yellow, or even a reporter from the Times-Picayune or a TV crew looking for an ambush interview.

It’s my former boss, Chief of Detectives Brian Cunningham.

I lower the hose and he steps forward, saying, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Trying to save some face, I reply, “That’s not why I said ‘shit,’ Chief. Shit is what you look like.”

I hate to admit it, but it’s true. His eyes are red and droopy. His hair is all mussed up. His striped blue tie is stained and lying askew across his belly. And his dress shirt is so wrinkled it looks like a white raisin, and there are stains along his gray slacks legs. Even when we’ve worked some vicious and shocking murder cases in the past, going “balls to the wall” for days, I’ve never seen him like this.

“A week without sleep will do that,” he says. “Look, Caleb, I need to talk to you.”

I give my old boss a brisk shake of my head. “Don’t bother, Chief. I’m over it.”

While I’ll always resent the way he left me hanging during the whole shooting investigation, I have too much respect for the man to hear him grovel. I’m sure he heard about my baseball bat meeting with Ty Grant and wants to make late amends. I go back to spraying down my truck, the water pinging loudly off the metal siding.

“Caleb, I’m not here to—”

“It’s too late for an apology,” I tell him. “Official or otherwise. I’m not interested. Besides, handing in my resignation was the best decision I ever made.”

“Would you please just—”

“Do I miss my old job?” I ask. “Sure. But my life is good now, Chief. I’m cooking around the clock. I bet the Franklin Avenue knuckleheads eventually stop following me around and go back to selling dope and making money. And I feel happier than I have in a very long—”

“Damnit, Rooney, can you shut off that water and listen?”

I worked for him for six years and never once heard him raise his voice to me. Something’s wrong. I lower my hose and turn off the spigot.