And at some point, I notice the obnoxious growl of a passing sports car. All morning it’s been vrooming up and down Loyola Avenue, the six-lane boulevard where we parked the truck today. This is the fourth time in the last hour. The first three times, I just ignored it. But I can’t any longer. It takes a special kind of asshole to rev his V10 engine like that again and again, to ruin an otherwise lovely day for no reason.

But then I start to wonder: Does it have something to do with me?

A Franklin Avenue gangbanger could never afford wheels like that—unless they were lifted. Maybe the driver is trying to send me a message. A warning. Just like the other night with those three gangbangers standing quietly and deadly in line.

I crane my head to look through the service window as the vehicle tears past. I get just a glimpse of it, a shiny blue Lamborghini Huracán—not the best name of a car to be driving through New Orleans, if you ask me. It’s a convertible with the top down, but I can’t make out the driver.

What can be done?

Nothing.

A line starts to form outside, and I go back to work.

Once my shift ends and our last customer is fed, I start wiping down the stove and scouring my pans and utensils as fast as I can. I’m anxious to get back out on the streets, and I’m thinking maybe I shouldn’t have come to work today. These hours of chopping, frying, and sautéing are hours I should have been out on the streets, helping out Cunningham and the NOPD as quietly as I can.

But how could I have done that without tipping off Marlene that something’s up?

“Hey,” I say to her as I take off my apron. “I’ve got a couple of errands to run, Mar, so the rest of the day is yours.”

“Really?” she shoots back. “Will your pants be coming off during any of these errands?”

I ignore her and get ready to leave when she says, “Wow, talk about coincidences, hot stuff. Looks like your quote, errand, unquote, is already here.”

I look out the window.

It’s Vanessa.

She’s dressed casually in dark jeans and a red blouse, and gives me a friendly wave. Once again, her presence is a total surprise. A pleasant one, but still …

I step out of the truck. “Hey,” I say. “You sure have a knack for timing.”

“Is now not good?”

“I just wish you’d shown up ten minutes earlier. We’re closed again. And I can’t really stick around right now.”

Her cheery expression fades a bit, like she’s used to being disappointed by the men in her life. “Oh. Sorry. I understand.”

“But what’s up?”

“I guess I should have called first, but, I was hoping … ”