And so goes the rest of our morning. I try to stay focused on cooking our food. On pleasing our customers. On flashing a devilish grin at the pretty ones. But every time I glance through the service window, those gangbangers are still out there. Glaring at me. Waiting for me to make my next move. Waiting for me to step out and away from all these potential witnesses lined up at my truck.

“And that’s the last of ’em,” Marlene finally says long minutes later, as the last two happy customers stroll away, leaving the sidewalk clear before us. She wipes her hands on her apron. It’s stained with so many different colors, it looks like some kind of abstract painting.

I’ve already untied my own apron—and stripped off my sweaty black T-shirt with the Killer Chef logo as well. I wet a clean towel with cold water and rub down my chest, belly, and arms, trying to get most of the sweat off. I reach for a black duffel bag in the corner of the truck. I unzip it and start rummaging inside. Marlene clicks her tongue, annoyed.

“You’re really not gonna stick around and help me prep for lunch, huh? Slacker.”

“Trust me, Mar, I’d much rather keep slaving away over a hot stove than get dragged over the hot coals that are waiting for me down the way,” I say, taking out a stick of deodorant that I liberally apply to each underarm. “Even if it means listening to you yammer on while I do it.”

My ex-wife snickers. We’re just busting each other’s chops. The truth is, I would rather do just about anything right now over what I’m about to. And she knows it, too.

“Caleb,” she says softly, putting her hand on my bare chest. “Good luck.”

“Thanks,” I answer. Then I remove from the duffel bag a folded blue dress shirt, along with a plastic ID card dangling from a cloth lanyard.

It reads: ROONEY, CALEB J.—DETECTIVE—NEW ORLEANS POLICE DEPARTMENT.

I have a badge, too. I swear. And a gun.

But currently, they’re not in my possession.

Long story.

I slip on the collared shirt, stuff my ID into my pocket, then look one more time through the service window at those gangbangers.

To my surprise, they’re gone.

I should be relieved, but I’m not.

I know at the time and place of their choosing, they’ll be back.

And they won’t be lining up for my famous food.

CHAPTER 2

I step out of the food truck and suck in a deep breath of fresh air from the sidewalk.