“I know,” I say. “I don’t have a reservation and you’re all booked up until Christmas. But I’m not here tonight to eat. I just want a few words with Billy.”

The hostess’s smile doesn’t waver, but she’s clearly thrown by my request.

“I’m afraid Mr. Needham is rather occupied at the moment. Can I pass along a message?”

“No, that’s all right,” I say. “I’ll be hanging out right over here until he’s free. Thank you.”

Before the hostess can stop me, I step into a nook near the entrance. And wait.

One glance around his flagship establishment and it’s clear that Billy Needham is an exceptional chef and owner. But that isn’t surprising. It’s in his blood. For generations, the extended Needham family has had a hand in a staggering number of eateries all across the city. Exact stats are hard to come by, but something like one in five New Orleans restaurants is either owned or partially financed by someone with that surname. For years, rumors have swirled about discord and family drama behind the scenes, which has apparently been getting worse. But no one in the food world can figure out why. By all accounts, the Needham family business is booming.

To kill some time before I speak to Billy, I take out my phone to see if one of my private investigator friends—Gordon Andrews—has gotten back to me yet. I called him when I left the police station this afternoon and asked him to do a little digging for me on a whole host of topics. Gordon is one of the best PIs in Crescent City and definitely the most educated, with two master’s degrees: criminal psychology from LSU and French literature from Tulane. I check my voicemail and refresh my e-mail, hoping I’ve gotten a response. But nothing.

“Excuse me, Mr. Rooney? Your table is ready.”

I look up at the hostess, who is somehow smiling even bigger than before. I’m not surprised someone on staff recognized me. But giving me a table?

“That’s very kind of you, but like I said, I’m not here to—”

“Please. Mr. Needham insists. This way, sir.”

They’re really rolling out the red carpet for me. All right then, I think. Let’s play along, see where this goes.

I follow the hostess as she leads me to a spacious four-top in the most desirable corner of the restaurant with the best view of all the action. I’ve barely pulled my chair in when a French-born sommelier appears beside me, brandishing some bubbly.

“Welcome to Petite Amie, Monsieur Rooney. May I offer you a glass of 2004 Veuve Clicquot Grande Dame Rosé to start?”

That’s a full pour from a three-hundred-dollar bottle of champagne. Knowing resistance is futile, I shrug and accept it.