The Chef - James Patterson Page 0,10
to the stove.
I spoon some glistening duck fat into a fresh frying pan, then drop in some onions for a quick sauté. Next I crack in a pair of eggs, add a splash of cream, sprinkle liberally with my homemade blend of Cajun seasonings, then whisk and fold until everything is cooked through.
When the eggs are done, I slide them onto a freshly toasted baguette, top with a handful of diced scallions, then wrap the sandwich in wax paper.
“Order up!” I say, handing my unique creation down through the service window to the waiting man, who somehow seems to have gotten even tipsier and angrier in the past few minutes. “One Cajun-style duck-fat scrambled-egg po’boy. Enjoy.”
The man grunts thanks, then suspiciously unwraps the sandwich and takes a bite. Instantly, his eyes widen in ecstasy.
“Ohmph ghhhd thygt ghrhd!” he exclaims, spewing chunks of chewed egg and bread everywhere. He swallows hard then says again: “Oh, my God, that’s good!”
The other customers in line—their phones capturing the whole thing—start to cheer and applaud.
“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!”
Satisfied the victim is out of harm’s way, I stand up and look for her attacker, scanning the busy sidewalk until I spot him darting right, onto Conti Street.
“Stop!” I shout. But of course he ignores me.
I am not going to lose him, so I break into a sprint and follow him down Conti, seeing him pushing his way through the throngs. Whether he knows it or not, he’s heading straight toward a massive, four-story white marble building: the Supreme Court of the State of Louisiana. Seriously! There are CCTV cameras all over the French Quarter, but the old court building, surrounded by a high fence, is guarded by even more security. What an idiot.
Sure enough, the man sees what’s ahead of him,