The Chef - James Patterson Page 0,109

stream of jalapeños, so many that I’m getting heartburn.

Or maybe it’s my healing sternum and three ribs, still aching after the Kevlar vest stopped the round from Billy Needham’s .357 Magnum.

I’m scooping grits, charring sausages, toasting baguettes, searing duck breasts, sautéing shrimp, blackening catfish, and deep-frying dough strips like a maniac, working furiously to fill the orders my ex-wife is barking at me.

I’ve never been happier in my life.

It’s been two weeks since Mardi Gras, and things here in the greatest city in the world are back to normal, or whatever passes as normal in this wonderful, crazy metropolis. The news media coverage has dwindled away, Billy Needham is no longer mentioned on the front page, and the breathless stories about the “miracle of New Orleans”—the multiple crashes of the deadly aircraft drones on Emily Beaudette’s estate—has been replaced by stories about the upcoming NFL draft and what it means for our Saints.

And there’s been a few other miracles as well, like the one I keep on glancing at as I hurry to keep up with Marlene’s insistent and barking voice.

Across the street, sitting on a low concrete wall, are about a dozen white guys, dressed in yellow T-shirts, pants, or hoodies.

Members of the Franklin Avenue Soldiers.

But today they’re not waiting to gun for me.

They’re chowing down on my food. After I saved the city, I guess the Franklin Avenue gang was so appreciative they decided not to murder me.

Yeah, miracles indeed.

I’ve been interviewed, re-interviewed, and told that I can expect additional official interviews in the future from various government agencies and congressional panels. The Times-Picayune has been all over the story since the first responders came to Emily’s estate, and among the stories they’ve broken include the promotion of Cunningham, some unexpected retirements from the upper NOPD brass, and a small blurb about a high-ranking FBI official named Morgan who’s been tasked a new and important assignment.

As head of the FBI field office in Butte, Montana.

The line is long and I know we’re about to run out of food, but I don’t care. We’re alive, we’re well, and Marlene being Marlene, she’s also found a way to make an extra buck from all that’s happened: colorful T-shirts that show a drawing of the Killer Chef truck, with a shotgun blast exiting the rear door, a caricature of me running away, and the caption: I HAD A BLAST AT KILLER CHEF!

Then I hear a voice yelling from outside, “Hey, this place stinks! It discriminates against the less-abled! I’m going to sue, just you see!”

I walk over from the stove and fryer, look through the service window, and smile.

“Gordon, I’ll be right down!”

Marlene says, “Make it quick, damnit, that line’s not getting any shorter!”

I step out from the rear of the truck—where a new sign says, DON’T KNOCK IF YOU’RE NOT GOING TO PAY, an attempt to thin out the autograph seekers and reporters—and race over to see my friend Gordon Andrews, the skilled PI who had helped me and New Orleans so much in my investigation. Along the side of the truck, near the posted menus, are scores of cards, handwritten notes, and even drawings from school children, all carrying the same message:

Thank you for saving New Orleans.

I didn’t want to post them outside the truck, but Marlene overruled me, as she usually does. “Think of the publicity and foot traffic, you silly man,” she said.

Gordon’s a middle-aged, gray-bearded man of true elegance and class, wearing a baby-blue seersucker suit and red bowtie, and as I approach, he expertly maneuvers his electric wheelchair around to face me.

He’s been in that chair for twelve years, ever since a man he was tailing as part of a case got rattled and shot him, severing Gordon’s spine and permanently paralyzing him. But his sense of humor, his smarts, and his connections all across New Orleans remain as sharp as ever.

I grasp his hand and say, “Gordon, again, thanks for helping me out. It made the biggest difference.”

He gives my hand a strong squeeze and says in his cultured voice, “Well, old friend, if that’s what you think, I’ll drop my threats…if in addition I receive an extra-large serving of your famed waddle.”

“Of course,” I say, “and it’ll be on the house.”

His smile is as cheery as ever. “I have no doubt…but Caleb?”

“Yes?”

“Before you scamper back and start cooking and ignoring Marlene’s insults, I need to ask you this: what’s next?”

“What do you mean?”

He swivels his chair around, looks at the line of hungry