d’, whose head is as round and bald as a ping-pong ball, and gives him a mischievous smirk.
“I guess you could say so,” she says, the sarcasm in her voice seemingly dipped in syrup. “My ex-husband here survived being lured into a dark building and viciously attacked three nights ago. Then again, if he’d actually died, I’d probably be drunk on champagne right now, dancing topless on a bar in Cancun.”
The prim and proper host forces an awkward smile, takes a pace back, like he’s afraid of being touched with whatever madness might be infecting my ex-wife.
“Bon,” he says, pursing his lips. “Why don’t I send over the sommelier to take you through our wine list?”
Once the poor man is out of earshot, I say, “Jeez, Mar, you’re terrible, you know that?”
She smiles. “You still figuring that out?”
“Not me,” I say. “But hey, I’m glad you can find humor in my misery.”
“Your misery?” she says, her smile wavering, her voice rising. “Who stayed by your bed all night in the ER? Who cooked you all your meals? Wrapped your bandages in food-grade plastic so you could take a shower? Did all the ingredient prep and handled four full shifts at the truck by herself? All because you had to play hero.”
There’s a burning feeling in my guts as her voice rises with each sentence, her anger growing, her disappointment in me strengthening, all winding up to the same conclusion reached years ago: we aren’t made to be husband and wife.
“I wasn’t playing,” I say. “For fourteen years I’ve been a cop. It’s in my blood. It always will be. And when I see someone in trouble, I’m going to respond.”
“Oh, please,” she says. “Don’t gimme that I’ll-always-be-a-hero crap. Look what the department did for you. Why should you risk your life anymore? Call 911 next time, okay?”
I tap out two Tylenol onto the white tablecloth, then down them with a slug of sparkling spring water. Marlene has a point, but I’m not going to get into this with her, not now. Too many old battles and old arguments should stay good and buried.
So instead I say, “You look really pretty tonight. I haven’t seen you out of your kitchen garb in so long. If I didn’t know you, I might actually find you attractive.”
Marlene’s mood lightens up and her smile returns. But it’s true. She’s tamed her normally frizzy curls into a loose, wavy up-do. She’s painted her face with care, coating her eyelids with a dramatic shade of green. And she’s wearing a tasteful LBD—little black dress—that shows off her figure.
Which is appropriate, since we’re in LBD.
That’s the name of this chic, new creole-Asian fusion spot in the Garden District owned by hotshot Miami restaurateur Lucas Bryant Dodd. When he heard about my little mishap in the parking garage—like thousands of other New Orleans residents who read the next day’s Times-Picayune or caught the morning news on one of our four local TV stations—he reached out and invited me and Marlene to visit his famed restaurant, on the house.
Apparently, he felt an ex-cop with a nearly fractured rib, a bruised spleen, a busted hand, and a minor concussion could go for a fancy four-course meal.
Sure.
Plus he was insistent on me saying yes, which is typical for restaurant kings like Lucas Dodd. Like everyone else who owns high-class establishments in the Big Easy, he and others love to sprinkle movie stars, athletes, and newsmakers in the dining crowd, to get good news coverage and keep a buzz going.
So I eventually said yes, which also gave me a chance to put on a nice suit and tie and take my business partner out on the town. I figured, why not?
Marlene sees me sneak the Tylenol and says, “Have any to spare for an aching lady?”
“Damn, I’m sorry, I don’t,” I say. “What’s hurting you, Mar?”
She takes a sip of her water. “Ah, you know what it is. Standing on your feet all day, moving your arms back and forth, chopping and cutting. Some days you slide by, other days, you don’t.”
I reach over and touch the back of her near hand, noticing her muscular forearms marked with scratches and small burn marks from splattering hot oil. All part of the glamour of working in a famous food truck.
“Plus it hurts more when you have to work harder because your business partner is flat on his butt at Tulane Medical Center,” I say.
Before Marlene can reply, another man’s voice is heard behind