The Chef - James Patterson Page 0,17

word would spread. Not that I’m complaining. When you’re running a business, popularity is a great problem to have.

It’s also an exhausting one.

And sometimes, a potentially dangerous one.

As I’m finishing up two orders, Marlene comes next to me and says, “Looks like three of your friends are in line tonight.”

“Really?” I say, pleased at what she just said. Since I’ve left the force—hell, even after my beatdown four nights ago—I haven’t heard one word from any of my buds on the force, not a one. I realize it’s the tone of the time and politics, that nobody out there wants to be seen with someone accused of killing an “innocent” civilian, but it’s still a lonely feeling.

I wipe my hands on my apron, move over to the side, look out the serving window at the long line of customers, trying to see which detective or cop or if even my old boss, Cunningham, is waiting in line, but I don’t see a familiar face.

But I do see three guys, dressed in yellow sweats and yellow hoodies, staring right at me with hate.

I go back to my station, slide the food over. “Order up!”

The night goes on. With the three gangbangers getting closer and closer as happy customers slide away with their orders, Marlene says, “Whaddaya gonna do?”

“I might spit in their food,” I say, “but just my luck, a health inspector might be out there in line, too.”

“Caleb, shouldn’t you make a call?”

I get back to the stove. “To report what? Three men standing quietly in line wearing yellow? Those guys weren’t in the crew that was with Ty and his baseball bat.”

“Fine,” she says, digging through her pockets, taking out her phone and putting it on a shelf, between a stack of paper boats. “One of those yellow jerks does so much as lift their voice, I’m calling 911.”

“I love it when you stick up for me,” I say.

“Up yours, Caleb, I’m protecting Killer Chef.”

I feel better getting back to work. That’s my Marlene.

The three guys come closer and closer, and even the other customers in line can sense something is off about them. The gangbangers aren’t saying anything, aren’t making any threatening moves, aren’t doing a damn thing.

Which is out of place. Everybody else in line is slightly buzzed, or talking loudly, or taking photos of the line or selfies, some dancing in place to music from a nearby nightclub. But these members of the Franklin Avenue crew are stoic and hard-looking, just patiently moving forward with the rest of the line, and customers in front of and behind them are giving them lots of space.

Even if they don’t know what’s going on, these hungry folks in line are smart enough to stay as far away as they can from potential trouble.

I focus on chopping, cooking, plating, sliding the food over, and then there are four customers in front of them, then three, then one, and—

They just stand there.

“Help you fellas?” Marlene asks, as harried and friendly as ever.

No answer.

“Guys?”

Their faces are determined, humorless, and I stand next to Marlene, making sure the three of them can see the knife in my hand.

I say, “Good evening, gents, what’s your pleasure tonight?”

The lead one slowly lifts up his hand, makes a pointing gesture at me with his finger, waving it back and forth, back and forth, and says, “Shit, man, our pleasure is gonna be any night we choose.”

The other two laugh, and then they walk away.

I go back to my station.

Marlene remains her take-charge self. “Next!”

After another hour of frantically toasting baguettes, slicing up chuck roast, and flash-frying shrimp, my apron is soaked through with sweat. Plus I’ve run out of raw jalapeños, my lifeblood when I’m cooking, and our food stocks are just about gone, too.

The gangbangers haven’t come back, which is fine.

They were here to send a message, and their message was certainly received.

“That’s all she wrote, folks!” I call to the dozen or so customers still waiting, who let out a collective groan. “I know, I know. Life is so unfair sometimes. But I’ll make a deal with you. If the sun rises in the morning, Killer Chef will reopen. Sound good?”

The crowd starts to disperse, and Marlene and I begin to clean up. We’re nearly finished when I hear a knock-knock-knock against the closed service window.

“Sorry,” I say, loudly, without looking over. “Truck’s closed for the night.”

But the tapping continues.

“I admire your determination, I really do, but—”

It’s quiet.

Then there’s insistent knocking on the rear