salty and my lamb chop was dry.”
He smiles.
“Thanks for the feedback, Killer Chef. Maybe someday I’ll be good enough to ladle dog shit out of the back of a truck.”
He pauses, then says, “Or go after another man’s wife.”
My fists tighten. Now I really want to wring his neck. Or worse.
But I keep my cool. Barely. I turn and exit the pantry. With an escort from his two security goons, we retrace our steps back through the kitchen.
This time, however, they lead me to the rear “staff only” exit.
The door opens up into a dark, quiet alley.
Realizing this, I spin around. I raise my hands, bracing for a beatdown.
But the two Israelis just stare at me. Then they slam the heavy door in my face.
Slowly, I lower my fists in relief.
Alone now, I have two thoughts.
One: I’m even more worried than ever before.
Two: The zucchini and lamb chop were actually perfect.
Chapter 45
“SORRY FOR the wait,” I say to Vanessa as I return to the front of the restaurant.
She’s standing with her back to me. But I notice the mist of her breath is visible.
How strange. It’s February, but this is New Orleans. The temperature tonight is a balmy sixty-one degrees.
Then I see why: she flicks a cigarette butt to the sidewalk.
If that rumor Gordon Andrews shared with me is true, she’s someone who should definitely kick the habit. But it’s obviously not my place to mention that.
So instead, I smile and say, “You’re just full of contradictions, aren’t you? An art historian in the food biz. A Big Apple girl in the Big Easy. Sober, but a smoker.”
She grimaces. “I picked it up in grad school. What can I say? The flesh is weak. All my doctors keep begging me to quit.”
“‘All your doctors?’” I ask. “What’s that mean?”
Now, that’s not a “gotcha” question. I’m just testing to see how much she cares to reveal about herself. A classic interrogation technique, repurposed for romance.
“I meant, um…anytime I see a doctor, they—not that I see them often, just—”
“No explanation necessary,” I reassure her.
I step closer and put my hand on her shoulder.
“Besides,” I continue, “where there’s smoke…there’s probably something burning on a stainless-steel, six-burner professional stove.”
She rolls her eyes at my cheesy line. Then she smiles.
“Thanks for tonight, Caleb. I had a wonderful time.”
“‘Had?’ Are you saying the evening’s over?”
She gives me a look. “Are you saying it’s not?”
To be honest, I was planning to say goodnight to her at this point. To end our night on a high note. After my confrontation with David, I’m dying to dive back into my investigation. To find out what the hell he’s hiding and why.
But standing so close to her, soaking in her beauty under the hazy orange glow of the streetlamps, I can’t help myself. My flesh is very weak.
“I was thinking of taking a stroll through the French Quarter to walk off some of that meal,” I say. “I’d love it if you joined me.”
She smiles. “Consider yourself joined.”
We start heading east down St. Charles Avenue, along one of the final stretches of tonight’s parade. The procession ended hours ago, but the narrow street is still thick with spectators. Nearly every one of them has beads around their necks and drinks in their hands.
As we make our way, she and I are jostled by a group of drunk college kids. We have to step around them, and for a few, brief seconds we’re separated.
When we reconnect, I exclaim: “Phew, there you are! Did you miss me?”
She laughs. “Desperately, Caleb. And so it doesn’t happen again…”
She slips her small, soft hand into mine and gives it a gentle squeeze.
It’s a simple gesture that catches me by surprise—and fills me with delight.
Hand in hand, we turn right onto Canal Street and head into the French Quarter.
I notice lots of metal police barricades set up along the sidewalks. Crowd control. I see some officers, too. A few Louisiana State Troopers on foot patrol. A pair of NOPD mounted cops keeping watch. I’m sure there are undercover cops here as well, and having seen that National Guard convoy earlier, I’m sure they are quartered somewhere close, as a QRF—Quick Reaction Force—to respond instantly in case something breaks out.
Having them all here is better than nothing. But Christ, in the case of an actual emergency…
“Why the long face, mister?” she asks. “Everything okay?”
I brush aside my doomsday-scenario fears and force a smile.
“Right here, right now…everything is just perfect.”
After a few more blocks, we reach Bourbon Street,