years as a waitress are paying off: She’s managing the lunchtime madness like a pro.
“Is that any way to talk to your new boss?” I ask her with a smile.
“Uh-oh, is my new boss going to have to…punish me?”
Marlene calls out, “Hey, you two, save the flirting for your own time, wouldja?”
I put my head down and get back to work. I’m grateful to have these two amazing women by my side—even though I’d begged them both not to be here.
I pleaded with Vanessa and Marlene to leave the city before Mardi Gras or at least stay home, safe and out of the way. I told them the risks they’d be facing, the danger they’d be putting themselves in. Vanessa just repeated what she had said earlier: if I was staying, so was she. And she showed up this morning to work the brunch shift and join our Killer Chef team.
As for my ex-wife, Marlene just laughed in my face.
“Let ’em blow me up,” she said. “What do I care?”
Dark humor. Typical. But then she shook her head and grew serious.
“No,” she said. “No goddamn way am I staying home. It takes more than a couple of crazy assholes to scare me off, especially on our busiest day of the year. Killer Chef is going to be feeding folks on Mardi Gras, Caleb, whether you like it or not.”
God bless her. I couldn’t say no.
I take a break from my frenzied cooking for a few seconds to wipe my brow, pop a fiery jalapeño down my throat, and steal a glance out the service window.
We’re parked on Bienville Street, in the heart of the French Quarter, just a few blocks away from the parade route along Canal. With live jazz blaring from every direction, the scene is a mix of total debauchery and utter joy.
Thousands of people have jammed the narrow streets wearing colorful, crazy costumes. Beads swinging from their necks, boozy beverages sloshing in their hands, they’re dancing, clapping, singing, laughing—having the time of their lives.
The energy is electric. The city is pulsing with life.
Mardi Gras in New Orleans is the greatest damn party on earth, hands-down. And if this were any other year, I’d be joining in the fun. Sipping a fluorescent hurricane while I worked, to get a little buzz going. Grooving along with the music. Feeding my dear customers, either old-timers or lucky tourists tasting my special food for the very first time.
But today, I’m tenser than a guitar string. I feel jumpy. Nervous. On edge.
I’ve been trying to put on a brave face. For Vanessa, for Marlene, for our happy customers crowding in front of our service window. Trying to force the bad thoughts out of my head by focusing on my food.
But it’s just for show.
All I can think about is David Needham and his attack. And the utter ignorance and incompetence of Special Agent Morgan and NOPD Superintendent Fontaine.
It’s barely noon; the day is just getting started. Anything could still happen. Anywhere. To anyone. At any moment.
“You okay, Caleb?” Vanessa asks, resting a hand on my shoulder. “You look—”
“Yeah. I…yeah, I’m fine. I need a little air.”
Without waiting for a snarky comeback from Marlene, I hang up my apron. I check that my pistol is still tucked into my belt. And I hustle out of the truck.
I just couldn’t stay cooped up in there any longer.
Not when the fate of my city is hanging by a colorful thread.
Chapter 74
MUNCHING NERVOUSLY on my jalapeños, I make my way into the teeming crowds.
I turn and head north on Bienville. The noise and music are getting louder. The mobs are getting even wilder. The partying even more super-extreme.
I pass people wearing flashy wigs. Funky hats. Flowing capes.
Dressed in togas. In Saints jerseys. In drag.
I see people break-dancing. Making out. Throwing up.
Men and women, young and old, of every race and creed on earth, all united by a love of drink and song and life.
All packed together like sardines, flesh pressed against drunken flesh.
Good God, I think. This is a tinderbox just waiting to explode.
Anybody around me could be hiding a weapon or suicide vest under their costume—and no one would have any idea.
I hook a left onto Bourbon Street, ground zero for Mardi Gras.
At least I try to. The two short blocks from here to Canal Street look like one gigantic mosh pit. It’s a sea of purple, green, and gold, with people jammed together so tightly, they can barely move.
But I’m not turning back. I