The Chef - James Patterson Page 0,9

being treated like one.

“Wait a minute,” the second SWAT officer says, turning around and lowering his sunglasses. “Aren’t you Detective Rooney with major crimes?”

Finally, a little recognition, a little respect.

“I used to be,” I reply. “Now I’m just letting the bon temps rouler.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s right,” the near one says, nodding. “The review board sure bent you over bad before kicking you to the curb. That sucks.”

I appreciate his sympathy, but I have something else on my mind.

“It was a little more complicated than that,” I say. “But what’s with all the battle rattle on Bourbon Street? Something going on?”

The officers look at each other, then both just shrug.

The second officer says, “Our lieutenant put the whole platoon on double-overtime, said we’re doing foot patrols and random sweeps around the clock for the next two weeks. Looking for anything unusual.”

His partner laughs. “Yeah. Unusual on Bourbon Street. That’d be something noteworthy, eh?”

“But why?”

“You think they tell us shit?” the other officer says. “Run it up the chain, Detective. Something’s spooked somebody. Some of our guys are even undercover, mingling with the civilians. Making sure everybody stays happy and safe. Look, we gotta keep moving. Take care of yourself.”

The two officers continue heading down the bustling street. There’s so much noise and celebration all around, hardly anyone seems to notice them.

But I do.

I stand still and let my gaze wander.

There.

And there.

Two partygoers, man and woman, about fifty feet from each other, with bright clothes and wearing beads around their muscular necks. One leaning against a lamppost, one standing in front of a bar with rock music roaring out. Sipping something I’m sure is not alcoholic, because they’re not here to have fun.

They both have hard cop eyes I instantly recognize, and like the two heavily armed cops I talked to earlier, they are definitely checking out the crowd.

A hint of regret whispers to me, of having resigned. Even on admin leave, I could find out what’s suddenly spooked the higher-ups, maybe even lend a hand.

But I’m not a cop anymore.

Time like this, with something dangerous going on in the city I love, I hate reminding myself of that sorry fact.

Chapter 9

“NO HAY sustituciones. Aucune substitutions. Keine Substitutionen!”

It’s a day later and I’m back behind the stove, sautéing a trio of spicy creole duck breasts, still seeing those cops—in battle rattle and undercover—working Bourbon Street. But interrupting my thoughts and over all the clanging and sizzling of my cooking, I think I hear Marlene…speaking in tongues?

I look over and see she’s in the middle of a heated exchange through the service window with a red-faced male customer around twenty years old.

I notice a few other young patrons in line behind him have taken out their phones to record the action.

“No substitutions, sir,” Marlene insists. “I’m sorry, but it says so right there on the sign, in six different languages. Do I have to tell you in Pig Latin?”

Oh, boy.

I’ve had enough arguments with my ex-wife over the years to know when she’s about to blow her top. That’s the last thing our business needs right now. I turn down the flame and hurry over to play peacemaker.

I stand next to Marlene and call down to the line outside. “Okay, everybody, are we having some kind of little issue here?”

“Da-damn right you…I mean, we are!” the man slurs.

It’s starting to get dark out, but I can see he’s wearing a sweat-soaked blue polo shirt, a crumpled masquerade mask on his forehead, a single muddy flip-flop, and I can smell the booze on his breath from inside the truck.

“I said I wanted an egg sandwich, okay?” he slurs out in a loud voice. “None of that seafood crap. But this old bitch said y’all don’t do that. Didn’t you ever hear of ‘the customer is always right’?”

I give Marlene a sympathetic look. The vast majority of the people we feed—even the drunk ones—are usually pretty cool. But like every business, once in a while we get a bad apple. Normally I’d politely but firmly turn a belligerent fellow like this away, then physically escort him off the premises myself if I had to.

But seeing so many phones recording, and worried that he’s gearing up for a fistfight, I get another idea.

“Sir, I’ll tell you what,” I say, turning back to him. “You seem like such an upstanding young man, just relax, give me two minutes, and I’ll make you the best egg sandwich you ever had. Deal?”

Before Marlene can stop me, I scurry back