The Chef, Page 4

  I stay on his tail the whole time. This little passageway finally spits us out onto Iberville Street, a more bustling thoroughfare jammed with noisy revelers, zooming bicyclists, and not one, but two, roving jazz brass bands.

  He steals a quick glance back at me as we keep weaving through the crowds toward Royal Street. Which is when my lungs start burning and my legs start going wobbly. No, I can’t lose him, I won’t…

  But the next thing I know, he’s gone!

  Damnit!

  I frantically survey the busy intersection, looking for any sign of him.

  Nothing.

  I need a better view.

  With no hesitation, I step up onto a fire hydrant, take a second to get my balance, then leap up and grab the bottom bar of a metal fence lining the second-floor balcony of a private apartment building. Grunting and straining, using every ounce of upper-body strength I’ve got, I slowly pull my way up and over.

  Using these few seconds to catch my breath as well, I look out from this elevated position on the masses below, scanning all of them like a hawk hunting for his prey.

  There he is!

  Running down Royal Street. I scurry along the balcony as far as it goes…then jump across to the next metal balcony nearly abutting it…and then another.

  When I run out of balconies, I have no choice but to take a leap of faith. Literally. I spot a green plastic awning and jump down onto it, hoping to use it like a giant slide to ease my fall.

  No luck.

  I crash right through the tarp and tumble onto the pavement, hard.

  It hurts like hell, but I pick myself right back up and keep going, as the crowd backs away, camera flashes nearly blinding me as my long chase is recorded.

  Ahead of me the suspect finally begins to slow down as he starts running out of steam. So I push myself a little bit more, with my chance to tackle the perp coming up.

  I’m only a few yards away from him when he makes a sharp left into the covered driveway of a parking garage. I follow him, thinking maybe he has a car or truck parked inside.

  He heads up the darkened ramp then comes to a stop up against a gated partition. There’s nowhere left for him to run.

  “Put your hands where I can see them!” I shout, slowly stepping toward him.

  I sure do wish I had my old gun and badge on me right about now—instead of just an apron with a meat thermometer tucked in the pocket. Or even a radio so I could call for backup. “Put down the purse, get on your knees, and—”

  I feel a sharp whack against the back of my skull, which sends me tumbling forward.

  I grunt as I hit the garage floor, and grunt again as another impact strikes me on my right ribs. I hear a crunch, and the pain comes sharp and hot and steals the breath right out of me.

  Moaning in agony, I roll to my side and look up. My vision is a little blurry, but I can make out three figures standing over me.

  Franklin Avenue Soldiers. Each one, even inside the poorly lit parking garage, is clearly wearing a yellow article of clothing. One is holding a metal baseball bat: Ty Grant.

  “‘Put your hands where I can see ’em,’” he parrots. “Shit, Rooney…is that what you say to every gangbanger before you shoot ’em? Including my brother?”

  He takes another swing at me, straight for my head. I flinch and reflexively block it with my left hand—which almost goes numb from the impact.

  “Jesus Christ, Ty!” I yell. “Are you crazy? You’re gonna kill a cop in the middle of the French Quarter during Carnival?”

  Ty laughs, snorts, then hocks a wad of spit and mucus right at my face.

  “I ain’t gonna kill you,” he says, smiling. “But you ain’t a cop no more, neither.”

  He gives my unprotected gut one final, brutal blow. Then he nods to his goons, and the four of them—including the alleged purse-snatcher—scram.

  As I watch them scuttle down the ramp and back outside on the street, my pain peaks and then throbs away as I black out.

  Chapter 11

  “AND ARE we celebrating anything this evening, monsieur et madame?” the voice says.

  I’m sitting at a table with a crisp white tablecloth and clusters of plates, silverware, and glassware. Marlene is sitting next to me, and turns to the stuffy maître 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 us, confident and smooth. “Ah, Mr. Rooney, Ms. DiPietra. I’m so glad you could join us this evening. I trust you’re feeling better?”

  Dodd is a short man of about forty-five. His salt-and-pepper hair is slicked back like a helmet. He’s got on a light-blue designer sport coat over a cheap white thrift-shop tee. And his permanently tanned skin somehow looks at once glowing and prematurely wrinkled.

  “I sure am, thanks,” I say, shaking his silky-soft hand. Dodd may be a successful restaurant owner, but I can tell he’s never worked a day in a real kitchen in his life. “And thanks for inviting us. We’re looking forward to trying everything. I’m famished.”

  “Then I’ll send your food out right away,” he says, gently touching my left shoulder. “Have any arrests been made in connection with your brutal attack?”

  “Yes,” I say. “The cops got one of them.” That would be Ty Grant. From my bed in the ER, I ID’d him to the officer who took my statement, but who clearly wanted nothing to do with me. “The other two are still on the loose. I’m sure they’ll find them.”

  “Well, that’s good news. I’ll bet they’ll find the others soon. If you’ll excuse me.”

  He strolls away and goes to the kitchen on the other side of the dining room, and I hear his raised and impatient voice, and in less than a minute, flustered waiters emerge bearing trays.

  I’ll admit I had my doubts about blending Southern flavors with Far East ones, but I have to say, LBD makes it work. Our appetizer is a pan-fried creole-shrimp egg roll, the perfect mix of crunchy and zesty. Our first course is grilled crawfish, with a tangy ginger glaze laced with smoky-spicy Szechuan peppercorns. Next comes a Thai curry crab étouffée, a rich, fragrant stew served over a bed of jasmine rice. Finally, it’s time for dessert: warm, gooey bread pudding drenched in sweet sake and topped with a scoop of green tea ice cream.

  I’ve just taken the last bite when Dodd appears next to our table, accompanied by a guy with a goatee dressed in black trousers and white shirt, carrying a Nikon camera.

  “Would you mind if I take my photo with you, Caleb? Something to hang up in our foyer?”

  Marlene sticks her tongue out and reluctantly I say, “Sure, I guess so.”

  He pulls a chair over, sits down next to me, and after a few bright flashes from the Nikon, he leans in and eagerly says, “Well, what did you think?”

  Marlene jumps in and answers for both of us.

  “It was delicious, Lucas,” she says. “And so inventive. My mouth feels like it’s just taken a six-week tour of Asia without ever leaving New Orleans.”

  Dodd clasps his hands in delight.

  “I’m so glad to hear that. Now what about the restaurant?”

  I glance around the spacious dining room. Antique chandeliers hang from the ceiling, while the walls and tables are mostly glass and polished metal. It’s an interesting blend, I tell Dodd, of classic elegance and contemporary minimalism. I say I also love the open-plan industrial kitchen at the other side of the room: big, bright, modern, and brimming with stainless steel, it looks like a dream to cook in.

  “How’s that?” he asks.

  “Well, you know what I mean,” I say. “There’s a lot to be said about being able to walk more than four paces in any direction from your hot stove.”

  “And have a place to take a break,” Marlene says.

  “And a bathroom to use when you need, instead of going across the street to a gas station or drugstore.”

  Marlene grins. “And have more than just one crazy ex-husband to work with.”

  I give it right back to her. “Or a grumpy ex-wife, too.”

  Dodd’s head goes back and forth during our repartee, like an audience member during a tennis match.

  “So that would be a dream,” he says, smiling at me.

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  Dodd flashes a wide grin, revealing his perfectly straight, perfectly white teeth.

  “Caleb, let me ask you this: what if I could make that dream a reality?”

  Chapter 12

  EVEN WITH the outside noise of New Orleans and the cheerful conversation inside among our fellow diners, it seems very quiet and still at our table.

  I look at Dodd, astonished and confused. “You want me to come and work here?”

  LBD is a nice spot for a unique dinner, but it’s definitely not my cup of tea, and under the table, I get a gentle kick from Marlene.

  “No, no, no,” Dodd replies, waving his hands around wildly like a conductor at the climax of a symphony. “But imagine if you two had a place like this of your own.”

  I now look to Marlene and she returns my gaze. This just went from “no way” to “do tell us more.”

  “You mean, a Killer Chef restaurant?” Marlene asks.

  “Exactly!” Dodd says. “Your truck is a modern culinary institution in this city. I’m talking the same great menu. The same great food. The same great owners. But instead of waiting in line in the hot sun for an hour, your patrons can sit back and relax in a comfortable, classy establishment just steps from Bourbon Street.”

  Marlene and I share a look. It’s an intriguing idea, no doubt about it. But I’m not about to say yes straight away.

  Then Dodd gently touches my hand and then Marlene’s, and ups the ante. “You two are great. Talented. Skilled. But none of us are getting any younger, are we? With comfort for the patrons, there’d be something for you. Air-conditioning. Additional kitchen help. The latest in stoves and fryers. And like you both said, room to move around, a place to take a break. And your own restroom!”

  Now he’s in full salesman mode, and I’m still being cautious. But the thought of working in a cool environment, without smoke billowing around my face, constantly bumping into Marlene, getting splattered by hot grease, well, it’s beginning to sound better and better.

  I take a breath, keep my gaze on Marlene, my partner.

  “A lot of what we serve, as I’m sure you know, is casual fare,” I say. “Po’boys and fries. That kind of thing. That’s what our customers love. Do you really see that working in a fancy place like this?”

  “That’s a good point,” Dodd says. “I’m sure your customers would follow you anywhere. But with a new setting, a staff, and better kitchen gear, I’m sure you’d agree that a few modifications in what you serve would make sense.”

  Okay, I feel the brakes kicking in. “So it wouldn’t be the ‘same great menu’ then, would it?”

  “Of course it would be the same great menu,” Dodd says. “It would be expanded some, with just a few minor…upgrades.”

  Marlene is keeping quiet, which is quite unusual. I shift in my seat and think of something just as important as our menu.

  “How might financing work?” I ask as Marlene picks up her wineglass. “We’re making a comfortable profit running the truck, but we’re not getting rich. I assume you’d help fund this brick-and-mortar venture?”

  “Certainly,” Dodd assures us. “Typically, when I partner with a chef or existing brand, I provide up to fifty percent capitalization for a sixty-six percent company stake.”

  Marlene nearly snorts red wine through her nose.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” she says, putting her glass down. “You’d only be ponying up half the cash, but walking away with two-thirds of the profits?”

  Dodd’s reply is a bit condesce
nding. “A joint venture with the Dodd Restaurant Group offers enormous opportunities for growth and exposure. I think the deal structure is more than fair.”

  Yeah, right. Marlene’s eyes look like they’re ready to start shooting lightning bolts at our smooth and gracious host.

  “Well, let us think about it,” I say, blotting my mouth with my napkin, even though I know full well Marlene and I have zero intention of going into business with this guy. I remember a line from one of my high school English classes, how Satan once said he’d rather reign in Hell than serve in Heaven. I’m no Satan, but I’d rather rule from my steamy hot food truck than serve with this guy in air-conditioned comfort.

  “Of course,” he says, still all smiles and oozing politeness. “Please take as much time as you’d like. Here’s my business card. That’s my personal number. Feel free to call with any other questions. Or stop in anytime if you’d like to—”

  A sudden crash of plates and glasses echoes from across the restaurant.

  Dodd swivels his head to the source. And in an instant, his cheery if slippery demeanor transforms into rage.

  “For God’s sake!” he yells, storming over to the poor server, who’s on her hands and knees picking up broken pieces of china and glass.

  I can’t hear exactly what he’s saying to her, but from his expression and body language, he’s clearly tearing her apart. Over a simple accident! He jabs his finger in her face. Then he kicks a shard of a broken dish against the wall, smashing it further. Damn, if me and Marlene acted this way to each other any time we broke a plate or serving dish, we’d never get any cooking done.

  Other diners have started to watch with horror. The server has started to cry. The whole thing has turned into quite an ugly scene…

  Until another woman hurries over and gently pulls Dodd aside. She looks to be about thirty, has long, flowing blond hair, and is wearing a tight, blue satin dress printed with pink and white lotus flowers.

  She is also stunningly, jaw-droppingly beautiful.

  “Let’s get outta here,” Marlene says, pushing her chair back and standing up, “before that nut job goes postal on us.”