The Chef - James Patterson Page 0,1

all sweaty, covered with food stains and smelling of cooking oil, I love the attention.

But before I can respond, Marlene answers for me—with a blatant eye roll.

“Oh, honey,” she says, her voice dripping with experience and sarcasm. “Don’t let Caleb’s two hundred pounds of hunkiness fool you. That man’s a lot like the sun. Plenty hot when he shines on you, but try to get close and he’ll burn you to a crisp. Believe me. I know.”

Good old Marlene. Opening this truck with her was one of the best decisions I ever made. But walking down the aisle with her? Eh, not so much.

I’m just about to tell these gals how my ex-wife is a lot like a lemon—sweet-looking but truly bitter—when something outside catches my eye.

And chills me, despite the sweltering heat inside my truck.

Down the block, four white boys in their mid-twenties are leaning against the hood of a black SUV, a Ford Explorer with new, shiny chrome rims. They’re passing around a bottle of liquor in a paper bag. Whispering among themselves. Watching the traffic go by. Watching the morning tourists stroll past.

But most of all, watching me.

I don’t recognize their faces, but I do recognize their clothes. Each is wearing something yellow. A yellow bandana. A yellow baseball cap. A yellow hoodie.

Gang colors.

They’re part of the Franklin Avenue Soldiers, an up-and-coming crew based out of the St. Roch neighborhood, a good four miles from here. I wasn’t expecting to see any of them this far from their turf. In fact, I was hoping that working this busy brunch shift would distract me, would help keep all that bullshit out of my brain for a few hours.

I should have known they’d find me.

Especially today.

“Hey, fall asleep at the stove again?” Marlene barks, jolting me back to reality. “I need four waddles, two shakes, and three scoops!”

And so goes the rest of our morning. I try to stay focused on cooking our food. On pleasing our customers. On flashing a devilish grin at the pretty ones. But every time I glance through the service window, those gangbangers are still out there. Glaring at me. Waiting for me to make my next move. Waiting for me to step out and away from all these potential witnesses lined up at my truck.

“And that’s the last of ’em,” Marlene finally says long minutes later, as the last two happy customers stroll away, leaving the sidewalk clear before us. She wipes her hands on her apron. It’s stained with so many different colors, it looks like some kind of abstract painting.

I’ve already untied my own apron—and stripped off my sweaty black T-shirt with the Killer Chef logo as well. I wet a clean towel with cold water and rub down my chest, belly, and arms, trying to get most of the sweat off. I reach for a black duffel bag in the corner of the truck. I unzip it and start rummaging inside. Marlene clicks her tongue, annoyed.

“You’re really not gonna stick around and help me prep for lunch, huh? Slacker.”

“Trust me, Mar, I’d much rather keep slaving away over a hot stove than get dragged over the hot coals that are waiting for me down the way,” I say, taking out a stick of deodorant that I liberally apply to each underarm. “Even if it means listening to you yammer on while I do it.”

My ex-wife snickers. We’re just busting each other’s chops. The truth is, I would rather do just about anything right now over what I’m about to. And she knows it, too.

“Caleb,” she says softly, putting her hand on my bare chest. “Good luck.”

“Thanks,” I answer. Then I remove from the duffel bag a folded blue dress shirt, along with a plastic ID card dangling from a cloth lanyard.

It reads: ROONEY, CALEB J.—DETECTIVE—NEW ORLEANS POLICE DEPARTMENT.

I have a badge, too. I swear. And a gun.

But currently, they’re not in my possession.

Long story.

I slip on the collared shirt, stuff my ID into my pocket, then look one more time through the service window at those gangbangers.

To my surprise, they’re gone.

I should be relieved, but I’m not.

I know at the time and place of their choosing, they’ll be back.

And they won’t be lining up for my famous food.

Chapter 2

I STEP out of the food truck and suck in a deep breath of fresh air from the sidewalk.

The temperature probably topped triple digits inside that metal sardine can, but out here it’s balmy and delightful. Folks are walking around in shorts