Robert Asprin's Dragons Run Read Online Free PDF Page B

was surprised how swiftly all traces of Mardi Gras had been swept away in two days flat. He was afraid that some of the evidence of Val’s last movements might have been swept away with them, but he was relieved to see the end of the festival. The purple, gold, and green bunting had been removed from all the storefronts. Images of jesters in motley had receded to the windows of knickknack shops and a few advertising posters. Hanks of beads still hung in nearly every open store in Jackson Square, but those were always there for the tourists. He was frankly relieved it was all over. That seemed to be a common feeling among his fellow denizens. The few tourists left seemed at loose ends, but New Orleans was a town for wandering. They’d find plenty to do, at a much easier pace.
    He parked the car in the underground garage of the Royal Sonesta and led his uncle out into the grand public space of Jackson Square. The clock on the tower of Saint Louis Cathedral struck two. Griffen remembered he had had nothing to eat since too early in the morning. He had forced down a sweet roll and a small cup of coffee. One of his favorite restaurants, Chart House, beckoned at the other corner of the square. The turtle soup there was the best in town, but his throat choked up when he thought of rich food. He could always manage to eat beignets. Café du Monde was just across St. Peter. But business first.
    The park inside the wrought-iron fence was unoccupied except for a few tourists taking photos of the General Jackson statue and a couple of gardeners in coolie hats. All the action was in the space between the three streets that bound the square and the fence. Artists, seated under standing umbrellas come rain or shine, had their work on display attached to the iron bars.
    “Poot nea’ly layaff mysel’ to death!” a middle-aged black man, his hands stained with oil pastels as he filled in the blue sky on a canvas, shouted to his neighbor, an older white woman in a smock and with a long braid of graying hair down her back, who was sketching the caricature of a stout man in a white polo shirt and a baseball cap.
    “Well, honey, what ay-else could you DO?” the woman bellowed back, adding a camera around the neck of her subject with a few deft strokes.
    The lilting local patois was just one more kind of music of the city. Griffen let the soothing sound of their banter and laughter calm his jangling nerves. New Orleanians often carried on conversations across streets, down blocks, or from an upper-story window to a friend standing on the street below. Northerners seemed so reserved and quiet by comparison, though you would be no more likely to break into those conversations, however public it appeared, unless the speakers were friends of yours. Privacy here had a more complex definition.
    The cathedral watched over the square like a benevolent uncle, neither forbidding nor disapproving what went on at its feet. The chill wind that swirled around it could not touch its magnificence. Griffen hoped that his uncle might be impressed, but if he didn’t play poker, he ought to. His face was as stiff as the statue of Andrew Jackson.
    The world seemed to pass through the square daily. Two musicians, on accordion and saxophone, belted jazz music between a tent belonging to a local crystal reader and a face painter. The long lines of people waiting for their services tossed coins and bills into the open instrument cases of the musicians. Griffen turned the corner, looking for Holly.
    “Repent NOW, or pay for your sins at the hands of Satan and his army of demons!” An amplified voice close behind them made Griffen jump. He looked back at the skinny frame of Reverend Wildfire, a local preacher who stalked tourists with a megaphone. “Repent! The end of the world is upon us! Jesus is coming, and he accepts into heaven only those who acknowledge their failings in this wicked world!”
    Griffen wiggled a finger in his ear. Reverend Wildfire passed by,