And so he was.
Against all odds, he found a parking space two blocks from his appointed rendezvous and wedged the van into it, ramming bumpers fore and aft. If anybody noticed in his absence, they were free to jot down his license number. The plates were stolen and would be discarded once he got back home.
He locked the van and stepped into the maelstrom of activity that swirled around him, checking out the costumes, men on stilts, half-naked women, fireworks going off at random in the crowd, an all-pervasive smell of alcohol, gunpowder, sweat and lust that made him giddy, brought a hot rush of saliva to his mouth. It was the biggest, most frenetic freak show he had ever seen, but as he started for the sidewalk, part of Leon's brain still felt as if a spotlight followed him, some cosmic finger pointing to alert the dipshit normals that he wasn't one of them-that he was real.
As if in answer to his fears, a short man in a diaper stepped into his path, a beer bottle in one hand, giant pacifier in the other.
"Hey, man!" the intoxicated creature said to Leon. "That's some crazy costume. Where'd you find it?"
"It's homemade," the werewolf told him, stepping to one side.
The tipsy "infant" moved to block him. "Awesome," he said. "You got a card? How much did it cost?"
"It's not for sale," said Leon, finally brushing past the stranger, merging with the crowd. His skin was crawling, but another part of him was starting to relax.
Some crazy costume. If they only knew the half of it.
Leon had reviewed an ancient street map, creased and mildewed, prior to starting on his journey. He had memorized street names and landmarks, the historic buildings that were spotted on a map and unlikely to change their names. Thus readied for the challenge, he had no great difficulty finding where he meant to go, but there was still a nagging sense of others staring at him.
But nothing happened, and he made his way into the heart of the French Quarter. He could smell the Mississippi River, not so far away. Its smell was reminiscent of the bayou country, but without the stagnant odor of decay that was so common in the swamp. Now all he had to do was find the intersection and a certain restaurant.
The limousine was parked outside a smallish Cajun restaurant, the engine idling. One of Fortier's leg breakers stood beside the car, the only person visible to Leon who had opted for a business suit in lieu of more exotic garb. The Cajun did a double take as Leon stopped beside the car, and then a window powered down, in back. Someone inside the car spoke to the goon in French, the blacked-out window closed again and Fortier's gorilla held the door for Leon as he climbed into the car.
He settled on a jump seat, facing three more men in stylish suits. One of the younger pair leaned farward, reaching for him, but the Cajun in the middle hauled him back and shook his head.
"Don't be insultin' Leon, now," the oldest of the three men said. "He didn't come here to shoot me, did you, Leon?"
Leon shook his head. It was a stupid question, but he knew it would be rude to say so.
"I'm Merle Bettencourt," the boss man said. "I don't believe we've met before."
The Cajun knew damn well they hadn't met. Leon had only met his boss one time, and that had been enough for both of them. Merle glanced at Leon's shaggy hands, as if considering if they should shake, deciding he would pass.
"I guess you wonderin' why I call this meeting, hey?"
Leon had no response beyond a shrug. The man would tell him what he wanted when he got around to it. These "normal" men weren't always direct in dealings with one another, much less with a creature they regarded as a freak of nature.
"What it is," Merle Bettencourt went on, "is about that last man on the list you were supposed to handle for us."
It sounded like a question, but he didn't think it was, so Leon sat and waited.
"We need to get that job took care of right away, soon as you can," said Bettencourt. "And there's another thing come up just recently. Some guy been askin' around about you, like maybe he was lookin' for you."
Leon knew that, too, but he wouldn't reveal his knowledge to this stranger. He would deal with it in his own way and time.
"You hear me, Leon?" From the pinched expression on his face, Merle Bettencourt couldn't decide if he was puzzled or pissed off by Leon's silence.
"Yeah," the loup-garou replied. There was no reason he could think of to elaborate.
"Okay, then." Bettencourt relaxed a bit, but he was frowning. "Just one other little thing. About these Gypsies, now. What the hell is that about?" Leon considered his reply, took more time than most men would have required, since conversation was a lost art in his world. He knew exactly what he meant to say, but picking words to spell it out required some study.
"Friend of mine told me they askin' questions about my business," Leon said at last. "Which by, I mean your business, too."
One of the Cajun mobster's eyebrows crinkled in surprise. "That so?"
"What I was told."
"Who say that?" Bettencourt inquired.
"This Gypsy. I been knowin' him some time."
"You trust him?"
Leon shrugged at that. "He scared of me. Come told me what he seen."
"And you took care of that?" asked Bettencourt.
"I think so. Shook them up, at least."
"I'm wonderin' if maybe they mixed up with this old boy I told you about," the Cajun mobster said. "They mention him at all?"
"They didn't tell me nothin'," Leon said, as if it should be obvious. "Just scream and bleed is all."
"Uh-huh."
The mobster glanced at his gorillas, left and right, but both of them were staring at the wolf man, fingers on their gun hands twitchy with the urge to draw and fire. Leon imagined he could rip their throats out if they tried.
"Best watch out while you handlin' that job we talk about." said Bettencourt. "See maybe if you can't take out this other guy. Clean up the whole damn thing."
"I'll keep an eye out," Leon said.
"Do that," said Bettencourt. After a brief silence, he said, "I guess that's all."
Leon didn't see the signal, but the limo's door was opened by the outside man, as if on cue. Leon was half out of the car when Bettencourt called after him, "And finish up that job right quick, you hear?"
Outside, the freaks were still in charge. Leon felt more at home with them than he had with the "normals" in the limousine, and he didn't look back to see if they were watching him as he began the walk back to his van.
Chapter 12
"Another expert?" Remo kept his voice down, leaning in toward Cuvier so that Aurelia couldn't hear him from the bathroom, where she had retired to freshen up. "I'm getting tired of these side trips to nowhere."
"Jamie knows all about them loups-garous," the witness answered, sounding peevish. "You just wait and see."
"And you just thought of it?"
"He slipped my mind," said Cuvier, defensively, "with all the shit been goin' on."