Read Online KNIGHT'S REPORTS: 3 Book Set by Gordon Kessler - Free Book Online
Authors: Gordon Kessler
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that?”
Caught with my hand down my pants, I smiled cordially, turned and stepped quickly into the corner shop: Marie Laveau’s House of Voodoo .
Police cars pulled up outside, and I was too busy watching out to watch out . I ran through a strange cloud of orange dust just inside the doorway, but had the presence of mind to hold my breath. Still, I’d drawn a small amount of the acrid powder into my lungs. I winced and coughed, then bumped into a lovely black lady with two large shopping bags on the floor beside her.
“Well, my-my,” she said with a Cajun accent, “look’t this. What the Good Lord done shoved inta m’lap?”
After taking my forearms, she inspected me as she ran her hands down to my palms.
She wasn’t wearing anything more flamboyant than a bright yellow sundress, and her voice was a high soprano — putting me somewhat at ease.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” I said, smiling back at her. And she looked up.
Her eyes were as black as the deepest pit. “No trouble, no trouble. But y’seem t’be lookin’ y’way outa some trouble y’own.”
“I’m trying to find a horn shop called Jazzy Brass ,” I said. “Do you know where it is?”
“I surely do,” she said. “An’ I’m walkin’ by it directly. Ten, twelve blocks. You a’foot, sir?” She glanced out the side window of the shop where the crashed limo was still steaming, and Popeye still lay on the hood.
Although it sounded like a considerable walk, I realized the woman was my ticket out of the mess, at least temporarily. “I’m a’foot, now.”
“Well, then, c’folla me! I could use some han’some male comp’ny.”
I swung one of my bags around to my uninjured right shoulder, looping my arm through a shoulder strap, then I picked up one of the lady’s bags. “I’m E Z,” I told her. “May I?”
Her grin was huge and she showed the loveliest white teeth. “Why, y’cert’nly are ... ‘n y’cert’nly may !”
We went out the door, her holding the second shopping bag in one hand and my arm in the other. With police arriving, people seemed to gather out of nowhere. We turned away from the intersection.
As we walked from the busying scene, the woman on my arm said, “I am Marie Paris Dumesnil de Glapion — n’ I’m very pleased t’make y’acquaint’nce.”
“The pleasure is mine, believe me.”
“Mr. E Z — ”
“Just E Z, please.”
“Well a’right then, E Z. Y’b’liever o’fate o’ coincidence?”
Oddly, I felt a chill on the warm midmorning. It shot all the way up to the back of my head. “A little of both, I suppose.”
“Good. ‘Cause this ‘ere’s fate. Y’bumpin’ int’me, the right time, the right place. An’ here w’are, Jazzy Brass .
I glanced about us. The noise, the police sirens, the people on the sidewalks were all gone. The Marie Lavaue shop was nowhere in sight. We’d only been walking fifteen seconds, at most.
She pointed. “There, cata-cornah.”
Across the small intersection, I saw the horn shop from the photos.
Suddenly, her face was before me, eyes wide, and she gave another toothy grin — beautiful, pearly and straight teeth. For an instant, I was entranced. But the spell was broken when I felt a scratch on the back of my hand and a pinch on the side of my head.
The words “ we’ll meet again ” came whispered on a breeze.
I felt a chill again, this time fleeting, running down my backbone as if something was leaving me. When I took a second look about, the lovely black woman was gone.
Glancing at my hand, I noticed that something very sharp had cut across my bag’s shoulder strap and barely nicked my skin. Then I found myself staring at the Jazzy Brass horn shop.
My bags lay beside me, a chicken feather stuck into one of them. When I checked the back of my hand again, I found a very tiny, raised welt — but there was no blood. I suspected the miniscule wound was caused by the woman’s fingernail.
Looking back at the little shop, it seemed
Caught with my hand down my pants, I smiled cordially, turned and stepped quickly into the corner shop: Marie Laveau’s House of Voodoo .
Police cars pulled up outside, and I was too busy watching out to watch out . I ran through a strange cloud of orange dust just inside the doorway, but had the presence of mind to hold my breath. Still, I’d drawn a small amount of the acrid powder into my lungs. I winced and coughed, then bumped into a lovely black lady with two large shopping bags on the floor beside her.
“Well, my-my,” she said with a Cajun accent, “look’t this. What the Good Lord done shoved inta m’lap?”
After taking my forearms, she inspected me as she ran her hands down to my palms.
She wasn’t wearing anything more flamboyant than a bright yellow sundress, and her voice was a high soprano — putting me somewhat at ease.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” I said, smiling back at her. And she looked up.
Her eyes were as black as the deepest pit. “No trouble, no trouble. But y’seem t’be lookin’ y’way outa some trouble y’own.”
“I’m trying to find a horn shop called Jazzy Brass ,” I said. “Do you know where it is?”
“I surely do,” she said. “An’ I’m walkin’ by it directly. Ten, twelve blocks. You a’foot, sir?” She glanced out the side window of the shop where the crashed limo was still steaming, and Popeye still lay on the hood.
Although it sounded like a considerable walk, I realized the woman was my ticket out of the mess, at least temporarily. “I’m a’foot, now.”
“Well, then, c’folla me! I could use some han’some male comp’ny.”
I swung one of my bags around to my uninjured right shoulder, looping my arm through a shoulder strap, then I picked up one of the lady’s bags. “I’m E Z,” I told her. “May I?”
Her grin was huge and she showed the loveliest white teeth. “Why, y’cert’nly are ... ‘n y’cert’nly may !”
We went out the door, her holding the second shopping bag in one hand and my arm in the other. With police arriving, people seemed to gather out of nowhere. We turned away from the intersection.
As we walked from the busying scene, the woman on my arm said, “I am Marie Paris Dumesnil de Glapion — n’ I’m very pleased t’make y’acquaint’nce.”
“The pleasure is mine, believe me.”
“Mr. E Z — ”
“Just E Z, please.”
“Well a’right then, E Z. Y’b’liever o’fate o’ coincidence?”
Oddly, I felt a chill on the warm midmorning. It shot all the way up to the back of my head. “A little of both, I suppose.”
“Good. ‘Cause this ‘ere’s fate. Y’bumpin’ int’me, the right time, the right place. An’ here w’are, Jazzy Brass .
I glanced about us. The noise, the police sirens, the people on the sidewalks were all gone. The Marie Lavaue shop was nowhere in sight. We’d only been walking fifteen seconds, at most.
She pointed. “There, cata-cornah.”
Across the small intersection, I saw the horn shop from the photos.
Suddenly, her face was before me, eyes wide, and she gave another toothy grin — beautiful, pearly and straight teeth. For an instant, I was entranced. But the spell was broken when I felt a scratch on the back of my hand and a pinch on the side of my head.
The words “ we’ll meet again ” came whispered on a breeze.
I felt a chill again, this time fleeting, running down my backbone as if something was leaving me. When I took a second look about, the lovely black woman was gone.
Glancing at my hand, I noticed that something very sharp had cut across my bag’s shoulder strap and barely nicked my skin. Then I found myself staring at the Jazzy Brass horn shop.
My bags lay beside me, a chicken feather stuck into one of them. When I checked the back of my hand again, I found a very tiny, raised welt — but there was no blood. I suspected the miniscule wound was caused by the woman’s fingernail.
Looking back at the little shop, it seemed
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