Hide and Snake Murder by Jessie Chandler. Read Free Book Online Page A

hadn’t had the front seat filled with various books on the occult and two stuffed voodoo dolls, I’d have asked if I could have ridden there. As it stood, I didn’t want the driver to stick straight pins into either of the freaky-looking dolls on my behalf.
    The man behind the wheel smiled wide, his teeth a brilliant flash of white against his dark skin. A fedora perched at a jaunty angle on his head and he peered at us in the rear view mirror through bloodshot, chocolate brown eyes. He said, “Name’s Reggie. Welcome to New Orleans.” He drew out Orleans and said it as Or-lee-ans. I was beginning to realize I had no idea how to pronounce the name of this town correctly. He continued, “Where can I take y’all on a fine day such as this?”
    Baz blurted out, “The Café du Monde. I need some beignets.”
    We had time to kill until Eddy let me know which hotel they’d moved into, so I didn’t protest. I had visited New Orleans once before, many years prior, but the memory was mostly hazy. Too many Bourbon Street Specials. The one thing I recalled with vivid clarity were hot, sweet beignets floating in powdered sugar at two in the morning. It wouldn’t hurt anything to swing by there. My stomach growled at the proposition. It had been a long time since we’d eaten our cold Perkins breakfast.
    â€œThe Café du Monde it is,” our driver announced, and we were off.
    Forty-five minutes and a wealth of fascinating and horrifying New Orleans tales later, our driver and tour director deposited us at the corner of Decatur and St. Ann, in front of the imposing columned building that housed the French Market and the Café du Monde.
    â€œThat’ll be forty bucks, my new friends.” The driver handed me a white business card over the frayed front seat. “Y’all need a ride, you give me a shout, hear?”
    Reggie “The Everything New Orleans” Cabbie was emblazoned across the top of the card in bright blue, with a cell phone number printed underneath.
    â€œThanks.” I exploded from the cab like a cork popped from a bubbly bottle. As Baz worked himself out, I asked, “You have any money for the fare?” Once he’d extracted himself from the vehicle, he dug in his pocket and pulled out three dimes and a quarter.
    With a shrug he said, “I used what I cash I had at Perkins.”
    Not only did I pay for his airfare, it looked like I was going to pay for his taxi ride and beignets as well.
    â€œI’ve got it.” Coop thrust a hand into his jeans pocket and pulled out a substantial wad of bills. The man was a computer genius, and since he’d started hawking his computer skills to the needy, his financial situation had much improved. It started when he helped some of the Mad Knitters—Eddy’s pseudo-knitting, poker-playing and occasional cigar-smoking posse—with their computer skills. The mini business blossomed from there. Now Coop was designing customer rewards programs for bingo halls, hotels, and casinos.
    He peeled off a fifty and passed it through the passenger window to Reggie. “Thanks, man,” Coop said and slapped the roof of the car as the cabbie pulled away.
    Baz was already headed into the café. “What are you waiting for?” he called over his shoulder.
    â€œYou should be waiting for us, doofus. We’re the ones with the money.” I itched to whap the back of his shiny head. Coop and I followed him into the café’s open-air seating area beneath the signature green and white striped awning.
    Round bistro tables and Fifties-style chairs with greenish-yellow vinyl sat beneath the canopy. White-aproned waiters wearing paper serving hats moved with astounding grace between the tables, serving up sets of three beignets to drooling customers.
    We hoisted our bags and threaded our way to the end of the take-out ordering line, which, thankfully, wasn’t overly long.