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

The aroma of freshly cooked sweet dough and chicory coffee drifted through the air, and my mouth watered. For once, Baz had had a good idea.
    Beignets procured, Baz, Coop, and I made our way to the curb as we munched on the sugary confection. Jackson Square, kitty-corner across the road, was the hub of artistic and impromptu goings on. The square bustled with painters, tarot card readers, and street performers.
    I could see two psychics, a couple of magicians, an artist, a dark-haired ice cream vendor chick whose sizeable ice cream cooler was hooked to a blaze-orange moped, a hot-dog vendor, and a Statue of Liberty mime. The mime was dressed from head to toe in shimmering green and stood motionless on a gold-painted wooden crate about a block away. Statue mimes fascinated me, and I always wondered how they could hold out on scratching the inevitable itch.
    Next to Lady Liberty, a punker chick with a pink Mohawk and fatigue pants sat on an upended five-gallon pail, drumming a hypnotic rhythm on three plastic buckets of varying sizes. A black-furred canine assistant gently collected tips in its mouth and deposited them in a bowl that lay on the ground in front of the mime’s feet. Every so often, the statue would shift position, earning shrieks of delight from the children watching raptly from the sidelines.
    I wiped sticky fingers on a napkin, tossed it in a nearby garbage can, and adjusted my backpack. Coop had already snarfed his own beignets down, and I could tell from his restless pacing and the white of his knuckles as he strangled the strap of his messenger bag that he desperately wanted a cigarette. “Hang tough, big guy.”
    He nodded and went back to walking the edge of the curb. We waited for Baz to wolf the rest of his snack down, which was going to take a while since he’d had the balls to get a double order. Powdered sugar coated his lips, and a white smear of the stuff somehow adorned his forehead. The travel bag between his feet was sprinkled liberally with powder.
    Coop said impatiently, “Hurry up, Baz.”
    â€œI’m trying.” Baz held the bag containing his goodies in one hand, and a half a beignet in the other. He shoved another bite into his mouth as soon as he swallowed the previous one. Suddenly, Baz made spastic motions with one hand and tried to say something. Beignet and powdered sugar sprayed from between his lips. I thought he was choking, and I pounded on his back.
    Baz violently shook me off, his eyes wild.
    Coop’s “What the—” was drowned out as Baz blew the last of the chunks of donut from his mouth. He yelled, “Run!” and dropped the half-full bag of beignets. He left his travel bag on the sidewalk and sprinted across the road.
    â€œWhat’s his problem?” Coop muttered. He bent to pick up Baz’s bag.
    I caught sight of a huge mountain of a man and another guy steaming fill tilt toward us.
    A half-second of frozen disbelief later I howled, “Holy shit, Coop, run!”

    We charged across the road into Jackson Square, Coop juggling Baz’s bag with his own. Baz was a quarter-block ahead of us, short legs churning. He was closing in on the group of magicians and the Statue of Liberty. The despicable duo was less than a block behind us. I could hear them shouting, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying.
    â€œCome on, Shay!” Coop hollered.
    â€œI’m trying,” I panted, pumping my arms hard, my backpack slamming against my shoulder blades with each stride. I was fast but no match for Coop’s long legs.
    Tourists looked our way, unalarmed, assuming our little chase was a part of the acts on the square. We zigzagged around clumps of trees and milling people.
    I shouted, “I’m sorry!” to one woman I clipped. Baz was almost to the statue performer, and we were closing the gap. Loud voices echoed behind us. I wasn’t sure if the bad guys were catching up or if vacationers were