Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 08 - Death in the French Quarter
“Time was running out. Every passing day increased my chances of exposure.So, as I wound my way through the French Quarter to my room, I decided that maybe I should turn over what information I had on the weapons smuggling to Jimmy LeBlanc and, as Zozette had so succinctly put it, drop the whole business.The streets were emptying of partygoers and tourists, and the rank odor of spilled booze, fried food, and garbage in the gutters enveloped me.
A sharp hiss jerked me to a halt as I passed a dark...ened corridor leading back into a hidden courtyard. I glanced around and spotted Punky’s face emerge from the darkness behind the barred gate. A disembodied hand waved me over.Instantly, every sense in my body came alive.
“Punky?”“Yeah,” he whispered. The wrought-iron gate creaked open, inviting me in. “Quick. I got to talk to you.”Glancing up and down the street nervously, I struggled to control my breathing. Had he learned that I was behind the scheme? “I thought you’d be gone by now.MoreLess
A sharp hiss jerked me to a halt as I passed a dark...ened corridor leading back into a hidden courtyard. I glanced around and spotted Punky’s face emerge from the darkness behind the barred gate. A disembodied hand waved me over.Instantly, every sense in my body came alive.
“Punky?”“Yeah,” he whispered. The wrought-iron gate creaked open, inviting me in. “Quick. I got to talk to you.”Glancing up and down the street nervously, I struggled to control my breathing. Had he learned that I was behind the scheme? “I thought you’d be gone by now.MoreLess
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