Have Stakes Will Travel

“Bike?” His face showed honest confusion, clearing thinking bicycle.

 

“Motorbike. Harley. I just wanted directions and maybe some of that delicious food I’m smelling.” His eyes lost some of the wariness, so I kept talking. “And maybe directions to a place to spend the night if I have to. Some place clean and quiet. I have a card. Okay if I reach two fingers into the zippered pocket?” I pointed at my chest. The zipper was narrow, maybe two inches, way too small for most guns. He nodded, and I slowly lifted my left hand, zipping open the pocket. I dropped two fingers inside and pulled out a business card. When he gestured with the shotgun, I tossed the card to the glass-topped meat cabinet. He caught it one-handed, and the shotgun never wavered. He held it like he’d been born with one in his hand. Probably had.

 

He glanced at the card and back to me, and back to the card and back to me. “I hear a you before. Dat rogue-vampire killer woman what took to work with Leo Pellissier. You her for real?”

 

“Yeah. I’m her. How about you put down the shotgun? A girl gets nervous with one pointed at her.”

 

“How ’bout you open you jacket, reeeeal slow like. You dat Jane Yellowrock for real, you have lots a guns and tings, you do.” He gestured again with the gun, firmed it into his shoulder, and waited.

 

I lifted my hand slowly and pulled the zipper, the ratchets loud in the silent room, and me not knowing if he wanted me to be Jane so he could kill me for a bounty—there had been a few put on my head by unhappy vamps in the last weeks—or wanted me to be Jane so he could befriend me. And there was nowhere to go in the narrow shop, with walls to either side and glass at my back. I was fast, but not faster than shotgun pellets.

 

The zipper open, I eased aside the left jacket lapel to reveal the special-made holster and the grip of a nine mil H&K under my left arm. Still moving slowly, I pushed aside the other lapel to display the matching H&K at my waist on the right. The butcher grinned widely, revealing white teeth that would have looked good sitting in a glass, perfect in every way, though I was betting his were real, not dentures. “You is her, you is,” he said. He broke open the shotgun and set it out of sight, moving around the meat counters with an outstretched hand. “I’m Lucky Landry. I a big fan of you.”

 

I took his hand and we shook, and I felt all kinds of weird about it all and didn’t know what to say. Me? With fans? I opened my mouth, closed it, and figured I had to say something. I settled on, “Lucky Landry. What about Boudreaux?” I asked, indicating the sign saying “Boudreaux’ Meats” on the back wall.

 

“My father in law.” Lucky crossed his arms over his chest and I saw the full sleeve tat down his left arm. It was of weird creatures—combos of snake and human, with fangs and scales, mouths open in what looked like agony—as red and yellow flames climbed up from his wrist to burn them. It was like some bizarre version of hell. He was maybe late forties, early fifties, Caucasian, with black hair and dark eyes—what the locals call “Frenchy.” “I married the daughter, and when her daddy done died dead, I took over dey business, I did. It a right fine pleasure t’ meet you, it is, Miz Yellowrock.”

 

“Ummm. Yeah. Pleasure and all. Call me Jane.”

 

He moved behind the counter, beaming at me. “You hongry, Miz Jane? What I can get you for? I got some fried up gator, fried up catfish, fried up boudin balls bigger’n my fist.” He made one to show me. “I got me fried onion, fried squash, and fried mushroom. My own batter, secret recipe it is, and dat oil is fresh and hot for cooking.”

 

Beast perked up at the description of the food. Gator. Human killed gator? Human man is good hunter! Hungry for gator. And the picture she sent me was a whole gator, snout, teeth, feet, claws, tail, skin, and all, crusty with batter. I chuckled and sent her a more likely mental picture. Inside, she huffed with disappointment.

 

“Fried gator sounds good. Boudin balls too. Got beer?”

 

“I can’t sell you no beer, but I give you one. All my customers, I give one to, I do.” He nudged the tip jar at me and I understood. He had no license to sell beer, but he could give it away, and his customers could tip him to make it worth his while. I dropped a five into the tip jar and he grinned widely. “Beer in dat cooler. He’p you self.” I heard the hiss of gas being turned up, and smelled the gas scent and hot oil followed by the smell of raw meat.

 

There wasn’t a statewide mandate on selling alcohol, and the voters of each parish could decide the issue. Seemed the voters of this parish had decided to keep it dry. At least officially. I wondered about the saloon across the street, and figured that vamps didn’t have to follow the law around here—which might account for all the crosses everywhere.

 

I shoved a hand into the ice, grabbed a cold bottle from the bottom, pulled a Wynona’s Big Brown Ale out of the cooler, and made a soft cooing sound. I like the taste of beer, from time to time, and Voodoo Brewery made some of the best microbrews in the South. I popped the top and took an exploratory sip. Though the alcohol did nothing for one of my kind—the metabolism of skinwalkers is simply too fast and burns alcohol off in minutes—the taste exploded in my mouth and the icy beer traced a trail down my esophagus. “Oh, yeah,” I murmured and took another.

 

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