But between Cuvier and Aurelia, he sure had a full bait bucket.
"The best way I can help my people," Aureiia told Remo, "is to stay with you and see these monsters finally destroyed."
Since Remo was trying to accomplish exactly that, it was hard to turn her down. Come to think of it, it would have been hard to turn her down on anything.
But he knew he couldn't guarantee her safety, because he still didn't know for sure what they were up against. Was there one loup-garau, Leon, and a pack of trained dogs? Or were there several loups-garous?
Was he-or were they-really the product of the mad genius of Judith White? Or was there something different, something less explicable?
Remo frankly didn't have a clue what he was up against, except that Armand Fortier and company were at the root of it, their blood-stained Cajun fingers pulling strings behind the scenes.
With that in mind, he had decided on a visit to Atlanta, no real plan in mind except to meet the Cajun godfather in person, try to shake him up and crank his paranoia up an octave with the news that members of his home team in New Orleans had begun to crack.
Aside from Ham DuBois, in fact, it wasn't strictly true. The three gorillas in the cemetery would have talked, he was convinced, but they were simple button men, the kind of bottom feeders who digested rumors from the street and spit them back in garbled form. They would admit to serving Armand Fortier and "knew" he had a loup-garou on call for "special jobs," but anything beyond that point was garbled nonsense. Remo exhausted their meager store of intelligence and left them there, fresh customers for the New Orleans boneyard.
Which left Remo with his most important unanswered question-how to get to the loup-garou, the one he now knew was named Leon. But nobody really seemed to know how to get to Leon.
Fortier and friends would have no difficulty tracking down the stiffs in the graveyard, but short of scheduling a seance, there was no way to discover what, if anything, they had divulged before they died. With any luck at all, the prospect of informers in the ranks would amplify the innate paranoia that was part of every gangster's personality, alert to treachery from "friends" and relatives around the clock.
The first rule of organized crime had always been, would always be to do unto others before they could do it to you. Armand had come up through the ranks the hard way, killing or subverting those who blocked his path to power, and he knew damn well that others had been waiting in the wings, hoping for him to fall. His prison term had cleared the way for Bettencourt, but now that Fortier was trying for a comeback, with his bid for a new trial, he had to know that some of his old buddies would be just as glad to have him stay exactly where he was.
And maybe, if the Cajun godfather got anxious, if he started pushing hard enough, something would snap. If he began to whistle for his loup-garou...
That's what Remo was hoping for. That someone, anyone would draw out the werewolf. And the sooner the better. Every hour in New Orleans gave the enemy another chance to tag Jean Cuvier, another chance to kill Aurelia Boldiszar. He knew the woman and his witness were secure with Chiun, for now.
It was a dicey business, he decided, when you had a werewolf by the tail.
THE CROWDED STREETS PUT Leon off, disturbed him, conjuring sensations that were almost claustrophobic, but the summons had permitted no denial. If he had refused, as he was first inclined to do, there would be trouble. Exposure, on some level. He and the pack would have to flee their home and find another place to hide, outside the bayou country.
He hated to think of that happening. So he had come into the city, trusting Bettencourt's assurance that the free-for-all of Mardi Gras would mask him better than a physical disguise. No sweat, the go-between had promised him. Boss said just be himself.
And so he was.
Against all odds, he found a parking space two blocks from his appointed rendezvous and wedged the van into it, ramming bumpers fore and aft. If anybody noticed in his absence, they were free to jot down his license number. The plates were stolen and would be discarded once he got back home.
He locked the van and stepped into the maelstrom of activity that swirled around him, checking out the costumes, men on stilts, half-naked women, fireworks going off at random in the crowd, an all-pervasive smell of alcohol, gunpowder, sweat and lust that made him giddy, brought a hot rush of saliva to his mouth. It was the biggest, most frenetic freak show he had ever seen, but as he started for the sidewalk, part of Leon's brain still felt as if a spotlight followed him, some cosmic finger pointing to alert the dipshit normals that he wasn't one of them-that he was real.
As if in answer to his fears, a short man in a diaper stepped into his path, a beer bottle in one hand, giant pacifier in the other.
"Hey, man!" the intoxicated creature said to Leon. "That's some crazy costume. Where'd you find it?"
"It's homemade," the werewolf told him, stepping to one side.
The tipsy "infant" moved to block him. "Awesome," he said. "You got a card? How much did it cost?"
"It's not for sale," said Leon, finally brushing past the stranger, merging with the crowd. His skin was crawling, but another part of him was starting to relax.
Some crazy costume. If they only knew the half of it.
Leon had reviewed an ancient street map, creased and mildewed, prior to starting on his journey. He had memorized street names and landmarks, the historic buildings that were spotted on a map and unlikely to change their names. Thus readied for the challenge, he had no great difficulty finding where he meant to go, but there was still a nagging sense of others staring at him.
But nothing happened, and he made his way into the heart of the French Quarter. He could smell the Mississippi River, not so far away. Its smell was reminiscent of the bayou country, but without the stagnant odor of decay that was so common in the swamp. Now all he had to do was find the intersection and a certain restaurant.
The limousine was parked outside a smallish Cajun restaurant, the engine idling. One of Fortier's leg breakers stood beside the car, the only person visible to Leon who had opted for a business suit in lieu of more exotic garb. The Cajun did a double take as Leon stopped beside the car, and then a window powered down, in back. Someone inside the car spoke to the goon in French, the blacked-out window closed again and Fortier's gorilla held the door for Leon as he climbed into the car.
He settled on a jump seat, facing three more men in stylish suits. One of the younger pair leaned farward, reaching for him, but the Cajun in the middle hauled him back and shook his head.
"Don't be insultin' Leon, now," the oldest of the three men said. "He didn't come here to shoot me, did you, Leon?"
Leon shook his head. It was a stupid question, but he knew it would be rude to say so.
"I'm Merle Bettencourt," the boss man said. "I don't believe we've met before."
The Cajun knew damn well they hadn't met. Leon had only met his boss one time, and that had been enough for both of them. Merle glanced at Leon's shaggy hands, as if considering if they should shake, deciding he would pass.
"I guess you wonderin' why I call this meeting, hey?"
Leon had no response beyond a shrug. The man would tell him what he wanted when he got around to it. These "normal" men weren't always direct in dealings with one another, much less with a creature they regarded as a freak of nature.