It was a well-documented fact, attested to by all the highest authorities among gourmets, gourmands, trenchermen, foodies, and just plain greedy-guts, that the only way to get a really bad meal in New Orleans was to search for it with all the fervor of a knight of old upon a holy quest.

But who would want to be fool enough to do that? Certainly not Dov Godz. He had a fondness for all of the best things in life, which included food. New Orleans would always have a special place in his heart, but his stomach infallibly came along for the ride. It was a pleasure undimmed by repetition to visit that storied city at the mouth of the Mississippi on a whim, but when he had the opportunity to justify his self-indulgence by coming to New Orleans on business— Ah, that was a thrill divine.

Now, ensconced behind a plate of sugary beignets, his third cup of chicory coffee readily to hand, Dov sat under the awnings at the famous Cafe du Monde and reviewed his game plan. He'd arrived the previous evening and enjoyed a sumptuous dinner, but apart from that, he hadn't accomplished a thing. There was something about New Orleans that told a body not to fret or fluster, because there was time for everything, and everything in its own good time.

First thing I have to do is go back to the hotel and change my clothes, he thought, casting a rueful glance at the front of his formerly dapper suit. He had forgotten the first rule of dining in New Orleans, namely: Never eat beignets while wearing black. Those small, pillowy, feather-light, unbelievably delicious squares of fried dough were traditionally served buried beneath avalanches of powdered sugar. During the height of the tourist season, a sweet, white fog hovered immobile over the open-air tables at Cafe du Monde. It was said that the emergency rooms and walk-in clinics of the Queen City were frequently jammed by periodic influxes of out-of-towners who had unwisely attempted to eat beignets and talk at the same time, almost choking to death in the process.

Rule Two: If you're going to eat beignets, don't inhale.

Dov sipped his coffee and signaled the waiter for his check. When it arrived, he put down a stack of crisp tenners, slapped on his most charming smile, and said, "I beg your pardon, but do you think you could help me out with a small matter of—?"

The waiter gave him the gimlet eye. "Look, friend, I don't know what you've been told about N'Awlins, but even if it were Mardi Gras, which it's not, I wouldn't—"

"Oh, no! Nononononono," Dov said hastily, blushing to the eyebrows. "All I want is a little help finding someone. An old friend of mine. You see, he lives in the French Quarter, and he doesn't—"

"—have a telephone?" the waiter finished the thought for him. "What about an address? Do you have that much?" Dov shook his head. "Not very friendly for an 'old friend,' then, is he?"

Dov's smile wobbled just a bit. "I misspoke. He's a business acquaintance."

"Ah. I see." The waiter eyed the stack of bills wistfully. "I'd love to help you, sir, really I would, but you don't know how it is down here. When a man lives in the Quarter and doesn't have a phone and a stranger comes nosing around, asking about him, it's a sure thing that ain't no one going to be giving that stranger any information. You might accidentally tread on a man's toes, doing that. Folks don't appreciate having their toes trod on. Now you say this man's a ... business acquaintance?"

Dov nodded and said, "I suppose you want to know what sort of business."

"Oh no, sir, no, not at all." The waiter raised one hand, fending off any unwanted information. "Matter of fact, I'm happier not knowing."

"Why? Afraid I'll lie to you for my own nefarious purposes?" Dov kicked his boyish smile up a notch. "I'm flattered."

"I'm not afraid of nothing like that; I just kinda expect it as a matter of course." The waiter had a pretty high-intensity grin of his own. He placed two fingers on the stack of bills and gave them a short push back in Dov's direction. "A word of advice, friend, and it's free: If you're bound and determined to find a man in the Quarter and you don't have a clue about where to start, wait until dark. Then go there, be there, look around. You'll find him if you're meant to. Otherwise, be smart: Go home."

"You're kidding. You want me to blunder through the French Quarter all night long, trying to find one man?" Dov peeled two bills off the top of the stack and shoved them onto the waiter. "Think again."

The waiter took a step back, away from Dov and his persistent attempts at bribery. His upper lip curled. "You want to know what I think, sir?" His hand swooped in and scooped up the pile of tens still on the tabletop. "I think a man like you will only find what he's looking for in St. Louis 1, that's what." He turned on his heel and was gone.

"St. Louis 1? What the hell does that mean?" Dov cursed the waiter under his breath, but his snit was interrupted by the sound of muffled laughter coming from inside his shirt. He grabbed the silver chain around his neck and fished Ammi out into the sunlight. The little amulet was giggling.

"Oh, he told you, all right!" Ammi said. "You big idiot."

"What did he tell me, if you're so smart?" Dov countered. He had no fear that his fellow breakfasters would think him insane for talking to jewelry: He'd wrapped Ammi in an A.R.S. even before getting into the car that took them to the Miami airport. Any person within range of their conversations would unconsciously come up with self- convincing reasons to account for everything seen and overheard. Thus, instead of the panicky realization That lunatic is talking to his necklace. And it's talking back! the innocent bystander would instead calmly reflect Gee, I wish I had a cell phone as small as the one that guy's got. And it's silver. Classy. Cool.

"Weren't you listening?" The amulet enjoyed taunting Dov. "He told you to go to St. Louis 1, which is the same thing as saying— Well, I'd rather not lower myself to using that kind of language, if you don't mind."

"I don't get get it. What's St. Louis 1?"

"A cemetery. Very historic, very quaint, very famous, and very likely a good place to get the snot kicked out of you during a mugging. Not the place a person sends someone he likes."

Dov glared in the direction the waiter had gone. "He sends me to get mugged and he's got the nerve to take my money. Bastard."

"Oh, please, you did everything but stuff that bankroll in his pocket! You're going to have to learn how to take 'No' for an answer, Dov."

"I don't think so. That's more my sister's style." Dov stood up from the table. He left no payment and no tip. The waiter had more than enough in the stack of tens he'd taken to cover both.

"Where are we going now?" Ammi asked.

"Back to the hotel. I need a change of clothes and a nap."

"Kind of early for that, isn't it?"

"Not for what I've got to do. I paid for information and all I got was advice, but I paid plenty and I'm going to take it!" He popped Ammi back down inside his shirt and declared: "I'll find Mr. Bones tonight, or know the reason why."

* * *

"You'd think that someone with a name like Mr. Bones would be easy to find," Ammi said as he and Dov walked around Jackson Square for the third time that night. "But noooo."

"Quit your bitching," Dov snapped. They had spent the better part of the night crisscrossing the streets of the Vieux Carre, with Dov making only the most discreet enquiries of the natives as to the whereabouts of his prey. He had not repeated his attempts at buying information, figuring that a flash of cash was more likely to buy him trouble. Still, despite a powerful combination of diplomacy, tact, and charm, his queries turned up nothing but blank stares at best, hostile looks and muttered curses at worst. "I'm the one who's been doing all the legwork. You're just along for the ride."