Free E. Godz by Robert Asprin, Esther Friesner Page A

flies out the window. They're like your precious tourists: They believe
because they want to believe. I'll just give them something to believe in that's a whole lot
trendier than you. They'll flock to her in droves! Or drive to her in flocks! Who cares?
Either put your power in my camp or kiss it good-bye."
    By this time the fire in Fiorella's green eyes had escalated to the white-hot heat of
fresh lava. "If you're trying to woo my support over to your side, you're going about it in
quite the wrong way," she hissed.
    "I don't woo," Peez said. "I win. And when I win, so do you. Or you can give your
support to my baby brother, if you like. It's a free country. Then see where it gets you."
    "Because you're packing a stealth witch-queen?" Fiorella pursed her lips. "Maybe I
ought to be afraid. Maybe I ought to pledge my support to you right now ... but I won't. I
like to review all of my options. I want to hear what Dov's got to say."
    "Think he can protect you?" Peez laughed. It sounded a lot like Teddy Tumtum at his
nastiest.
    "You know, Peez, I'm still going to wait for Dov, but I think you just might have the
right mix of gall and backbone to be a decent corporate harpy after all," Fiorella mused.
"I don't like you, but I respect you."
    "I'll settle for that," Peez said, grinning. But in her heart a lonely little girl hung her
head and thought: I always have.

Chapter Five
    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