NO Quarter by Robert Asprin Page A

it up, settled my tab, and hit the sandbox, figuring to call it a night. That probably would have been all there was to it. But as chance would have it, when I came out of the restroom, Bantam Boy—now very drunk—pushed off his stool and went staggering out of the bar, not ten feet ahead of me. I followed him out, but I didn’t follow him, understand. I was just heading home, and he happened to be in front of me.
    Even then, had there been anyone else out on the street, I probably would have let it go. As it happened, Toulouse was empty in both directions.
    If fate intends something that adamantly, why fight it?
    As usual, I was wearing “felon-fliers”—that’s athletic shoes to the suburbanites. I like to move quietly, as it lets me hear what else is going on around me. In the shape he was in, though, I don’t think he would have heard a brass band coming up behind him as he staggered and lurched his way down the sidewalk.
    He certainly didn’t hear little ol’ me as I lengthened my stride and slid up close behind him. I took one last glance up and down the street, and then I raised my hand until it was floating just behind his shoulder blades. Then, when he was in mid-stride and off balance, I powered him forward with a full hip twist and all the strength of my arm and upper body. He would have plowed the pavement face first if a street sign hadn’t been in the way. It made a vague, dull, but pleasing musical sound as he hit it and went down. I took the corner without breaking stride and never looked back.
    It didn’t even make the papers, being a fairly unremarkable incident. Rumor said that he had a broken nose and jaw plus multiple lacerations. Since he still had his money when he was scooped up, it was generally written off as a drunken tumble. He himself had no recollections of what happened. I’d heard his girlfriend—the one lucky to still have her left eye—left town before he got out of the hospital. He had since moved away, too. Good riddance.
    I mentally shrugged it away and focused my eyes on Pete, opting for indignation over innocence.
    “ What? You’re talking about whazizname? The rough-off artist? You think I did a number on him? Com’on, Pete. You’ve known me for ... what ... five years now? Have you ever known me to get into a fight? Even when the other guy was leaning real hard?”
    He thought for a moment, shrugged.
    “Yeah. You’re right.” He shook his head. “Sorry. Just wishful thinking on my part, I guess. When I heard he took a tumble, I didn’t want it to be that easy. I wanted the son of a bitch to have gotten a bit of his own.”
    “It would have been nice,” I agreed, “but we’ll have to settle for what happened. Call it karma.”
    “I guess.”
    “As far as Sunshine goes, I was just curious is all. Everybody’s tongue is wagging over the murder, naturally. Some are saying she was doped up when it happened, but some are saying she was straight. Since I was here, I thought I’d ask. No big deal.”
    “Somebody thinks it’s a big deal,” Pete insisted. “That’s why I flinched when you asked. The boys are keeping real quiet on this one.”
    “Yeah?” I didn’t press, just waited, hoping he had more to say.
    He did. “They found some dead chickens and Voodoo stuff around the body. You’d think that would be enough to set them on edge. But that’s not what’s bothering them.” Pete leaned closer and dropped his voice, even though there was no one to hear. “The word is she got done with an ice pick, or something like one. Double punch to the heart.”
    I gave a low whistle. “No wonder they’re edgy,” I said. “Do me a favor. Forget I asked anything.”
    “You didn’t ask. And I definitely didn’t say anything.”
    “Yeah. Well, catch you later.”
    A lot of thoughts were churning in my head as I made my way down the street. Mostly, I was annoyed that Pete had connected me with that rough-off artist. Even if I had convinced him I had nothing