The Alternative Detective (Hob Draconian)

Cover The Alternative Detective (Hob Draconian)
Snack bars, boutiques, sex shops, cafés, all were out in full force. I took a look at my companion. He was tall, with a yellowish-green complexion, raptor eyes and a Pancho Villa moustache. What I had taken for a cassock turned out to be a poncho.
“Have you got a name?” I asked him, “or do I just refer to you as the bogus priest?”
“Call me Ishmael,” he said. “No, don’t call me Ishmael, that’s just a nervous reflex from the literature course I took last year at the New School in New York.”
“Was
...it a good course?” I asked. I mean, you have to say something.
“I particularly liked the buxom young Jewish girls who attended,” he said. “For the rest of it, I’ll be happy when I can stop thinking about white whales. You may call me Esteban.”
We walked on a ways in companionable silence. At last I asked him, “Where, exactly, are you taking me?”
By this time we had come to the shadowy stretches around the Fountain of Innocents. It is a place of bad memory, where, during the siege of Paris by Henri of Navarre in 1590, it is said that the dead rose out of the great charnel house which encircled this area and danced in the streets.
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