Three weeks in New Orleans and he'd still managed to evade both Guilds: even Remy was pretty impressed with himself. It had been a good life, a simple life: card tricks for tourists, picking pockets for pocket money, sleeping in Scott's old truck, parked near a cemetary. Granted, he'd taken care as to where he could be seen. First few weeks, he kept to the outskirts of the city, working pit stops and bayou towns; next moving onto the more boring neighborhoods, full of suit-and-tie families just begging to be picked off. It was a challenge, making sure he was still limber enough for the job, but he was pleased to find he could pull it off after seven months with those do-gooders in Westchester. Hey, you're raised on robbery, what do you expect? It's like a bicycle, being Gambit, and you get around.
He let them catch flashes of him, every now and then: two weeks in he sauntered down to the French Quarter and made forty-two dollars off a pair of tourists from Idaho. He laughed, he cajoled, he even juggled a little, and they were always wowed at his sleight of hand. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Gaspard St.-Sirois scuttling down a back alley, and smiled. He liked being a rumor, and if the likes of him were to be spreading the news, he'd remain one for a few more days at least. Remy took it easy. Gambled a little, won some money, bet some on a cockfight.
His seventeenth night away from Mississippi, he hired a hooker. It was the best sex he'd had since June. Her name was Giselle. That was his first mistake.
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