Then she brought the glass to her mouth and downed its contents in a single gulp. Quincey Morris took a sip of his bourbon and branch water. "Feeling any better?""A little. At least I've got the smell of that place out of my nostrils." She signaled the waitress for another drink. "How about you?"He let his gaze wander around the room before answering. Homer's Hideaway, like all the French Quarter bars, was doing a brisk business, even at three in the afternoon. Tourists from Kansas City and Pittsburgh sipped Hurricanes and listened to the cheesy faux-zydeco coming from the juke, telling themselves that they were doing the real Cajun thing now."I'm all right, I guess," Morris said. "Although I'm glad to be out of that slaughterhouse, too." He waited while the waitress served Libby's second vodka. "Damn, I bet old Esther was pissed, there at the end. Getting hacked up by zombies that you've created yourself has got to lend a whole new meaning to 'Hoist by your own petard.'"Libby nodded pensively.
