It is night time in the French Quarter, near the corner of Dauphine and Toulouse Streets. Branson looks through the rain-streaked windshield towards the Hotel St. Louis. Tourists scuttle about trying to get out of the rain. A few revelers are wandering off of Bourbon, too inebriated to notice that these streets still have traffic in them. He speaks into a concealed headset.
"No, I've not seen him yet. I think he's a no-show."
A tinny, female voice responds:
"I was assured that he would be there by now. I'm sorry."
"Maybe he decided to get drunk. It is New Orleans after all. I'll keep waiting as long as you keep paying me."
A barely audible click signals the end of Branson's conversation. A drunk woman with stringy, wet, red hair takes an interest in Branson's car. She sits on the hood as another woman fishes out a camera. Branson takes his pistol and taps on the windshield with the barrel. Suddenly sober, the ginger jumps off the hood and hustles out of view.
"He's not going to be here," Branson mutters.
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