“Some things ain’t given to us to make the tourists laugh. Or to fill the pockets, ya hear?” Slim went on.

“Sorry, Slim, I didn’t mean any offense,” Griffen said.

“Well . . . no, guess you didn’t, Mr. Griffen. Sorry, it’s a sore spot. Not everyone thinks the same way ’mongst folks like me. I remember this here fine gal in New York did just that. Lovely girl, worked with pigeons, but didn’t hold that ’gainst her none. ’Course she also had squirrels. Picked pockets and the like. Gots into all sorts of trouble . . .”

Griffen let him trail off. It was the first time Slim had really shared anything personal with him. Slim seemed to shake himself, coming back from whatever memory he had drifted into.

“Anyways, touchy subject. Specially since it always comes up at the big meets. ’Spose I been bracin’ myself for when the fightin’ starts, ya know?”

“You mean at the conclave?” Griffen asked.

“Yep. Damn near forgots what I was lookin’ for you for. Got some stuff for you.”

Slim reached into his bucket again and pulled out a black folder. Griffen took it from him and looked inside. The contents looked no different than what one might receive at any convention: a map of the Quarter, a hotel map with meeting rooms marked off, a list of helpful phone numbers.

“I been helpin’ Rose out. Doin’ the stuff that it’s helpful to be fully corporeal for. All the attendees gets a folder like this. We’ll work up an itinerary as the guest list gets finalized.”

“I didn’t know you were attending, much less helping to organize things,” Griffen said.

“Well now, the other animal-control people is attendin’ this year. Since this is my home, falls to me to help things go smooth. ’Course, I sure hope I don’t end up stuck bein’ the main spokesman. We is too damned independent. I don’t want to be the one holdin’ the bag.”