My dragon seemed to take no notice of my words, craning his neck to look around the stable. Now, however, it seemed to me his innocence was exaggerated . . . that he was deliberately avoiding looking me in the eye.
“If you say so,” Aahz shrugged, heading for the door. “In the meantime, let’s go see Bunny before she explodes.”
I hesitated a moment longer, then followed him out of the stables.
Chapter Two:
“It’s good to see you, too.”
-H. LIVINGSTON, M.D.
AS AAHZ HAD predicted, my three bodyguards were waiting for me outside the stables. They seemed to be arguing about something, but broke off their discussion and started looking vigilant as soon as I appeared.
Now, you may think it would be kind of fun to have your own bodyguards. If so, you’ve never actually had one.
What it really means is that you give up any notion that your life is your own. Privacy becomes a vague memory you have to work at recalling, as “sharing” becomes the norm . . . starting with the food on your plate and ending with going to the John. (“Geez, Boss! You know how many guys got whacked because someone was hiding in the can? Just pretend we ain’t here.”) Then, too, there’s the constant, disquieting reminder that, however swell a fellow you may think you are, there are people out there waiting for a chance to bring your career to a premature conclusion. I had to keep telling myself that this latter point didn’t apply to me, that Don Bruce had insisted on assigning me Guido and Nunzio more as status symbols than anything else. I had hired Pookie on my own, though, after getting jumped during my recent trip to Perv, so I couldn’t entirely discount the fact that bodyguards were occasionally necessary and not just an inconvenient decoration.