Dragons Luck

by Robert Asprin

  “You sure about that list?” Griffen pressed.

  “Pretty sure. But remember, always a surprise or two.” Slim walked toward the door and had it halfway open when he stopped, looking down at his empty hand. He had left his bucket back at the table. Before he even turned, one of the three dogs stood up and was dragging it to him in its teeth. He scritched the dog affectionately and winked to Griffen before leaving.

  If anyone found it odd, no one commented. Or even looked up from their conversations. Which left Griffen stuck on one very important question.

  What could be too odd for the French Quarter?

  Seven

  Griffen really didn’t want to talk to Detective Harrison. If nothing else, he wasn’t sure what to say to the man.

  “By the way, Detective, there will be a bunch of weird, supernatural types hitting town over the Halloween weekend. You might want to keep an eye out for them, but don’t lean on them too hard.”

  That would raise some questions Griffen would just as soon have left unasked.

  Still, the vice detective had done him some favors in the past, mostly because he hated feds operating on his turf even more than he hated protected gambling operations. Knowing there was potential trouble coming down the pipeline and not alerting the policeman would be a poor way to pay him back.

  Griffen decided against calling Harrison on his cell phone for fear it would make the whole thing too official for comfort. Instead, he would try to meet with the detective casually, making it appear to be a chance run-in.

  To that end, he put the word out through his various watchers in the Quarter to alert him when Harrison was spotted in the area but not actively working.

  He thought this would buy him a bit of time to figure out what he was going to say, but the call came back almost immediately, letting him know that Harrison was eating at Yo Mama’s.

  Sometimes he wished his network of watchers was a little less efficient.

  Padre, one of his favorite bartenders, was behind the bar when he rolled in. Catching his glance, the man jerked his head slightly toward one of the back booths, then rolled his eyes in mock exasperation. Not knowing quite what to make of the signal that had been passed to him, Griffen made his way toward the indicated booth. It didn’t take him long to figure out what Padre had been trying to tell him.

  Harrison, as always looking more like an overweight biker than a cop, was sprawled loosely in the last booth, a half-full bottle of beer in front of him.

  “Well, look who’s here,” the detective drawled. “My friend the Grifter . . . or should I say Mr. McCandles. Pull in, son. Let me buy you a round or two.”

  Harrison waved at Padre as Griffen settled into the seat across from him. The young dragon certainly didn’t need to use his enhanced powers of observation to realize that Harrison was more than slightly tight.

  “So, what can I do for you?” Harrison said, his words a little slurred. “The only time I see or hear from you is when you want a favor. Nobody wants to drink with a cop except other cops.”

  “Are you okay, Detective?” Griffen said, genuinely concerned. “You seem a little out of it. Is anything wrong?”

  “Wrong?” Harrison said, louder than was necessary. “How could anything be wrong? I’m a cop with the NOPD. We’ve got the world by the short and curlies. Ask anyone. Better yet, read the newspaper. Everybody loves us.”

  Padre brought over the round of drinks. As he set Griffen’s Irish in front of him, he caught his gaze again and widened his eyes slightly in mock exasperation. Griffen understood completely and sympathized. Dealing with drunks was an unpleasant but nightly occurrence for anyone working in the Quarter. Dealing with a drunken cop in your bar, however, was a no-win scenario for any bartender.

  “I was just curious,” Griffen said, pointedly ignoring the detective’s condition. “We’ve got the Halloween weekend rolling up on us. Is that a problem for you and yours? Do you have to lay on extra help or what?”

  Harrison made a rude noise, blowing a short raspberry through his lips.

  “Hell. It’s no big problem,” he said. “It’s like any other weekend. Just a bit more crowded, and the crazies are wearing costumes is all. Tourists getting drunk and messing with each other and the locals, same as always.”

  “Well, they do keep the Quarter green,” Griffen said, trying to make light of the situation. “Tourism is one of our biggest industries down here.”

  “Tourists,” Harrison said, like the word tasted bad. “Why do they call it tourist season if we can’t shoot ’em?”

  “Oh, come on,” Griffen said. “They aren’t all that bad. In fact, most of them are pretty decent and well behaved.”

  “Niggers, fags, and dope addicts! That’s all the French Quarter is!”

  The intrusion on their discussion came from a suit at the far end of the bar. The speaker was obviously drunk and loudly lecturing his companions, who were trying vainly to quiet him down. They were obviously conventioneers, still wearing their name badges on their lapels.

  Most of the late-night crowd, heavily local, pointedly ignored him. They had all heard it before.

  Harrison, however, leaned out into the aisle and stared at the offending party, blinking his eyes as he tried to focus.

  “Right on cue,” he said. “I may have to bend that boy a little.”

  “No big deal,” Griffen said, hastily. “Padre’s got it under control.”

  There was an unspoken rule in the Quarter: Let the bartender handle any altercations unless he or she specifically called for help. Even as Griffen tried to calm Harrison down, Padre came down the bar toward the trio, leaned close, and said something softly to them. Even though he couldn’t hear the words, Griffen had heard the routine often enough to know it by heart.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen. I’m afraid you’ll either have to lower your voices, or I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

  “Don’t worry, Mr. McCandles,” Harrison said, regaining his upright posture. “If it comes down to it, you won’t have to testify. That would be a hoot, wouldn’t it? A cop calling a professional gambler as a character witness.”

  Griffen started to protest, but the situation erupted again.

  “Don’t tell me to quiet down!” the drunk was declaring, shaking off the restraining hands of his friends. “And if you lay a hand on me, I’ll sue your ass and this bar for everything they got! You want me out of here? You’re gonna have to call a cop!”

  Harrison was out of the booth and walking up to the man before Griffen could say anything more.

  “You want a cop, mister?” he said flashing his badge. “You got one. Let’s step outside.”

  The drunk gaped at the detective.

  “Bullshit! You don’t look like no cop I’ve ever seen!” He turned his attention to Padre again. “Who’s this? Your boyfriend?”

  Moving fast for his bulk, Harrison took the drunk backward off his bar stool and onto the floor. He had a fist cocked and ready to go, then he hesitated and took a deep breath.

  Still gripping the drunk with one hand, the detective hauled him erect and set him on his feet.

  “We want our visitors to have a good time when they’re down here,” he hissed, “so we’ll just call this a misunderstanding.”

  He glanced at the man’s two companions.

  “Take him back to the hotel and don’t let me see him on the streets until he’s slept it off.”

  He shoved the drunk into the arms of his friends, who gathered him in and hustled him out the door.

  Harrison watched them go, still breathing hard, then walked unsteadily to the door and stood staring after them. A few beats later, he stepped out onto the street and strode off in the direction the men had taken.

  “What in the world was eating Harrison?” Griffen said, when the bartender came to the booth to clear away the empty beer bottles.

  “He’s been suspended,” Padre said. “Got a reprimand for roughing up a couple frat boys.”

  “Wh
at?”

  “Yeah. They were slapping one of the kids that tap-dance for tips around. Calling him names and asking if he gave blow jobs. Harrison stepped in and put a stop to it. Next thing you know one of their daddies is suing the city and the police department for undue force.” Padre gave a sigh. “Harrison ended up holding the bag on the whole thing. It hasn’t improved his opinion of tourists, to say the least.”

  Griffen reflected on the situation as Padre moved off. He knew from his own experience that tourists could be a pain. Most of them were okay, but there were some that seemed bound and determined to start trouble. He was just glad that it was the police’s job to ride herd on them.

  Then it occurred to him that in a few weeks, he would be trying to perform the same function for the conclave. He stopped being glad.

  It also occurred to him that Harrison was not a good person to talk to about the conclave that was hitting town.

  Eight

  The shooter had been sitting in a window seat in Harry’s Corner for nearly two hours, quietly nursing one beer after another as he watched the street outside. In actuality, he was watching the gateway to the apartment complex that was kitty-corner to the corner bar.

  He was from out of town, Biloxi specifically, but had visited New Orleans and the Quarter often enough to have a fair grasp of its layout. He was a little surprised, however, that he had been brought in for this job instead of whoever it was that hired him using local talent. Still, the money was good, and it looked like an easy, fast in-and-out job.

  Suddenly, he came out of his reverie. The target was just emerging from the complex gateway. As the shooter watched, the target—just a kid, really—checked to be sure the gate had locked behind him, then set off down the sidewalk with a long-legged, rapid stride, passing right by the bar where the shooter was watching, but on the other side of the street.

  Trying to keep his movements unhurried, the shooter gathered up the paper shopping bag from the floor next to his feet and left, leaving a half-full beer behind him. The bartender and the other customers barely registered his departure.

  He held the distance he was following his prey at about half a block as the youth headed off across Jackson Square. Now that he was moving, the shooter’s normal patience fell into place. He would keep following the target until they reached a deserted stretch of street, then he would make his move. All he needed was a space where there were no pedestrians within twenty or thirty feet . . . and no cops, of course. At that distance, at night, witnesses were notoriously unreliable, if they decided to involve themselves at all. Within fifteen or twenty minutes, he could be back in his car and on his way to the expressway. Another half hour, and he would be out of the state.

  He could follow all night, waiting for his opportunity, or, if it was necessary, make his move along this very stretch as the youth returned to his apartment. He hoped for a better setup, but this would do in a pinch.

  He was pleasantly surprised when, after the target had crossed the Square, the youth turned left toward the river rather than turning right toward Bourbon Street and the profusion of bars and nightclubs. Maybe the kid was out to take a walk along the river. If so, the job could be over much quicker than he had anticipated.

  Picking up his stride slightly to narrow the gap, the shooter hefted the bag he was carrying. Inside it was his favorite weapon, a double-barreled shotgun cut down until it was barely ten inches long overall. No way to check ballistics on a shotgun, and he rarely needed to use the second barrel.

  The target crossed the street, heading for the river. The shooter hesitated for a moment, making a quick sweep visually to see if there were any police cars in the immediate area, then followed. As he started up the inclined driveway, he was suddenly aware of footsteps approaching him from behind. Before he could turn, he felt something hard being pressed against his side.

  “Just keep walkin’, mister,” came a voice from behind him. “Hang a left up here into the parkin’ lot.”

  The shooter was struck by the irony of the situation. Here he was about to do a job on someone, and it seemed he was getting mugged.

  “This is far enough,” came the voice again. “Put the bag down, then step away from it and turn around. Keep your hands where we can see them.”

  It seemed whoever he was dealing with was versed in police procedure. Probably from the other side. It also occurred to him that he was now in the exact situation he had been planning on catching his target in. A deserted stretch of space with no witnesses.

  He followed the instructions and turned slowly. There were two of them, both young and male. Both black. One of them was openly holding a nine-millimeter semiautomatic pistol.

  “If this is about money,” the shooter said, calmly, “I can—”

  “Shut up!” said the pistol holder. “Check the bag.”

  His partner picked up the paper bag, hefted it, and looked inside.

  “Shotgun,” he said. “Cut-down.”

  “Uh-huh,” the pistol man said, not taking his eyes off the shooter. “You working alone or with a partner?”

  “Alone,” the shooter said, then immediately wondered if he should have lied.

  “Well,” said the pistol man, “it seems we have us a bit of a problem . . . or, at least, you do.”

  “What’s going on here? Patches? Is that you?”

  The target, no longer headed for the river, was walking up to the group.

  “Oh . . . Hi, Mr. Griffen,” said the pistol man, suddenly looking a bit embarrassed.

  “Hi yourself, Patches,” the target said mockingly. “Mind telling me what you’re doing here?”

  “Well, I . . . we . . . we spotted this guy following you and thought we’d check him out,” the young gunman said. “He’s got a shotgun in that bag there.”

  “I know he was following me,” the target said. “That’s why I was leading him up to the Moonwalk. The question is, what are you doing here? This isn’t your normal neighborhood.”

  “Well . . . Okay. We were watching out for you.”

  “Any particular reason?” the target pressed.

  “We heard that someone had a contract out on you,” the gunman said. “My brother, TeeBo, said we should keep an eye on you and step in if anything went down.”

  “He couldn’t just give me a call and warn me?”

  “We weren’t sure if it was true or not,” the youth named Patches said. “Besides, this way, if we did you a favor, he thought maybe you’d think you owed us a favor sometime.”

  The whole scene had a vaguely surreal feel for the shooter. Not only had he walked into some kind of a trap—or double trap—it seemed the others had all but forgotten about him as they continued their conversation.

  “Well, you tell TeeBo that I appreciate the gesture, but I don’t think I want to owe him a favor over this.” The target was smiling. “Sometime, maybe. But not now and not over this. Put the gun away and give him back his bag.”

  “If you say so, Mr. Griffen.”

  The gunman’s pistol disappeared, and he nodded to his partner, who tossed the paper bag at the shooter’s feet.

  “Um . . . mind if we stick around for this?” Patches said.

  “We won’t do nothin’, but I’d kinda like to see this. I know TeeBo will want to hear about it.”

  “Suit yourself.” The target shrugged. “But you’d better move a little farther away. If this guy uses a shotgun, he probably doesn’t shoot that straight.”

  The two black youths eased a few steps to the side, and the target turned his attention to the shooter.

  “Well?” he said. “Anytime you’re ready.”

  The shooter stared at him for a moment, then, moving slowly, he bent over and took the shotgun out of the bag. Without going near the triggers, he broke the weapon open, removed the shells, and threw them away.

  “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll pass on this one,” he said.

  “All this is more than I bargained for, and I’ve got a bad fee
ling I’m way out of my league here. All I want now is to walk away from the whole thing.”

  “That’s acceptable.” The target nodded. “Just go back and tell whoever hired you that if he sends anyone else, I won’t be as generous.”

  He turned his back on the shooter.

  “C’mon, Patches,” he said. “At least let me buy you two a drink.”

  The shooter watched the three young men walk away and decided then and there that this had been his last job.

  Nine

  As usual, the crowd was light in the late afternoon at the Irish pub. The bartender was idly browsing through the newspaper and didn’t even look up, much less wave, when the man who had been playing the video poker machine finished his beer and wandered out the side door.

  In the seemingly random pecking order of the bar-centered social life in the Quarter, the video poker players, sometimes referred to as video crackheads, were pretty much the bottom of the food chain. They rarely if ever interacted with any of the regulars or even the bartenders, except to get another beer or to break a twenty from the latter. Instead, they would sit glued to their chosen machines for hours, staring at the screen as they sipped their drinks and pumped more money in as needed. In a bar that was heavy on conversation and pool, this put them well under the radar. One rarely noticed their coming or going, or even their presence while they were there.

  This made the role ideal for the man who had just exited the pub. Unlike most, he worked at being unnoticed. In fact, the last time he had been in town, he made a point of hanging at this specific bar and establishing himself as one of those invisible video poker players. It was the perfect guise in which he could watch and listen yet not be seen. Even now, he doubted the bartender knew or remembered his name.

  Of course, being a shape-shifter helped.

  Reflecting on that, the man smiled to himself. For all their self-trumpeted powers of size changing and shape-shifting, the big bad dragons barely scratched the surface of the possibilities of those skills. Young McCandles might be excused because he was still new to the game, but the older, more experienced dragons didn’t have that alibi. Their prolonged ignorance was yet another example of dragon arrogance. If you had enough power, why bother learning finesse?