Dragons Luck

by Robert Asprin

  “That does it for me,” Mai said, finishing her drink and rising. “I’m sure he’ll have all sorts of ideas about how you should handle things, but I don’t have the stomach to listen to it. I’d probably get into it with him, and you don’t need more problems right now. Just be sure to count your fingers if he shakes hands.”

  “Hello, Mai,” Flynn said, stepping up to the table. “You’re looking beautiful, as always.”

  Mai smiled prettily at him.

  “Bite me, Flynn,” she said. “Later, lover.”

  The whole bar watched her leave.

  “I hope I didn’t interrupt anything,” Flynn said, easing into a vacant chair.

  “It’s not you,” Griffen said. “Well, not entirely you. I’m not very good company tonight.”

  “Oh? Problems at the conclave?”

  Griffen reflected for a moment on Mai’s warning but decided that Flynn was too good a resource to waste. At the very least, he could listen to the older dragon’s advice and not follow it.

  Leaning back in his chair, he gave Flynn a quick summary of the problem with Slim.

  “The way I see it, you’ve got a tempest in a teapot there,” Flynn said with a shrug. “It will only get to be a big thing if you let it. Just downplay it, and it will go away.”

  “And how am I supposed to do that?” Griffen said.

  Flynn leaned forward, putting his elbows on the table.

  “Just get word to Slim that you want to talk to him. Then have a quiet sit-down and talk it all out. If anyone else asks, just say that it’s between you and Slim.”

  “I guess that’s as good a plan as any,” Griffen said with a thoughtful nod. “At least it beats anything that I’ve been able to come up with.”

  He finished his drink and got to his feet, carrying his empty with him.

  “And there’s no time like the present, right? Catch you later, Flynn. And thanks!”

  Flynn waved good-bye and watched him until he was out the door. Then he turned his attention to his own drink with a slight smile.

  So far, he hadn’t been completely satisfied with his success at dealing with the McCandles boy. While the kid was listening to him and asking for advice, he wasn’t always following it. That meant that a lot of the carefully laid traps that Flynn hoped would weaken the support he was gathering weren’t working.

  This Slim incident might just do the trick, however. It reminded the other conclave attendees that Griffen was a dragon and had them on edge wondering how he would react.

  Now all it would take was for something to happen to Slim.

  Forty-three

  Even though it was still several nights before Halloween, the conclave had an evening when no events or gatherings were scheduled. This was done specifically so the attendees could enjoy the Quarter during its pre-Halloween warm-up.

  Halloween in the French Quarter was never just a one-night affair. Starting about a week before, various bars would host costume parties with cash or bar-bill prizes for the best entries. If one really had a hot costume, it was possible to hit different competitions on different nights, sometimes on the same night, and score several prizes on the same outfit. Of course, very few actually attempted this.

  New Orleans was a town that liked to dress up. Between Mardi Gras and various theme parties, nearly everyone had an extensive wardrobe of masks, costumes, and costume pieces one could mix and match to come up with new outfits. For many, it was a source of pride not to wear the same outfit twice . . . or, at least, not twice in the same season. As such, if someone was hitting two different parties in one night, the usual procedure was to duck back to one’s apartment or van and change into a totally different costume before hitting the next party.

  All this meant that on any given night prior to Halloween, there would be individuals and groups roaming the streets and bars of the Quarter in costumes ranging from the clever to the borderline obscene. It was a field day for photographers and exhibitionists alike, and everyone had a good time.

  Even tourists who weren’t expecting such a display would get caught up in the fun, buying inexpensive feather masks and boas to join in the festivities. It was often referred to as a Mardi Gras for locals.

  Griffen, however, took advantage of the opportunity to retreat back to his own apartment for a quiet night alone. Even though the conclave, for the most part, was running smoothly, he found it was still wearing on his nerves.

  He refused several invitations to dinner or for bar-crawling on the vague excuse of “got to take care of something” and made his escape. On his way home he considered calling Mai or Fox Lisa for company but decided against it. Simply put, he realized he was just “peopled out,” and wanted to be by himself. As a final, defiant gesture, he turned off his cell phone. Let them struggle through for one night without him. Tonight was going to be just for him.

  Kicking back in the quiet of his apartment, he ran through the assortment of DVDs he had available. With the approach of Halloween, he had stocked up on an array of horror movies. Somehow, though, after what he had been going though at the conclave, the thought of watching a werewolf or vampire movie just didn’t ring his chimes. Finally, as a sort of compromise, he settled on Young Frankenstein and settled back to watch.

  It was classic Mel Brooks, and silly to the extreme. He had seen it dozens of times before, however, and as the story unfolded, he found his mind wandering.

  Slim had not attended any of the conclave events that day. What was more, when Griffen stopped on the way home to ask some of the various street entertainers if they had seen him, no one was able to give him any specific information. It seemed Slim was making himself scarce for the moment. At some point, Griffen would have to decide if he was going to take time off from the conclave to run him down and clear the air, or if he should simply wait until the event was over and things had calmed down.

  Then there was Tammy. She was still alternating between glaring daggers at him and looking like a kicked puppy every time their paths crossed. Despite Tink’s reassurances that this was just Tammy being Tammy, Griffen still felt he should apologize or at least say something to her but was at a loss to know how or what. Then, too, there was the chance that if he was successful in dealing with her, she would take it as encouragement and decide to stay on in the French Quarter. He tried to envision his normal routine with Tammy bouncing in and out of it. His mind flatly rejected the image.

  Heaving a sigh, he tried to focus on the movie.

  A loud knocking on his door made him sit bolt upright, and he realized he had dozed off. Blinking, he tried to focus his eyes and mind as the knocking continued.

  “All right. Coming,” he called, moving to the door.

  Valerie burst into the apartment as soon as he opened the door.

  “Your cell phone is off,” she said accusingly, as she looked around the apartment. “I thought I heard you moving around up here earlier. Are you alone?”

  “Hello, Val. Good to see you, too,” he said, sarcastically.

  “And, yes, I’m alone. Why?”

  “Hold on to yourself, Big Brother,” she said, grimly. “I’ve got some news, and it ain’t good.”

  He started to make a wisecrack, but looked at her face and abandoned the thought.

  “Okay. What is it?” he said.

  “Slim is dead,” she said. “Somebody killed him.”

  “What?!?”

  “But that’s not the bad news.” Val sighed.

  “It isn’t?” He blinked. “Then what is? Or shouldn’t I ask?”

  “Word is going around that you did it . . . or had it done,” she said. “That’s why I wanted to know if you were alone. It would be nice if you had someone to alibi your whereabouts and actions tonight.”

  “But how could anybody think that?” he said, genuinely stunned.

  “Well, let’s see. Word is that you’ve been flexing your muscles at the conclave. ‘Don’t get me annoyed. I play for keeps.’ Sound familiar?” Valerie said, look
ing at him hard. “It’s also common knowledge that you and Slim went sideways to each other the other night. Then you take off from the conclave tonight, saying there’s something you have to take care of, and then are asking around on the street about where Slim is. You tell me what that sounds like.”

  “This just keeps getting better,” Griffen said, putting a hand over his face. “What’s next? A visit from the cops?”

  “I wouldn’t worry about that,” his sister said, sweetly.

  “Nobody’s saying anything to the cops. Everybody at the conclave and on the street is afraid of you. They think you’ll go after them next if they cross you.”

  Forty-four

  If one wants information about a crime, instead of reading about it in the newspapers, it’s better to go directly to a cop. Lucky for Griffen, Harrison’s suspension had ended, and he was back on duty. He’d be the ideal source.

  Griffen considered calling Harrison on his cell phone but decided against it. Doing that would call too much attention to himself and his interest in the case. This would be particularly bad if he was, indeed, a suspect. Instead, Griffen did what all good predators do. He staked out a water hole.

  He knew Padre, the bartender at Yo Mama’s Bar and Grill, where Harrison often went to indulge in their hamburgers or have a few beers. That let him drop in casually and, if Harrison was not there, to hang out for a bit chatting with Padre without it being obvious that he was looking for the detective.

  As might be expected, much of the conversation in the bar centered around Slim’s death. Everyone knew everyone else in the Quarter, if only on sight or to nod to in passing. While New Orleans had a bad reputation for murders, that was mostly in the outlying areas and usually involved the drug gangs fighting it out over territory and supply lines. A murder in the Quarter itself, particularly one involving a local, was rare, and therefore prime conversation material.

  No one seemed to have much detailed information other than that Slim had been found on the Moonwalk, the stretch of pedestrian sidewalk that ran along the Mississippi from the French Quarter to the Aquarium of the Americas. There were a few tasteless jokes about someone really not liking street entertainers, but no real facts. Everyone seemed to like Slim, at least in hindsight, and no one had any ideas about who would have wanted to kill him.

  Griffen was about to give up on his mission, at least for the night, when Harrison walked in.

  The burly plainclothes detective always had the vague look of a biker to him, but tonight he was looking exceptionally haggard and unshaven.

  Griffen waved him over, mentally rehearsing various ways to bring up the subject of Slim’s death. He needn’t have bothered.

  “What a night,” the detective growled, sliding into the booth and waving for a beer. “As if the Halloween craziness wasn’t enough, we’ve got to deal with a dead street entertainer . . . without scaring the tourists, of course.”

  “Yeah. I heard about Slim,” Griffen said, waving to add a drink for himself to the beer Padre was bringing over. “What happened there, anyway?”

  “Still trying to figure it out,” the detective said. “As far as we know, Slim was clean. No dealing or hustling, didn’t drink all that much, no history of brawling. A couple of women he was dating casually, but no live-in girlfriend to get jealous or mad at him. He just worked hard at earning a living as a street entertainer, and that seemed to take up most of his time. Hell, McCandles, you knew him. He was about as harmless and inoffensive as they come.”

  Griffen thought briefly about Slim’s temper when it came to animal control, but kept it to himself.

  “How was he killed?” he asked instead.

  “Stabbed through the heart,” Harrison said. “No signs of a struggle or fight. Like someone he knew and trusted walked up and nailed him.”

  “Or someone he wouldn’t suspect,” Griffen said, thoughtfully. “Street entertainers work up close. It might have been someone who he thought was going to give him a tip.”

  “Maybe.” The detective frowned. “Even there, the problem is still motive. Tourists and college kids come down here to get drunk and sometimes get into a fight in the process. They don’t usually walk around killing street entertainers.”

  “Even if they did, a knife is kind of up close and personal,” Griffen said. “You’d think they’d use a gun or something . . . except, maybe, for the noise.”

  “That’s the real kicker,” Harrison said, leaning in close. “It wasn’t a knife.”

  “It wasn’t?” Griffen said. “Then what was he stabbed with?”

  “According to the coroner, something wooden,” the detective said. “Maybe I’m letting the whole Halloween thing get to me, but it’s like someone put a wooden stake into his heart.”

  Griffen gaped at him.

  “A wooden stake? But that doesn’t make any sense,” he managed. “Slim did an Uncle Sam mime routine. Nothing to do with vampires. If someone went wacko and decided to hunt vampires, you’d think they’d go after a goth or something.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Harrison said. “What’s more, whoever did it took the weapon with them . . . or threw it in the river. The way I understand the stake in the heart thing is that you’re supposed to leave the stake in. If you take it out, the vampire comes back to life.”

  Griffen shook his head.

  “Beats the hell out of me,” he said. “I’m glad it’s your problem and not mine.”

  “Actually, I was hoping you might give me a hand,” Harrison said with a wolfish smile. “You live here in the Quarter and know a lot of these weird groups. I’d appreciate it if you kept your ears open and let me know if you hear anything they aren’t telling the cops . . . which is almost anything.”

  “I can do that.” Griffen shrugged. “But outside of the wooden-stake thing, you don’t have any leads at all?”

  “Just one,” Harrison said. “I’ve heard there’s some kind of weird occult meeting in town and that Slim was somehow involved with it. Even heard he got into it with someone there. I’m going to try to run that down and see if there’s any connection.”

  Griffen’s stomach tightened. He definitely hadn’t needed to hear that.

  “I suppose it’s a place to start,” he said, just to say something.

  “It makes as much sense as any other theory I’ve got,” the detective said, standing up and tossing some money on the table for his beer. “I’ll have to move fast, though. They’ll probably be leaving town at the end of the weekend.”

  Griffen’s mind was racing as he waved good-bye. Harrison would be moving fast, so he would have to move faster. Somehow, he had to get to the bottom of this mess before the detective discovered his own involvement with the conclave and started asking some uncomfortable questions about why he had withheld that particular tidbit of information.

  Forty-five

  Griffen was heading up St. Peter toward Bourbon Street when he was hoo-rawed.

  “Yo! Grifter! Wait up!”

  Turning, he saw Jerome jogging toward him. He waited until his friend caught up with him and slowed to a stop.

  “What’s up, Jer?” he said. “I’m kind of in a hurry here.”

  “Just a second while I catch my breath,” Jerome said, breathing hard. “I’ve been lookin’ for you all night. You know your cell phone’s turned off? Anyway, man, you got problems.”

  “You heard, huh?” Griffen said, rolling his eyes.

  “About Slim? Sure did,” Jerome said. “Do you know it’s goin’ around that you’re the one who hit him? Either that, or that you ordered it done?”

  Griffen heaved a sigh.

  “Yeah. Val told me. It gets worse. I just talked to Harrison. He’s gotten wind of the conclave and is going to be checking it out.”

  Briefly, he filled Jerome in on what Harrison had told him, including the fact that, so far, the detective did not know that Griffen was involved with the conclave.

  “Shit,” Jerome said, shaking his head. “So now what are we
gonna do?”

  “ ‘We’?” Griffen said, raising his eyebrows. “I don’t see where any of this affects our gambling operation, Jer. I got myself into this mess. I figure I’ve got to find my own way back out.”

  “Hold on there, Grifter,” Jerome said, drawing himself erect. “I know we haven’t always seen eye to eye on this whole conclave thing, but you’re still the main dragon down here. What affects you affects all of us, starting with me. There’s no way I’m gonna stand around with my hands in my pockets while all this is goin’ down. So let’s put our heads together and try to figure this thing out.”

  “Thanks, Jerome,” Griffen said. “I really appreciate that.”

  “So, like I said before, what are we gonna do?”

  “Well, I hadn’t been thinking in terms of we,” Griffen said. “I was going to head over to the conclave and let them know what’s going on . . . including the fact that Harrison’s going to be nosing around. I’m thinking of suggesting that they cancel the scheduled meetings tomorrow. There’s not that much slated, anyway. Mostly, people are going to be gearing up for the masquerade ball.”

  “I’m not sure that’s such a hot idea,” Jerome said carefully. “If Harrison spots you there, there’s gonna be hell to pay.”

  “Well, I am sure it’s not a hot idea”—Griffen grimaced—

  “but it can’t be helped. I’ve got to let them know what’s coming down the pike at them, and there’s no other way. At first I thought of sending them a note, but then I realized it’s not something I want to put down on paper.”

  “You got that right,” Jerome said with a brief grin. “You know, don’t you, that a lot of them will already be thinking that you’re at the bottom of the trouble with Slim.”

  “Yeah, I know,” Griffen said. “What I’m going to do is flat out tell them that I had nothing to do with it. There’s no way to prove that right now, so they’ll just have to either believe me or not. It’s still early, so I’m going to try to catch some of the attendees in the hotel lobby bar, then check a few of the other clubs they’ve been hanging at. I’ll leave it to the ones I catch to spread the word to the others.”