Robert Asprin's Dragons Run

by Nye, Jody Lynn

  Henry stepped up alongside her, touching a key on the small computer’s pad. “That went well,” he said. “You should have asked about Agnetta’s baby, but you can do that tomorrow.”

  “What about him?” Val asked, trying to remember who Agnetta was.

  “Her. Lolita Arcadia. Six pounds, four ounces. She was born Monday. Michael told you yesterday. Michael from Housekeeping?” Henry looked exasperated. “He’s subbing for Agnetta while she is on maternity leave. You still have to go to his office to sign the card for her.”

  “I don’t remember all that!”

  “After the briefing, you should have gone back to your room and written notes,” Henry said. “It would look better if you had those facts at your fingertips.”

  “Look, they all know that I’m faking it. I don’t have a clue what I’m doing.”

  “You aren’t faking it; you’re learning,” Henry said, rolling his eyes. “And, yes, everyone knows you’re new. Now, come on. We have a lot to do today.”

  “What’s next? Posture lessons?”

  “Close,” Henry said, taking her arm again. “Fittings. What on Earth will you wear on Friday? You only have one dress. It’s gorgeous, but it’s just too much for this event. And you need to learn everyone’s name and details so you can make chitchat.”

  Val halted, jerking him back a pace. “Wait a minute. This dinner party? I’m supposed to attend?”

  “Good heavens, no!” Henry chuckled. Val heaved a sigh of relief. “You’re hosting it.”

  She gawked at him.

  “What? No!”

  Henry ignored her protests and towed her away.

  Eight

  Even when he spoke to Malcolm, Duvallier kept his eyes fixed on Griffen. Griffen found his scrutiny nerve-wracking, something the old man surely knew. Malcolm was appalled.

  “Mr. Duvallier, you can’t be serious. Penny Dunbar is a bright new light on the political scene.”

  “Never met her,” Duvallier said. He gave an offhand wave. “Maybe never will. And call me Reginaud if you like. I’m gonna call you Malcolm, so let’s be friendly. You, too, Griffen.”

  Griffen shifted uneasily.

  “Uh, thanks.”

  Malcolm frowned. “This country needs leaders, Mr. Duvallier,” he said. “Leaders with a vision for the future.”

  “I know that!” Duvallier laughed. “This ain’t the first dance I been asked to, Malcolm. Just that I also know that if Penny Dunbar don’t run, there’s a hundred others with similar qualifications standing right behind her, waiting their chance.”

  “She’s the only one I am concerned with at the moment,” Malcolm said. “Who was that man? Why does he want her dead?”

  “Well, dead or outten the way. I don’t think he cares a lot which one, himself, but the folks he’s workin’ with say they want her gone permanently.” Duvallier chewed the end of his cigar. Griffen could tell he wanted to light it, but he held back. The only reason he could guess was that the secretary didn’t like it. He doubted a man like Duvallier cared about most people’s feelings, but having him concerned for Miss Callaway was a facet Griffen hadn’t suspected.

  “What can we do to persuade you not to hurt her?” Griffen asked.

  “Persuade me?” Duvallier echoed. He tilted his head. “Try me. I would enjoy hearin’ your logical explanation for why I shouldn’t exercise my whim.”

  “If you really don’t have strong feelings one way or the other, what’s the difference?” Griffen asked, trying to sound casual though his heart was pounding in his chest. “I don’t know Miss Dunbar, but I’ve seen her on television. She sounds pretty sensible. She might be a good governor.”

  The fiery eyes were unimpressed.

  “Politicians are a dime a dozen,” Duvallier said. “They all say what they think will get your vote. One’s pretty much like another. I’m only interested in how any particular one benefits me in the long run.”

  “Ah,” Malcolm said. “Then what benefits would you like to receive in exchange for backing Penny Dunbar instead of . . . interfering with her campaign?”

  “Are you empowered to speak for the lady?” Duvallier asked.

  “I . . . speak for the people who are helping to finance her campaign.”

  Duvallier waved the cigar. “That’s not enough. If I don’t interfere with her, like you say, I want access to her ear anytime I need it.”

  “I can arrange for that,” Malcolm said.

  “And there’s the matter of my fee. It’ll be sizable, I want you to know.”

  “Of course.”

  “And a position in her office once she’s elected.”

  Malcolm swallowed. “I will see what I can do.”

  “Forget all about it, son,” Duvallier said. He leered at Malcolm. “I just wanted to see how desperate you are. You know I can’t sit in no office like I am. It’s just fun to see if I could bargain you out of the last cent in your pocket. You’d agree to anything here and now if I would just take the threat off the table. Well, I won’t do it.”

  “And why not?”

  “Where’s the pleasure in that? I love a good race. Miss Dunbar’s just one of the horses. If she crosses the finish line first, well and good. If she don’t, well, she’s an also-ran. I put my money on winners, and winners only, because they’re the ones who pay off.”

  Griffen sensed a challenge. “Do you like to back winners? I don’t know if you were aware of my business . . .”

  “Well, yes, I am, young man,” Duvallier said, widening the glowing red gaze. “Y’all run Mose’s gambling concern. Fine fellow. Played with him myself, back in years gone by. But penny-ante poker and three-dollar bets at the racetrack window don’t interest this old man no more. I like the big races. Like this one. Governor of the state of Louisiana. Almost the biggest prize there is, and your girl wants to go that distance, too, don’t she?”

  “Yes, she does,” Malcolm said. “I represent the people who want to see her reach it.”

  “That’s just fine. But she’s not alone in this race.”

  “Whom does your other client back?”

  “That’s none of your business. You can take a shot in the dark at guessing the name, but right now there’s about seventeen potential candidates who’ll be in the primary.”

  Malcolm lowered his brows. “I have no proof that the man who just left has anything to do with the coming election. After I made an appointment to meet with you, who knows what arrangements you made to impress me? For all I know, he was a salesman who hoped to interest you in a new coffin!”

  “You think I’m playin’ you?” Duvallier demanded. Miss Callaway huffed and looked outraged on her employer’s behalf. Malcolm glowered.

  “I know you’re playing me. I simply wish to know to what extent!”

  Duvallier’s eyes glowed brighter.

  “Uncle Malcolm . . .” Griffen began uneasily.

  “I don’t have to impress you, son. I didn’t even have to see you. It was a matter of courtesy that I allowed this meetin’ at all. You from out of state. This is a Louisiana matter.”

  “I live here,” Griffen said.

  “You ain’t the one who’s backin’ Penny Dunbar, so why don’t you hush for a minute?” Duvallier said.

  Griffen felt his temper flare. The little spark of fire that was always in his belly began to dance with joy. With difficulty, he tamped it down and spoke more calmly than he felt.

  “I’m part of this discussion now. What you’re talking about is premeditated murder for hire.”

  Duvallier grinned at him. “You like to call things like you see ’em. Good for you. It ain’t strictly accurate. But it don’t change nothin’ to give it a name.”

  “Well, what else do I call it?” Griffen asked. “Some other person offers to pay you to kill someone.”

  “I
don’t say I accepted the other fellow’s offer, now have I?”

  “But you won’t accept ours?”

  “I like to keep my options open.”

  “How can we change your mind? We are prepared to fund many initiatives to improve life for the citizens of this state: transportation, education, tax incentives . . .”

  Duvallier waved a hand. “All talk. I don’t care whether one lone person lives or dies. The world’s crowded enough as it is.”

  “That’s rich coming from you,” Griffen said. “If overpopulation bothers you, why didn’t you just lie down and die when your time was up?”

  “Because I wasn’t ready to go,” Duvallier said. “Still ain’t. I care that I’m here. It’s the folks who came after me that are usin’ up resources I might want for myself. Sure, it’s pure selfish, but that’s the nature of the human organism. Fine word, ain’t that, organism? I got it outten National Geographic.”

  “I’m not going to sit here and argue ethics with a zombie who reads magazines,” Griffen said. “You’re gambling with people’s lives!”

  “Ain’t no finer currency, son.”

  “You think that you can take on every dragon in the state? If you take out one of us, you make enemies of a lot of powerful and dangerous people!”

  “And what do you plan to do about it?” Over his unlit cigar, Duvallier’s eyes glowed like embers.

  “The first move is yours,” Griffen said.

  “So we shifted from poker to chess,” Duvallier said, taking the cigar from his mouth. His leathery cheeks spread in a real smile. “You think an army scares me, son? All right, then, let’s see how your strategy works. You know how campaigns are run in this state?”

  “With or without your help?” Griffen challenged him.

  Duvallier leered. “Oh, with, boy, with. For a long time now. They run what they call a ‘jungle primary.’ Now, you know what the law of the jungle is, don’t you, son? Survival of the fittest. If you can keep your candidate alive until the primary, I’ll let her run. ’Fact, I’ll give her my support, and too bad for my other client. If not, well, then, it lays the question, don’t it?”

  Malcolm was aghast. “You can’t do that!”

  “Sure I can. It’s all a game, ain’t it? You better run along now,” Duvallier said. He flicked a hand toward the door. “Nice to meet you, Malcolm. You, too, Griffen. Lookin’ forward to seein’ you again. We’ll do lunch sometime.” Duvallier chuckled and put the cigar back in his mouth. “I like that phrase, do lunch. Funny thing, language. Take care of y’selves, now.”

  Even with his long legs, Griffen had to scurry to keep up with Malcolm’s retreating back. He caught up with him on the curb, where his uncle was handing the car’s claim slip to the valet.

  “I’m sorry for making things worse, Uncle Malcolm.”

  The elder McCandles regarded him gravely.

  “They went very much the way I feared they would, Griffen. Actually, I appreciated your input. It was helpful.”

  Griffen stared at him. “How? I just challenged him to try to kill Penny Dunbar before the primary.”

  Malcolm sighed. “I and my associates grossly underestimated the importance of the local angle. Your presence gave me more credibility with Mr. Duvallier than I would have had alone. My associates and I felt that with the growth of the global community, we might be able to exert pressure as interested parties. But, as the late Speaker of the House Tip O’Neill justly said, ‘All politics is local.’ Mr. Duvallier is, perforce, old-school. I would further appreciate it if you remained involved.”

  “Sure,” Griffen said, surprised. “As long as it doesn’t interfere with my business. Or finding Val.”

  “I had not forgotten your sister. I have various investigators out in the field, following up leads as to her whereabouts. She is not likely to be harmed in her condition.”

  “There’s a long way in between not being harmed and able to come and go as she wants,” Griffen said.

  “I know that, but we do not know if she was under duress or left of her own volition. Her life is not actively in danger, and Miss Dunbar’s is. So, if you please?”

  The valet brought the Toyota to a halt at the curb. Malcolm tipped the young man and received a half salute in return.

  Griffen got behind the wheel.

  Nine

  Griffen felt shaken. He wished he could talk to Rose. He thought of the ghost of the voodoo priestess as his special advisor and sometimes guardian angel there in the French Quarter. She often sensed when he needed her though she seldom if ever appeared when there was anyone else around. He glanced at pedestrians on the sidewalks but saw only tourists going to watch the acrobats performing on the adjoining street that closed for the afternoon. Scarcely any locals, and none of them the distinctive, slender, African-American woman wrapped in colorful skirts and shawls. He sent out a silent plea to her to find him later.

  “Where can I drop you?” he asked his uncle.

  “Where are you going?” Malcolm inquired politely.

  “Back,” Griffen said. “I have to check and see how things are going. I have . . . responsibilities.”

  “So I have heard. May I come with you?”

  Griffen gawked. He had thought he was done with his uncle Malcolm for the time being. “I don’t think you would find it interesting,” he said politely.

  “I admit, I am curious,” Malcolm said. “You went from a fairly unsuccessful college student with a less-than-responsible attitude, to a manager and owner of a going concern, however . . . illicit.”

  “It’s a gray area,” Griffen said, uncomfortably.

  “Forgive me. It was not an opening to an argument. You have done well, or so I have heard. We need to talk more, and, if you would permit me, it would be a privilege to see how you have changed.” Griffen growled inwardly at the thought of performing for his disapproving elder relative, but part of him suddenly craved showing off.

  “All right,” he said. He turned the next corner and headed for the Irish pub.

  • • •

  Few patrons sat at the scattered tables or hugged the dark-stained wooden bar when they arrived. The hour before dinner was often a good time for a private conversation. The room was dimly lit and just warm enough to be comfortable. The clack of pool balls at one of the two pool tables and the blare of the jukebox across the big, open room made for homey background noise. The Irish pub was Griffen’s favorite spot in the French Quarter. He knew all the locals who frequented it and would look out for them, as he knew they would look out for him. The food was decent, the beer fresh, and the bartender knew everyone’s favorite drink without having to ask.

  Griffen took a seat at the rear of the bar, the “family” side, beside one of the pillars decorated with little white Christmas lights. Malcolm slid in beside him.

  “This is a nice, quiet neighborhood,” Malcolm said. “Where is your office?”

  “I don’t have one,” Griffen said. He raised a finger, and the bartender poured him a Diet Coke. “What will you have?”

  “Black coffee, thank you. I don’t usually drink that much or that early in the day, but it seemed imprudent to refuse Mr. . . . our recent host.”

  Griffen understood from Malcolm’s reticence that Duvallier’s name was not to be spoken aloud. Griffen knew very well how easy it was for a stray word to be overheard.

  He waited until the barman set a white mug before him, filled it with steaming, sable liquid, and turned away to give them their privacy.

  “You run a tab?” Malcolm asked.

  “I’m in here all the time,” Griffen said.

  “And you pay it off regularly?”

  “Why do you ask?” Griffen inquired, keeping his face blank.

  Malcolm nodded. “I see. None of my business, though you undoubtedly do keep up with your bill, judging by the bartender
’s demeanor. He showed no signs of impatience with you.”

  “Few people get impatient in New Orleans,” Griffen said. “Life moves at its own pace here.”

  “So I see. It will take me some getting used to. But I am interrupting your day. You have responsibilities, and I have this excellent coffee. Chicory, isn’t it? Proceed with your duties.”

  “Excuse me a minute.” Griffen turned his back on his uncle. He took his cell phone from his pocket and hit the speed-dial number for Jerome.

  “Hey, Grifter!” his lieutenant’s soft voice murmured in his ear. “Where are you?”

  “The pub,” Griffen said. “How’s it going?”

  “Everything’s fine, man. You sound like you need to detox.”

  “Later.”

  “Uh-huh. What do I need to know?”

  Griffen glanced over his shoulder at Malcolm, who was pointedly not listening.

  “Uh, I’d rather tell you when I see you.”

  “Uh-huh, company?”

  “Yes,” Griffen said. “My uncle’s in town.”

  “I get it. No problem. Be there later.”

  The mellow clack of pool balls broke over the murmur of afternoon conversation. Griffen looked up to see who was playing.

  At the farther of the two tables in the Pub, his girlfriend Fox Lisa waved an eager hand at him. Griffen wasn’t surprised that he hadn’t seen the little redhead over the heads of his barmates. She was worth noticing. Her long hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she wore a skintight green T-shirt with a plunging neckline that showed off her generous bustline, and tight, faded jeans. Her companion, though, would have been difficult to miss anywhere. Her hair was red, too, but a pale strawberry blond that was struck gold by the Christmas lights. Freckles dusted her skin but only served to adorn it. Her figure was what the magazines called willowy, as if a strong wind would make her bend. Her mouth was wide, made for smiling—or kissing. Her pale blue eyes, though, had steel in them. She had on wide-legged, pale beige trousers and a soft top, an outfit more suitable for a fancy nightclub than a corner bar. She put down her pool cue and headed toward him. With a start, Griffen recognized her.