Robert Asprin's Dragons Run

by Nye, Jody Lynn

  “No, I meant I had not seen what we’re dealing with. Now I have.”

  “So, what are you going to do about it?”

  Griffen rose. “I have to talk to a few people. I’ll get back to you when I know something.”

  Winston frowned. “I don’t like this mysterious stuff. Tell me what the hell you are planning to do to secure the representative’s safety! I want details, not vague hints. Tell me the truth.”

  “Okay,” Griffen said, exasperated. “I’m actually a dragon in human form. I have to go talk to a zombie about whether or not he ordered a walking corpse to go harass Penny while she was doing a magic dance to hypnotize the audience.”

  Fox Lisa giggled.

  Winston’s face went dark red. He threw up his hands. “I don’t have to listen to this bullshit. If you’re not going to give me a straight answer, then go to hell. When you get some results, I want to hear about it.”

  Griffen planted his palm on his chest with the greatest air of hurt innocence. “What makes you think I’m lying?”

  “Get out of here!” Winston bellowed.

  “No, I don’t want him to go,” Penny said, strength returning to her voice. “Fox Lisa, you stay here, too. You can come back and stay at my apartment with me. I have spare rooms.”

  Griffen shook his head.

  “Penny, I need to get out of here. I will investigate for you, but I have other things I need to take care of. I have a business to run. You know that.”

  “Well, then, Fox Lisa will stay.”

  Fox Lisa opened her mouth, but Griffen spoke over her.

  “She’s got a job to go to in the morning.”

  Fox Lisa gave Griffen a dirty look, then turned to Penny.

  “I’ll stay, Penny. You don’t have to worry.”

  “When’s the next engagement?” Horsie asked. Winston took a tiny notebook out of his pocket and flipped through it.

  “Five days. School visit in St. John the Baptist Parish.”

  “Can you come back then?” the plump campaign manager asked Griffen.

  He looked at Penny’s face, pale under its golden freckles, and nodded.

  “I hope I won’t have to. I’ll get back to you.”

  “All right, honey. Thanks.”

  Griffen checked his phone. The display showed no messages, and the battery was fully charged.

  “Call me if you need me.”

  “I will. Thanks, Griffen.”

  • • •

  Griffen walked out into the night. A couple of newspaper reporters who had had the headquarters door shut in their faces were sitting on the hood of their car under the streetlamp, smoking. One of them spotted Griffen, ground out his cigarette, and rushed over, reaching into his pocket for his notebook. Griffen grumbled to himself. The last thing he wanted to do was give an interview.

  “What caused Representative Dunbar’s meltdown?” the first reporter asked. “Come on, Mr. McCandles. We saw you go into the audience. Who were you looking for?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say anything,” Griffen said. “Please, guys, don’t quote me. Talk to the campaign manager. She’s still in the office.” He aimed a thumb over his shoulder. The reporters weren’t going to give up on their bird in the hand.

  “What’s a gambler doing working for the law-and-order candidate?” the second reporter pressed, obviously hoping for an exclusive.

  “No comment.”

  “How much money from your organization has gone to her campaign?”

  “Not one cent,” Griffen said.

  “So, more than one cent?” the man pressed.

  Griffen felt steam starting to come out of his nostrils.

  “I have made no contributions to the Dunbar campaign. Thanks, guys. Good-bye.”

  He pushed between them and strode across the street just ahead of a passing taxi. The reporters followed, but he outdistanced them easily with his long legs. He lost them within half a block.

  When he was certain he was alone, he flipped open his cell phone. Out of habit, he touched Val’s number.

  “The subscriber you have dialed . . .” The mechanical female voice came immediately. Griffen clicked the red button to hang up. He had to believe Holly’s frequent reassurances that Val was all right. He tried the George’s number. No answer at all. Griffen snorted, shooting two columns of smoke outward.

  “Maybe no news is good news,” Jerome said.

  Griffen jumped.

  “Jer! Where did you come from?”

  “Right here in New Orleans,” the other man said, a brilliant grin lighting his dark face. “You coming to find me?”

  “No,” Griffen said. “Just trying to get away from Penny Dunbar.”

  “Yeah, good luck with that, Grifter.” Jerome pointed to a wall festooned with half-sheet posters of several political candidates. In the middle was one of Penny, looking seductive and efficient at the same time. Griffen wondered how she had managed that.

  “Is everything all right?” he asked.

  “Yeah, the game got called early because one of the players went into labor.” Jerome grinned. “Never happened to me before. And she wasn’t even losing.”

  Griffen felt a pang of concern.

  “Is she all right?”

  “Oh, yeah. Kind of lucky that two of the men there were dads. Both of them had been in the delivery room when their kids were born. They got her comfortable while I rang the front desk to call for an ambulance.”

  Griffen did some mental calculations on the cost of the hotel room, the dealer, server, and food, and whistled in dismay. “I hate to lose the money for the night. Would it help if I sat in instead?”

  “Uh, no,” Jerome said, quickly. “No trouble, Grifter. That was kind of a buzz kill, having Mama’s water break right there. But everyone went away happy. They didn’t get to play much poker, but having a baby on the way cheered them all up. We promise them a good experience. This isn’t exactly the one they had in mind, but they’ll never forget it.”

  “Did we send flowers to the mom?”

  “Better than that: a basket with diapers and little rattles and things. The ladies in the hospital gift store gave me the rundown over the phone. Forty bucks. I put it on your credit card.”

  “Ouch,” Griffen said, adding it to the mounting total in his mind. “I suppose it’s good P.R.”

  “That’s sometimes as important as profit.”

  “Yeah.”

  Jerome raised his eyebrows at Griffen’s absent tone.

  “What’s on your mind?”

  “Did you see the debate?”

  “Nope. I was mopping up the floor and suggesting baby names along with the other guys.”

  “Penny Dunbar went into mental free fall. She was doing great until a walking corpse came up right in front of her.”

  “Whoa! Whose corpse?”

  “I have no idea. If she does, she didn’t tell me. She’s pretty upset.”

  “I’m sure I would have heard about a riot in the Superdome.”

  “There wasn’t one,” Griffen said. “I think only dragons could see him. Fox Lisa and I did, but the manager standing next to me didn’t.”

  “Duvallier?”

  “That’s my guess. You’ve lived here a long time. Do you know how to find him?”

  “No. I’ve never had a reason to approach the political eminence grise. He’s like the Shadow. You don’t see him unless he wants you to.”

  Griffen poked the POWER button on his cell phone.

  “Well, Uncle Malcolm knew how to find him. Are you up for a road trip?”

  Jerome looked unenthusiastic, but he shrugged his shoulders.

  “You’re the big dragon,” he said.

  • • •

  Malcolm McCandles did indeed know where to find Reginaud D
uvallier. He refused to release the information until he had exacted numerous promises from Griffen to handle the matter with tact and caution. Griffen grew impatient with his elder relative and held the phone away from his ear until he had finished speaking.

  “I won’t say anything inflammatory, Uncle Malcolm, all right?”

  “Report back to me after you have spoken to him. I wish you were not doing this without me, Griffen.”

  “Jer is coming with me,” Griffen said, peevishly. “If I get out of hand, I’ll let him take me out of there. All right?”

  Malcolm sighed.

  “If that is the best assurance I can get, then I will have to take it.”

  On the way along a darkened Canal Street to Odd Fellow’s Rest Cemetery, Griffen rehearsed the speech he would make to Duvallier. Jerome understood that he was concentrating and listened to a blues station on the radio at low volume as he drove. The main thing, Griffen mused, was not to seem as if he wanted Duvallier’s cooperation too much, but wouldn’t it be more sporting either to come right out with an attack or let the election settle itself? He jotted down ideas in his notebook by the light of the dashboard radio.

  They parked a block from the entrance to avoid drawing attention to the car. Jerome took a flashlight from the backseat and put it in his jacket pocket. Griffen forced himself to walk in a casual manner. Few cars passed by at this hour. Anyone coming from the city was probably bound for US Route 10 or the country club on the other side of the highway.

  A chain bound the black, wrought-iron gates at the entrance together. No streetlamps overlooked the graveyard. Griffen’s dragon eyesight allowed him to see much more by the faint moonlight than a human could. Nothing appeared to move in the shadows between the ranked mausoleums. He glanced around for a foothold on the stone wall. It couldn’t have been more than nine feet high.

  “Sst! Grifter!”

  He turned. Jerome beckoned. The gate stood open.

  “C’mon!”

  Griffen hurried to join him.

  Except for the road noise coming over the wall from the expressway, their footsteps were the loudest sound around. The echo made Griffen want to tiptoe past the marble houses with their attendant statuary and urns. He knew intellectually that it was a warm spring night, yet he felt a chill in the air.

  Murmuring like the wind in the trees rose around them. The crescent moon didn’t cast much light, but even in that gibbous light, Griffen could see there were no glades within sight.

  The cemetery long predated motor vehicles, and no roads existed to accommodate them, but they could still run into a police foot or bicycle patrol. Vandalism was a major problem in the ancient graveyards. In the moonlight, he spotted gang graffiti. Here and there, monuments had been overturned, and the yawning blackness of a mausoleum door wrenched off sent a chill down his spine.

  Griffen counted rows and tombs, and nudged Jerome toward a white marble crypt overgrown on one side by twining ivy. The path under his feet was more deeply worn than those of the surrounding monuments—not surprising when he considered that the occupant came and went much more frequently than his neighbors. He nodded at Jerome. His lieutenant turned on the flashlight and shined it at the high lintel.

  The name Duvallier in Lombardic capitals glimmered at them.

  Jerome shut it off.

  Griffen wasn’t sure what to do. He tried the ornamental metal door. It was locked with a double dead bolt, an unusual accoutrement for a tomb. No light seemed to come from within. Griffen shook the door.

  “Mr. Duvallier?”

  He didn’t hear the familiar raspy voice. Instead, whispering arose, dozens of papery voices like leaves rustling. Griffen listened, but he couldn’t understand any of what they were saying. Having Rose as a friend, he wasn’t really afraid of ghosts.

  “Guess he’s not home.”

  “I hear dead people,” Jerome said. “You think they’ll rat us out to Duvallier?”

  “We’ll have to assume they will,” Griffen said. “We don’t mean him any harm. All we want to do is talk to him.”

  “Well, leave a message. Maybe he’ll get back to you.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Griffen said.

  By the light of his cell phone, he wrote a note on a page of his notebook.

  I would appreciate a meeting with you. Date and time at your convenience.

  Sincerely, Griffen McCandles

  He showed it to Jerome.

  “Short and sweet,” Jerome said. “Dragons go where angels fear to tread.”

  Griffen looked around. “I’ve met ghosts. I haven’t met any angels yet.”

  “Neither have I. Saints, but no angels. They usually avoid New Orleans.”

  Twenty-nine

  “I suppose,” Detective Harrison said, staring down into the black depths of his coffee the next evening, “nothing ought to surprise me about this city anymore. Dragons playing cards. Faerie conventioneers. Dancing with . . . with ghosts. Now, zombies at a political rally.”

  Harrison looked as if he could have used a stiff drink but said he was still on duty. Griffen, in sympathy with Harrison, drank his Diet Coke. He signed to the bartender to keep their beverages filled. Griffen fished another fried shrimp from the basket between them, avoiding the traces of cocktail sauce and grease staining the paper napkin liner under the discarded tails. He chewed the crisp morsel, letting the rich oil of the flesh spread over his tongue. He thought of his conversation with Rose weeks ago, but he could tell by the frown of concentration on Harrison’s face that now was not the time to mention it.

  “As far as I know, there have been no physical threats since that car accident,” Griffen said. “I’m not even sure that came from the same source.”

  “Uh-huh,” Harrison said gloomily. “Publicity stunts. Dammit, I hate election season. They pull us off our normal beats and expect us to babysit overprivileged prima donnas who think that the servant part of ‘public servant’ only applies to us. The place fills up with crackpots and freaks—no offense.”

  “I don’t consider myself a freak,” Griffen said, evenly. “Though I’d have to agree with you about the . . . what Penny saw.”

  “Well, we had to stay around for the cleanup,” Harrison said. “I didn’t find any sign of that thing, not on the ground or in the videotapes.”

  “What were you expecting? A finger? A piece of nose?”

  “Wish I had found something like that. Her campaign manager called up headquarters and read my captain the riot act on not keeping security tight enough. As if we’re supposed to do something about supernatural bullcrap.”

  “Horsie doesn’t know what was out there,” Griffen assured him. “We’re looking after Penny. I’m exploring some possibilities. I can’t talk about them at the minute.”

  “I don’t want to know!”

  Griffen smiled. “I don’t, either, but I don’t have much of a choice.”

  “Huh,” Harrison said, draining his cup and waving away a second refill. “I thought it was only in Chicago that the dead vote.”

  “I don’t know if they do vote or not down here,” Griffen said. “Think of them as just another special-interest group.”

  “Another pain in the ass,” Harrison said. He eyed Griffen. “I don’t like to ask favors.” Griffen waited, not wanting to jump the gun on Harrison’s thoughts. “You know what my city means to me. You just got here, but you’re in deeper than any newcomer ever was that I know about.”

  “I’ll do what I can,” Griffen said. “It’s not even a favor to you. My uncle dragged me into this. I gave my promise to him.”

  Harrison nodded, looking relieved. “All right. I’ll take your word for it. I’m out of here. Half an hour, and I can sign off for the day. Dammit, I hate this season. Thank God it’ll be over in November.”

  He pushed his barstool back from the counter and stoo
d up. With one broad hand, he delivered a powerful slap to Griffen’s shoulder.

  “Stay out of trouble. I don’t want to have to drag you and your ‘employees’ in. I don’t feel like doing the paperwork.”

  Griffen winced inwardly at both the blow and the thought, but he grinned. “Who’d notice me, Detective? I’m just an easygoing guy with friends who like to play cards.”

  Harrison snorted and stalked out.

  Ann Marie came up and put an arm around his shoulders from behind. “You free, or you have to take care of business now?”

  He turned and gave her a grateful smile.

  “I’m free. How’s Gris-gris?”

  Ann Marie looked concerned. “That boy’s meddling in things he don’t know how to handle. Trying to do too much by himself. But his mental state is better. He’s back to normal, which means he’s bouncing off walls like a bat in a bottle.”

  “Can I see him?”

  The Creole woman looked relieved.

  “I was going to ask you. I was going to drop in on him. You want to come with me?”

  Griffen glanced at his watch. About midnight. The two games he had going were nothing special. Jerome was playing in one of them. Brenda was dealing at the other. If they had any problems, he would have heard by now.

  “Yes. I’d like to.”

  • • •

  The first thing that would go through a visitor’s mind when arriving at Gris-gris’s home was that it didn’t look as if it belonged to the head of a gambling organization. In fact, a little old lady from Pasadena could have moved in without changing a thing. The small, neat, painted wooden house had a lushly wild garden like one that might surround an English cottage. Two little glass lanterns with etched panels washed the painted front door with a warm golden glow. Griffen hung back on the concrete path and let Ann Marie reach the door first. From her pocket, she took a string of blackened sticks and shook them around the frame. Griffen realized that the sticks were human finger bones. He felt slightly sick.

  The door opened from within. Griffen jumped back for a moment. A tall, lean woman peered out. It took Griffen a moment to recognize Estelle, the proprietor of the voodoo shop half a block off Bourbon Street. She met Griffen’s eyes and nodded.