Robert Asprin's Dragons Run

by Nye, Jody Lynn

  “Problem. Had a couple of dropouts for tonight.”

  “Does it leave us with enough for a table?” Griffen asked.

  Jerome wrinkled his nose. “Not really, Grifter. And I had better tell you: two of them called to tell me they saw you on television Friday at the debate.”

  “Half of New Orleans did.”

  “Yeah, but they said they didn’t know you were supporting Dunbar. They don’t like it. They prefer their poker nonpartisan.”

  Griffen felt another burst of fury. The spark of fire in his belly kicked up against the breakfast he had recently consumed and crisped it to charcoal.

  “I was afraid this was going to happen.”

  “It’s been happening, Grifter,” Jerome said patiently. “I’ve been running interference for you, telling them about Fox Lisa, but this time I failed the saving throw. It’s not the first time. Remember the other night? I offered to bring you in as a substitute when the little mama went to the hospital, but they didn’t want you.”

  “What?”

  “I didn’t want to mention it before. You’ve had so much on your mind. I thought it would blow over, but it’s really turning into an issue. This election’s got people polarized. It wouldn’t have mattered in years gone by. No one wants to play nice with the other parties.”

  “What about tonight’s clients?”

  “They’re both big-bankroll types, both of them have been at our tables before though not since before Mardi Gras. Trouble is, one of them works for the lieutenant governor, and he doesn’t think it’s prudent to be in the same room with you. The other, Penny, had his son busted at college last month for dealing a little dope from his dorm room. Made a big example of him. She was there for one of her speeches and got a tip about him. The roller thinks she has a snitch in the Vice Squad.”

  Griffen raised his eyebrows. “Harrison might like to hear about that.”

  “Yeah, but in the meantime, what do we do about the shortage?”

  “How’s the fill tomorrow evening? How about just canceling this one and bringing the remaining players in then?”

  “No can do. Got a real whale from Florida, a new guy we were going to try and impress with our Big Easy style tonight. Marcel overheard him ask the concierge at the Sheraton where he could get a little action. He started a casual conversation and got him interested. Said we always have plenty of action. The three players who did stay are small-time, five-dollar chips. They won’t impress him much.”

  “I’ll have to sit in myself. Can you come in, too?”

  “Got a date, Grifter,” Jerome said, with a wink. “Sorry, Grifter. I’d cancel, but we have tickets to a show. I am dead meat if I back out.”

  Griffen felt glum. “This is a real no-win situation you’ve handed me, Jer.”

  “Sorry, bro. I would help out if I could, but you don’t really need me. Contrary to popular belief, I am not the only guy who is willing to sit at a table with you. There are a lot of good players in town who would jump at the chance to play a hot game with a powerhouse from Las Vegas. If you have to add a little lagniappe like some free table chips or a door prize, that just sweetens the pot. Why not give some of them a call?”

  That struck Griffen as a good idea. He began to see a light at the end of what was becoming a longer tunnel than he had at first feared. One problem at a time, he told himself.

  “All right. I’ll hit the phones and see if I can dig someone up. Thanks, Jer.”

  Jerome felt in his pocket and came up with a square of paper with several notes block-printed as neatly as the type in a comic strip.

  “Here’s the details: hotel room number, dealer, catering menu. And take it easy, Grifter. This will all be over soon.”

  “Yeah. I hope I live to see that day.”

  Jerome stayed long enough to finish his beer and help Griffen calm down a little. They discussed ideas for the evening. Once he left, however, Griffen had no choice but to face an ordeal to which he was not looking forward. He dialed Penny’s campaign office.

  “May I speak to Horsie, please? This is Griffen McCandles.”

  “She’s not here at the moment, Griffen.” He recognized the voice as one of the senior campaign workers, one who was coordinating the greater New Orleans area’s volunteers. “Penny is here. She’s waiting to do a press conference. Would you like to speak to her?”

  “Thanks.”

  While Griffen waited, he drummed his pencil on his pocket notebook, where he had written the salient points of the statement he was about to give. He didn’t want to be provocative or hurtful, just straightforward, brief, and final.

  “Hi there, Griffen.” Penny’s voice came on the line with honeyed vowels. “We haven’t seen you around here in a long time. Hope you’re coming by soon. I really appreciate all you do here. And Fox Lisa, too. She is here with me.”

  Griffen heard a faint “hi” in the background.

  “Uh, thanks. I was happy to help.” He cleared his throat. “Look, Penny, I am sorry to say that I have to back away from accompanying you to any more appearances. I really can’t afford to be seen in public on your behalf any longer. It’s cutting directly into my business. I told you that if that happened, I’d have to quit. And, I am sorry, but that is the case.”

  Silence fell on the line for a moment. Then, her voice returned.

  “I see. Well, if you are sure, Griffen, then I understand. I am very grateful for all the time you have been able to give me. I will just have to do the best I can with the remaining resources I have.”

  “I’m not going to stop trying to solve that other problem for you, though. I’m just going to have to do it from a distance.”

  “Well, I really appreciate that,” Penny said. “Let me know what you find out.”

  “Thanks. I wish you the best of luck. It’s been interesting.”

  “Yes, it has,” she said. “I’m sorry you won’t see the rest. It’s going to get more interesting.”

  She clicked off. Griffen expelled a long, slow breath. She had taken it better than he had feared. Now he had to work on saving the evening.

  Before he could dial again, the phone rang in his hand. Penny calling back for some reason? No, the display showed an out of town number. Could it be good news from George? Griffen hit the green button.

  “Hello?”

  “Griffen, don’t bark into the phone. It sounds childish.”

  Griffen felt as if he were eleven again. “Hi, Uncle Malcolm, what can I do for you?”

  “I am at the airport. Where are you? I’ve been waiting nearly thirty minutes!”

  Griffen groaned. He had forgotten that his elder relative was arriving that day. “I apologize. I’ve been busy. Among other things, I’m trying to get things set up for a game tonight.” A thought struck him. “Uncle Malcolm, do you play poker?”

  Thirty-four

  Brenda cracked open a new red Bicycle deck, tossed the wrapper and the jokers in the bucket at her feet, and snapped the fifty-two remaining pasteboards into a complicated series of fans and arches. The players watched appreciatively.

  The minisuite at the Royal Sonesta Hotel, decorated in soothing shades of blue, provided a comfortable setting for the game. Griffen had arrived early to make sure the hotel manager was comfortable with their presence. Neither of them, the manager assured him, wanted any interruptions.

  Three players from Griffen’s list had been happy to join the impromptu party. None of them cared whether he worked as a pole dancer, let alone as a temporary political attaché for a controversial candidate. They had shown up with their money. Griffen bought half a dozen bottles of different whiskies to hand out as prizes for point accumulation, number of wins, and designated hands. They sat on the highboy behind Brenda, glinting with amber points of light.

  The whale, Douglas Jasper, a plump, balding man with a ruddy face and
a double chin, sat at Brenda’s right hand. He shook hands all around.

  “Let me see if I have you all straight,” he said. “David Saldez, Marcellus Latham, Scott Bellamy, Malcolm McCandles, Tom McNair, Lee Goodrich, Griffen McCandles?”

  “Great memory,” Tom exclaimed. He was one of the original group slated for that evening, a small bankroller, as was Marcellus. Griffen fully expected the two of them to drop out early. They were good company, though.

  Griffen signaled to Marcel, who was acting as caterer that evening. As a reward for having brought Douglas in, it gave him the opportunity to pick up some extra tips during the game. Marcel sprang forward to start serving drinks and snacks.

  “I watch people,” Douglas said, pointing from one to the other. “For example, I can see that though we have two McCandleses, they’re not father and son. The interaction’s wrong.”

  “Good call,” Griffen said. “He’s my uncle.”

  “Well, nice to meet you all.” Douglas lifted his glass to them. Maker’s Mark was his tipple. “Let’s play cards.”

  Malcolm held his hand cupped just above the green felt of the tabletop. Brenda shot his two down cards directly into the low space. Malcolm raised his eyebrows. “Very impressive. You seem amazingly professional.”

  Griffen pitched his voice very casually to conceal his annoyance at his uncle’s arrogant attitude.

  “She is a professional, Uncle Malcolm. By the way, it was her car I borrowed the first time you visited.”

  “Ah. Thank you so much for the loan,” Malcolm said, turning to Brenda graciously. “It was very kind of you.”

  “No problem.”

  “And no offense was intended.”

  “None taken, Mr. McCandles,” Brenda said, with a saucy grin. Malcolm, slightly embarrassed by his gaffe, touched the plate of small delicacies beside him on the rim of the table.

  “The food is good, too. In fact, your entire organization is well thought-out and well run. What do you think, Douglas?”

  The big man grinned. “Cosier than I’m used to. Usually I’m playing in a room with two or three hundred other people at least, and cocktail waitresses leaning over my arm. This is really nice.”

  Griffen was on the small blind, so he concentrated on reading the cards for a moment. To his surprise, Malcolm opened the conversation.

  “I see you as one of my fellow beasts of prey, Douglas. What do you do?”

  “Mostly, I own a chain of restaurants. Dabble in this and that. How about you?”

  “Investments,” Malcolm said. “Fairly conservative, long-term strategy. Tell me about your corporation.”

  Douglas was all too happy to talk about himself.

  “Well, my daddy started it with one little hot-dog stand in Tallahassee, Florida. I expanded it to a chain that reaches clear across the South. We’re not as big as Crystal Burgers, but I believe in my menu and my customer service.”

  Griffen was pleased, more pleased than he thought. His uncle was an amateur player but a good judge of character. By instinct, Griffen could tell that he started to see players’ tells. The whale had a habit of swirling the ice in his glass if his down pair was weak. But the more he concentrated and the larger the bets, the less body language he gave off. Malcolm made a couple of bad raises against him until he realized that something had changed. He played more cautiously after that. Griffen was happy with the way the evening was going.

  As he had predicted, Marcellus didn’t last past eleven o’clock. Tom surrendered his final stack of chips not too long afterward. He kept his last chip to hand off to Brenda as a tip. Both men were enjoying themselves too much to leave. They dragged their chairs away from the edge of the table and kibitzed from a distance. When play resumed, Douglas proposed a raise in the bets.

  “Look at all those chips,” he said, pointing at the stacks on the table. “How about let’s play for some real money now? Twenty a point?”

  Griffen collected nods from the others.

  “Why not?” he said. He was only slightly behind Douglas in gains, holding about 23 percent of the chips. Brenda cashed in the fives and tens for twenty-dollar chips, and pushed a five-dollar bill toward Scott.

  About one o’clock in the morning, fresh, hot food was delivered, courtesy of Leon, a young man, neat in a black leather jacket and new jeans, a busboy by day Griffen had met at Yo Mama’s. Leon was a younger brother of one of Griffen’s dealers and hoping to move up in the organization. He unloaded the two-wheeler he was pushing. Marcel arranged the covered trays on the table while Leon unpacked cases of soda and beer into the cooler at one end. Leon tidied up all the empties and stacked them up on the cart. He accepted a tip with a grin and left, but not without a hopeful look over his shoulder. Griffen made certain to lock the door behind him.

  Less than an hour later, a knock sounded again at the door. Puzzled, Griffen looked at his watch. They still had plenty of food. No more deliveries were supposed to come unless he called for them. Maybe the hotel management was checking on him?

  He set his cards down and went to see who was there. No sooner had he turned the knob than the door was shoved hard from the other side. Griffen blocked the door with his foot and leaned around the edge.

  A big hand in a black leather sleeve was on the other side. The hand was white with a thick patch of hair on the back. That wasn’t Leon. Griffen’s gaze traveled up the arm to a short, beefy neck, with Harrison’s face perched on top.

  “Hey, there, Detective Harrison, what can I do for you?” he asked, trying to keep his voice down.

  Harrison pitched his voice with unnatural clarity.

  “I have a tip that there is an illegal poker game going on in here,” he said. “Move aside, McCandles.”

  Griffen glanced down the hall. A sharp beam of light hit him in the eyes. He winced, squinting into it until he could make out its source. It came from the top of a video camera held on the shoulder of a man in blue jeans and a feed cap. Beside him, a woman held a black-topped microphone out toward him. Two uniformed police stood by, one black and one white, wearing bulletproof vests and helmets. Griffen looked at Harrison. The big detective’s eyes were apologetic but firm.

  “Brenda, honey!” Griffen called over his shoulder. “Can you hear me?”

  “Uh, yes, Griffen,” Brenda said, tentatively.

  “The police are here, love. Please go and lock yourself in the bathroom. Don’t let anyone in but me. All right?”

  “Uh, sure, Griffen.”

  The news team looked at one another in bemusement. Clearly, that was not what they expected to hear. The two policemen grinned lasciviously.

  Griffen held on to the door firmly and squeezed out through the smallest slot he could, then yanked it solidly closed. He leaned back against the door and folded his arms. Harrison had to move his hand in a hurry, so it wouldn’t get slammed in the crack.

  “Goddammit, McCandles, I haven’t got time for this!”

  “So, may I ask why you have decided to spoil my evening?” Griffen asked. He wore an aggrieved expression. “Do you know how long it took me to talk her into a date?”

  Harrison’s mouth dropped open.

  “A date?”

  “Well, why the hell do you think I would have reserved a suite at the Sonesta?” he asked, pitching his voice loudly enough so the newswoman couldn’t miss it. “I have an apartment just a few blocks from here. I wanted this to be special for her!”

  “Let me in, McCandles.”

  Griffen shifted so his back was against the doorknob.

  “So you can embarrass her further? No way. Show me a warrant.” He looked from one officer to another. “Is this random harassment? Or do you have a reason for invading my room in the middle of the night?”

  Harrison looked over his shoulder at the reporters. “I was acting on information received.”

  “U
h-huh.”

  “It seems that my source was mistaken.”

  “No kidding. Can I go back in now? I have some serious apologizing to do.”

  The cameraman seemed to take the hint first. He put a hand on top of his apparatus and snapped off a switch. The brilliant light died away. Griffen felt the temperature in the hallway drop twenty degrees. The reporter put her microphone in her shoulder bag.

  “Well, that was a bust,” she said, stomping toward the elevator. The cameraman hurried behind. She slammed the elevator button with her palm and watched the indicator impatiently.

  “Thanks for stopping by, guys,” Griffen called after them, his voice sarcastic.

  Harrison muttered to him under his breath. “I need to talk to you. I’ll send my men away and come back. Wait for me.”

  Griffen replied without moving his lips. “Right.”

  “Hell with it,” Harrison said, loudly. A few people had opened the door to their rooms and peered out. He gestured sharply at them, and they disappeared again. He went toward his men. “Let’s clear out. Mackie, you can hit the streets again. Boulder, report in. Tell them it was a false alarm.” Harrison aimed a thumb over his shoulder. “I’m going to try and talk this good citizen out of filing a report for harassment.”

  “Yes, sir!” they said.

  “Hey, miss!” Boulder called. “Hold that elevator, okay?” He ran to catch up with the news crew. Mackie started to follow but turned back for a moment.

  “Hey, McCandles, a piece of advice.”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s two o’clock in the morning. If you ain’t got her naked by now, bro, you ain’t gonna. Try a cheaper hotel next time.”

  “Yeah, thanks,” Griffen said with a sour twist to his mouth.

  The other officer laughed. They slapped each other’s palms as the elevator doors closed on them.

  Harrison put his thumbs in his belt and leaned backward.

  “Haven’t you learned enough to ask who it is before you open the door in this town?” he asked. “At least you were smart enough to block the peephole.”