"You didn't have a choice, head dragon," Jerome said, gently punching him in the arm. "You got to do what's right and keep things straight."
Reputation was everything in the Quarter, where so many deals were sealed with a handshake. Griffen had vowed to be honest with everyone. He didn't want illegal drugs associated with his games. He had made it clear to all the employees in the operation from day one, and to everyone he had hired since he started. He knew what it had been like not all that long ago. Mose had turned a blind eye to the junk. Maybe there were other land mines that Griffen hadn't found yet. This would be strictly a gambling operation. There was plenty of money for everyone in that alone. If they wanted to do something even more illegal, Griffen wanted no part of it.
"Hey, if you have a few more games for me to sit in on, I'll play," Griffen said, as Noah called them back. "Mardi Gras is going to run me dry on capital."
"You're not supposed to be takin' profit directly from our clients," Jerome said dryly. "But I think a lot of them would be thrilled to have the big man sit in on a game. Just don't take 'em for too much."
"Me?" Griffen asked, planting a hand on his chest. Trying to keep the innocent expression on his face made them both laugh.
They returned to the table. The dealer, Noah, did a fancy shuffle on the new deck of cards. "What's your pleasure, gentlemen?"
"Texas hold 'em," said Peter. Griffen didn't groan, though he felt like it. The man seemed to pick up on his displeasure anyhow. He peered at Griffen apologetically. "You don't like hold 'em?"
"I'm old-fashioned about poker," Griffen said, startled. No wonder the guy was a professional. He could read minds. "I like the old games, even five-card stud."
"More possibilities of a working hand with hold 'em," Peter Sing said.
"Statistically, you are right," Griffen agreed. "I didn't mean to denigrate your choice. You are the guest. And you've had a lot more experience than I have. I only played in college before I came here."
"No offense taken. It's natural you have a preference. But," he said, appealing to the businessmen from Detroit, "it's my game. Shall we play?"
"Oh, yeah!" said Ellis, grinning.
Noah produced a white plastic button two inches across and put it in front of Peter. "Ten-dollar bets, blinds one hundred and two hundred."
The table anted up, and Noah dealt.
It seemed seconds later when Ellis looked at his watch and nudged his colleague. "Got to go back. Damm it. Wish we could stay."
"Me, too," Mike said. "I'd like to have had a chance to get back some of my stake." He grinned at Peter. "But it was worth it to have had a chance to play with a real pro. Too cool. Listening to tabulations of sales figures and projections for next year is just not going to cut it. Probably fall asleep during the presentations."
The man with the cockscomb hair was the big winner, having taken about a quarter of the money on the table. Griffen was next, having made a little less than 20 percent on his investment. He was fairly happy. You couldn't get that from the stock market. The businessmen had both lost money.
"Sorry you didn't do as well as you hoped," Griffen said.
Ellis was gracious. "Not to a couple of players like you. It was an education."
"We'll definitely get our buddies in," Mike promised. "Perhaps a room like this, with double tables? Mr. Sing, will you come?"
"Sure," Peter said. "I'm in town for a few more days."
"That's fantastic!" The men were enchanted. "Thanks again, guys. It was great."
"Thank you, gentlemen," Griffen said. "Looking forward to seeing you back again."
"Count on it!" Mike exclaimed.
After giving a generous tip to the dealer and the server, they headed for the elevator.
"Got two games going this evening," Jerome said, as they got up. "Put your phone on vibrate in case I need you."
"Not after eight, Jer. Having dinner with Harrison. I'd prefer not to be interrupted. I know you'll be able to handle anything that comes along."
Jerome nodded. "No problem. A little PR?"
"Fence-mending," Griffen said. "Good job, Noah." He gave the man a tip, too.
"Thanks, Mr. Griffen. It was a good game. Fun to watch you play."
Jerome turned to offer Peter a hand. "Thanks for sitting in, Peter. Hope you had a good time."
"Thank you," Peter said, slapping them both on the back.
"It was too short. I would have walked away with all your money if I had the time."
"Yeah," said Griffen. "You are welcome anytime. We'd love to have you sit in."
"Hey, Grifter . . . ?" Jerome began, a pinched look on his face.
"Just a moment. Here's my cell phone," Griffen said, jotting it down on a piece of paper. "Call me when you're free."
Peter produced a card from his pocket. "This is my number. Please call me when you have arranged more games."
The Eastern dragon grinned at them as he left the suite. He waited until he was alone in the elevator before he brought out his cell phone and pushed a speed-dial number.
"Yes, it's me. Better than you would ever dream." He grinned at the phone. "And you told me it was a liability that I played in that televised tournament."
Twelve
Griffen was nervous as he checked himself out in the mirror. He wore a dark blue matte silk shirt and a new pair of black wool trousers. He wanted to make a good impression, but not show off. Humble but honest was the name of the game. As a sly old sage had once said, sincerity was the key. If you can fake that, you've got it made. Griffen had been overcautious in telling Harrison what he needed to know to do his job, and the vice detective had let him have both barrels when he discovered how much Griffen was holding back. Griffen was concerned, and rightly so, that the human detective would freak out if he knew the whole truth, but it turned out for the wrong reasons. Harrison really wanted to know what he was dealing with. A homicidal fairy was not all that different in the damage he could do from a methhead on a toot. As a result, Harrison had been on his case. There were no breaks in Jesse Lee's murder. Harrison blamed him for that. Knowing that the victim was a dragon made it Griffen's fault. Griffen understood the logic. He felt the same way. If Griffen hadn't been a dragon, Jesse Lee might not have been killed even if he had come to work for him. The Eastern dragons saw it as the first chip off their power base.
What Griffen didn't like was that Harrison was letting his guys in vice hassle the dealers and spotters just a little, just to remind him how he had erred. Griffen thought they were both being punished enough because an innocent man had been killed. He had to make peace with Harrison. They really could help one another.
Griffen took the long way to the restaurant, stopping off at Tower Records. He browsed through the "Musicals" section of the DVDs. He had had a yen lately to watch Guys and Dolls. He was developing a keen sympathy for Nathan Detroit's problem of keeping one step ahead of the cops but still maintaining the Oldest Established Permanent Floating Crap Game in New York. His players were counting on him. His employees were counting on him. And now, so were the people in the Krewe of Fafnir. Griffen felt he ought to own his own copy of the movie so he could refer to it from time to time. It'd be nice to think he could handle himself with the same style and aplomb as Frank Sinatra.
With the little bag under his arm, he turned back into the heart of the Quarter. The restaurant was on a corner facing Jackson Square. Griffen strode the four blocks north on Decatur Street, dodging tourists and traffic.
The heart of the square was full of artists, fortune-tellers, and street performers. Close to the eastern edge of the park, a couple of the teenage boys were dancing to a boom box for a small knot of tourists. By their posture, Griffen didn't think they were inclined to leave tips in the upturned hat on the ground. He diverted into the stone-flagged confines and removed a five from his wallet. Ostentatiously, he dropped it into the hat. The boys did sunfish rolls on their sheet of cardboard in thanks. A couple of the visitors reached for their wall
ets. He grinned and angled for the diagonal path that would take him to the restaurant on the corner.
He suddenly felt uneasy. Someone was watching him, but where? He glanced around. A man in a lightweight gray suit was not-looking near the wrought-iron fence. Griffen eyed the broad shoulders. That was no tourist. He was a cop or some other kind of law enforcement. He wasn't the only one. Another man, in a tan jacket and dark blue pants, was reading a newspaper with his shoulder propped against one of the replica gaslight streetlamps. All he was missing was the rectangle cut out of the paper to peer through. Why the obvious surveillance? Was Harrison trying to hassle him just before they had dinner together? Why?
Then he was there at Griffen's side.
"Nondescript" was the perfect word to describe Jason Stoner. He had absolutely no distinctive features, nothing to set him apart from any other ex-serviceman who had gone into civilian service. His hair was buzz-cut short. It could have been graying at the temples, but Griffen couldn't tell. What set Stoner apart was his uncanny stillness. He could have been a statue. He stood at ease on the balls of his feet. Griffen, who knew a little about martial arts, understood that the stance made him prepared to respond to an attack from any direction, even one coming from above or below.
"Mr. Stoner," he said.
"Griffen."
"To what do I owe the honor? I don't have time to spare. I have a dinner engagement."
"Yes," Stoner said, his eyes registering no emotion. "Detective Harrison. This won't take long. I told you that if you became involved in my interests, I would warn you."
"What interests are those?" Griffen asked. "Homeland Security?"
"That is my only concern with regard to you, or anyone else in this city," Stoner said.
"I have nothing to do with your business," Griffen said, alarmed. "I'm just trying to keep mine going."
"What about the Mardi Gras situation?"
"That's nothing," Griffen said. "The only thing that makes the krewe different from every other krewe in New Orleans is that all the members are dragons. I have no authority. I'm just the king. They're all hyperorganized, but it's nothing that should interest the government."
"Don't try to pretend you don't know what's going on," Stoner said.
"There's nothing going on," Griffen said, feeling desperate. If Stoner picked him as dangerous, he could end up in a federal penitentiary awaiting a trial that never came, or shipped off somewhere they didn't speak English and had no phones, or just plain killed. "I swear. It's accountants and bartenders playing dress-up for a day."
"Then you will cooperate with me. I represent your nation's government."
"What do you want?"
Stoner turned to face him. His eyes bored into Griffen's like awls. "These accountants and bartenders do want to interfere with my job. My job is to protect the United States from all attacks. These people are a threat to this country." Griffen hesitated. Callum and the others had implied that they had a mission of some kind, but never said what it was. Had Griffen fallen into the hands of terrorists? All of the altruistic talk about charities and generosity to the Mardi Gras crowd suddenly sounded too good to be true. All the enthusiasm he had felt soured in his stomach.
"Of course I will do anything I can to keep the country safe. I won't cooperate with anything that endangers it."
"And you'll report to me if you observe anything?"
"Observe what?" Griffen asked.
Stoner's eyelids lowered a fraction of a millimeter. "That is classified information."
Griffen felt his temper rise. "I don't work for you. I'm not going to spy on these people. It sounds like you have the place wired already."
"Not yet. No," Stoner said. "I don't want you to put a bug in for me." The way he emphasized "bug" suggested he had seen Griffen's little stunt, or knew about it. "This krewe has plans that will interfere with the country's safety. If you get involved in their scheme, I will have to take you down with them."
"I told you, I won't help with anything dangerous or subversive, but that is as far as I will go. I don't want to get on your bad side, Stoner, but I'm not going to do your job."
Stoner just looked at him. "I don't need you to do my job. All I need from you is information if you get it, and for you to stay out of the way if I need to take these people down. Remember what I said."
Then he was walking away. Griffen jumped back. It was like watching a statue come to life. The defiant part of his mind said that Stoner would have made a terrific street performer.
He felt upset and confused. Was there really a plot to overthrow the government hidden among all those blueprints and artists' renderings? Rose wanted him involved in the Krewe of Fafnir. She couldn't be wrong about them. Or was there something else she hadn't told him?
His head spinning, Griffen jogged the half block to the restaurant.
Thirteen
Griffen checked his watch with annoyance. He was a few minutes late. He scanned the room for Harrison.
The burly figure holding up part of the wall opposite the maitre d's desk detached himself and came to meet him. Harrison still wore his weather-beaten leather coat, but underneath it was a nice blue-and-white-striped Oxford-collar shirt--ironed--and a blue tie striped on the diagonal with red--neatly knotted. Griffen tried not to stare outright. Harrison gave him a squint-eyed glare of challenge.
"Thought you were gonna blow me off."
"Not a chance." Griffen grinned. "This is some of the best food in the city. I was going to eat here whether you made it or not." Harrison grunted. The challenge retreated but didn't disappear completely. Griffen smiled at the hostess, a statuesque woman named Nami. She knew him and his sister well. She held up a finger for patience.
"I have your usual table, Mr. Griffen. Just a moment, please."
"Your usual table, huh?" Harrison said.
"We come in here for special occasions," Griffen said.
"The turtle soup is the best thing I have ever eaten. You'll have to try it."
"Can't be as good as my aunt Emily's," Harrison said doubtfully, as Nami picked up two tall, leather-backed menus and led them into the dining room. About thirty tables covered in white tablecloths stood well spaced for privacy but close enough to suggest intimacy. The lighting was mellow, adding to the cosy atmosphere. Somewhere, light jazz music played. It didn't interfere with the quiet hum of conversation. Nami brought them to a table for two by the wall underneath an Art Deco sconce. It was original to the restaurant's decor, as were other pieces of bronze and stained glass.
The restaurant had the potential to intimidate, but the staff, as in so many top New Orleans restaurants, defused the situation and made their guests welcome. The waiter, a middle-aged man with a shaved head and very dark skin, came out to greet them immediately. Edwin was Gris-gris's uncle. He wore the fine-dining server's uniform of a white shirt, a black bow tie, black trousers, and a long, plain, white apron tied at the waist.
"Mr. Griffen! And Detective Harrison. Welcome."
"You know each other?" Griffen asked.
"We've met," Edwin said. It didn't sound as if it had been a happy event, but the waiter was willing to forgive and forget, at least within the confines of the restaurant. "Let me give you a chance to look at the menu, and I'll get you some water and rolls."
Edwin bustled away. Griffen felt nervous again. He didn't know whether to mention Stoner. Harrison hated that the Homeland Security man might be interfering in his city. There was no good reason to raise his blood pressure unless Griffen needed his help. He had yet to figure out what Stoner had been talking about. Still, he had gotten in trouble for holding out on knowing about supernatural elements. He was torn as to what to do. Harrison gave him a curious glance.
"What're you staring at?" he asked.
"Nothing," Griffen said. "Nice tie."
"Sound surprised. You think I don't know how to dress?"
"You look fine, sir," the waiter said, returning. He filled their glasses from a silver pitcher
and put a basket covered with a snow-white napkin on the table between them. Fragrant steam rose from it. "Now, what may I get you to drink? We have some good wines, beer on tap, or something from the bar?"
"Coke," Harrison said, grimacing. "I hate insulting the food, but I'm still on duty today. This is my dinner break. Those slugs in IA would be happy to Breathalyze me to find out I'm drinking. Hope I get something to eat before I have to pull another body off the street."
"Diet Coke," Griffen said. It was a sacrifice on his part, too. The wine cellar was as excellent as the food. Even the modestly priced bottles were good. They also kept his favorite Irish whisky, Tullamore Dew, at the bar.
The waiter disappeared. Griffen leaned in a few inches and dropped his voice to an undertone.
"How's the investigation going?"
Harrison shook his head. He took a roll out of the basket and pulled a piece from it. He buttered the piece and ate it. "No progress. The girlfriend was flattened. They were gonna get married. Can you do something for her, Griffen?"
"Sure, we can. We already are. Were there any witnesses?"
"You know I can't talk about an ongoing investigation. But there were people within twenty feet, didn't see a thing. So," he said loudly, with a glance at the diners at the surrounding tables, "I can't answer your question about witnesses." He opened his menu.
Griffen got it and opened his own. A pristine white card announced the evening's specials, a fresh-caught Gulf lobster, prime rib, and a chicken breast with oyster stuffing. They all sounded good. "Remember, this is on me," he said. "Order what you want."
"Um-hmm." Harrison didn't look up. Griffen decided not to press the matter. He had already told Edwin ahead of time to make sure he got the check, no matter what argument Harrison put up.
"Well, do you have any more questions for me?" he asked.
"Not about that. I'll need to talk to any of your other employees who interacted with him in any way."
"Sure. I'll make sure they are around when you want them."
"Good. Enough shop. What's good?" he asked Edwin, who returned with a white paper pad in his hand.
Dragons Deal Page 11
