Dragons Deal

by Robert Asprin

  A nod from Griffen urged him to go all out. Edwin applied the full force of his personality on the detective. "Our strength is our seafood, Detective. We've got fine black bass this evening. I can also recommend the seafood platter. Steamed mussels, roasted scallops, and a lobster tail. Everything's fresh and delicious, guaranteed."

  Harrison frowned. He looked longingly at the seafood side of the menu, but his finger moved toward the specials card. "What about that chicken breast?" he asked.

  Edwin snatched the menu out of his hands. "Hey! You insult my restaurant, Detective? I'll choose. That way you don't have to think about it. You'll enjoy it, I promise." Harrison looked annoyed but didn't protest or try to take it back. Griffen handed over his menu placidly.

  "Sounds good to me," he said. "I trust you."

  "All right," Harrison said. "But none of that nouveau cuisine. Ain't enough calories in that to keep a canary alive."

  "Are you kidding me?" the waiter asked. "In this establishment?"

  He disappeared into the dimness and reappeared in moments with two tiny china plates in his hands. He set them down with a flourish.

  In the center of each plate was a golden brown round of bread topped by a dark green, ridged leaf Griffen thought was spinach. It was the setting for one plump oyster, still glistening with its liquor, sprinkled with white shavings and a single red dot that was unmistakably hot sauce. Griffen lifted the plate to smell the white shavings and recoiled slightly. Horseradish.

  "Here's a little amuse-bouche to start you gentlemen off," Edwin said.

  "That means a little appetizer . . ." Griffen began.

  "You think I don't know my Franglish?" Harrison asked. "This is my city. You just got here." He disposed of the oyster in a gulp. Griffen swallowed his own oyster. His eyes watered, and his whole body shuddered. He followed it with the brown bread and basil leaf. It filled his sinuses with a heady licorice scent that went perfectly with the horseradish and hot sauce. That was the way to enjoy a bivalve.

  No sooner had Griffen recovered from the oyster than Edwin swooped in to remove the plates and replace them with two flat basins of warm, fragrant green liquid. Griffen inhaled appreciatively. The turtle soup was what brought him back time after time to this restaurant. He hoped it would mollify the gruff officer, and it did. The aroma made Harrison smile.

  "It's made with sherry," the waiter explained, "but I had the chef flame it to take down the alcohol before he added it. Enjoy it."

  "We will," Griffen promised. The rich liquid rolled on his tongue like cream, and the savory, meaty flavor made him feel all was well with the world. Neither of them spoke until the soup plates were empty. Harrison sat back in his chair.

  "I'm gonna have to arrest the chef," he said.

  "Why?" Griffen asked.

  "He stole my aunt Emily's recipe."

  Griffen laughed. "Are you sure? Should we check the kitchen to see if she's back there?"

  "Now that you mention it," Harrison said, "I haven't heard from her in a while. Maybe she's moonlighting. Damned economy."

  "I hear that a lot," Griffen said.

  "Your business doing okay?" Harrison asked.

  "Glad you asked," Griffen said, keeping it casual. "Your fellow guardians of the law came and tossed one of our games the other night."

  "Keeping you honest. You guys don't pay taxes."

  "Actually, we do pay taxes," Griffen said. "I have all my employees filing W-9s before the end of the year."

  "Anyhow, we got a complaint from the hotel. Got to follow up on complaints. You're still unlicensed, unless you've swung that in the last few weeks."

  "You have me there, Detective," Griffen said. "I prefer to think of it as operating in a gray area."

  "You know I don't give a damn unless someone gets hurt." He glared at Griffen. Griffen spread his hands.

  "Look, Harrison, we both want the same thing, for everyone to live in peace and make a living. You don't have to have a stick up your ass."

  Harrison grimaced. "I don't like to relax around people like you. I might have to run you in one day for vice."

  Griffen shifted uncomfortably, then noticed the mischievous gleam in Harrison's eye. The detective was ribbing him. He didn't know whether to counter with a retort or just accept it. Edwin rescued him from the awkward moment.

  "Salad, gentlemen," he said.

  "I hate frisee," Harrison said, as Edwin put the plate down in front of him and carefully drizzled dressing on it from a sauceboat. But he finished it. "Great dressing. Too bad they put it on weeds and grass clippings."

  A busboy removed the empty dishes. Edwin and another waiter brought the main course out to them, big silver covers on the plates. At a silent count of three, the waiters whisked the domes away.

  "The best of New Orleans. Enjoy."

  A rush of hot steam washed Griffen's face. Contentedly, he contemplated a surf and turf at a far remove from ordinary family restaurant fare of fried shrimp and tough steak. The parsley-sprinkled bread-crumb crust on the filet of flounder was so delicate it broke like the snap of crisp snow on a winter morning. The tenderloin was sliced and fanned to show the red center in the rectangle of brown. Griffen applauded the chef's using a fish that was firm and hearty enough to stand up to the meat. Fingerling potatoes and baby vegetables filled in the empty places on the plate, and the entree was surrounded by a savory sauce. Griffen had been schooled by Edwin and other servers at the finer restaurants that good meat shouldn't be covered by the sauce. That trick was for keeping Salisbury steak and turkey breast from drying out. Everything smelled so good it was hard to decide what to try first.

  He had his eyes closed, enjoying a perfect bite of flounder, when Harrison's gruff voice interrupted his reverie.

  "I have to keep learning all the time, or I'm gonna get killed out there," he said.

  Griffen's eyes flew open. It was an awkward beginning, but at last the elephant-in-the-room subject was coming up. The tough street cop was appealing to the college kid from Michigan, and he did not like the uneven quality of the playing field. It took a brave man to admit he had a weakness. Griffen dipped his head to acknowledge it.

  "Whatever I can do to help out the NOPD," he said.

  "Forget the NOPD," Harrison said, chewing a miniature squash. "They'd lock me up in a mental institution if they could hear us now. How many of . . . you are there?"

  "I have no idea," Griffen said, honestly. "I knew as little as you did until recently, and I still don't know everything that's out there."

  "What about people like you?"

  "Dragons." Griffen let out a low whistle. "There are a lot more dragons in New Orleans than I thought, and I know I haven't met all of them yet. And there are all the other ones."

  Griffen paused while Edwin came and topped up their glasses.

  "What other ones?" Harrison pressed.

  "Uh, changelings, uh, werewolves. Shape-changers. Vampires. Ghosts. Wiccans. You know . . ." Griffen let his words trail off uncomfortably. Harrison's expression didn't change, but Griffen could almost hear the gears turning. The detective was handling the revelations better than he would have thought.

  "I already knew about the wiccans," Harrison growled. "I feel like I'm living in Disneyland. Why's this city got more weirdos than anywhere else in the world?"

  "I don't know if that's true," Griffen said. "I'd bet there's a higher percentage here, but I don't know. I haven't had that much experience living in many other places, and none before I knew about . . . you know. I know I would rather live here than anywhere else, and I'm a dragon."

  "This is the best place to be," Harrison said. "It's worth protecting. Even with all of you in it."

  Griffen held up a finger. "Wait a minute, Detective. It's not in spite of people like me. We're part of this city and this country, too. I may be new down here, but lots of others have been here as long as any human beings. They love this city. I love it. We're not interfering. We're part of the landscape."

  Ha
rrison chewed over the notion. Griffen could tell he found this tough to accept, but he swallowed it as he did the fish. "My granny had one of those scrolls that hung from a nail in her parlor that was called 'Desiderata.' She always told me it was a waste of energy to rail against what can't be helped. But is there some kind of secret password so I can tell what I'm dealing with?"

  "No more than if you ran into a smuggler, an illegal alien, or a millionaire," Griffen said. "I can feel them, but that's a new skill I'm just picking up. Some humans have it, too. I used to call it the sixth sense, but it's more than that. And there are a lot of people with just a little blood from one of the groups. Plenty of them don't know they have it, like me and Val."

  "You mean there's half vampires out there? Half swamp creatures?"

  Griffen grinned at the mental picture of a half-flora, half-fauna baby in diapers in a crib shaking a catalpa-pod rattle. "Maybe. Some types can't interbreed. Some of them can have sex with other beings but can't have children with them. We don't all know about each other. I got thrown into this only a few months ago. I'm learning it just ahead of you."

  Harrison had plenty of other questions. Griffen was impressed, as always, by the detective's shrewd intelligence. Griffen found himself telling him about the conclave, who had what kind of powers, who got along with whom, and whether they lived in New Orleans or not.

  "Now here's a special just for you from the dessert chef," Edwin announced. Griffen got off his elbows and made room for the dessert, a tower of pastry with caramel sauce and a chocolate cutout for each of them.

  Both men dove into the confection with spoons. It tasted of vanilla, with a hint of coffee and chili. Harrison deconstructed it as he might a case and cut into each piece, dipping it in the creme anglaise in the center. Griffen felt his waistband tightening with every bite. He was going to have a stomachache later, but he couldn't stop eating. The chef had his own magic.

  "That one who died, Slim? What was he? A shape-changer?"

  "No. He had power over animals. They loved him."

  "Then why was he posing as a statue for tips in Jackson Square? Seems like a waste. Could have been world-famous with an animal act. A real Doctor Dolittle."

  Griffen shook his head. "Because he respected the animals as you would respect other people," Griffen said. "He wouldn't exploit them any more than you'd line up a bunch of humans and make them dance to earn a profit for you. He was very responsible with his power. I didn't understand that at first. The animal-control talents are very touchy, and they have reason to be. I want to save you the trouble of making the same mistake I did."

  "Point taken," Harrison said. "Just seems like a lot of people would use a talent like that to make money."

  "They would. Slim didn't like it. He did his best to protect animals from others. Like me." Admitting that reopened an old wound. "I made a lot of the same assumptions you did. He taught me better. I wish . . . I wish it had gone differently."

  "You and me both," Harrison said, polishing off the last bite of pastry. "Well, if you are all such good citizens, then I need help. Did any of them see what happened to Jesse Lee? Anyone who has leads on open cases can let me know. I don't care where the information comes from."

  "You don't know what you're asking."

  "That's damned right, I don't," Harrison said. "But I have confidential informants you wouldn't meet in broad daylight with an army at your back. How much worse could your kind be?"

  Griffen winced. "Don't even ask. But I'll put it out there. I got to know some people during the conclave who consider themselves good citizens."

  "And some who don't?"

  "Not as much as they don't consider themselves to be part of civilization if they can help it. We're all ruining their environment for them."

  "Everybody's a rampant greenie these days," Harrison growled.

  "Some literally," Griffen said. "At the conclave . . ."

  "How was the food?" the waiter asked.

  "Five stars," Harrison said. "Mr. McCandles here wasn't giving me BS when he said this was the best place. The tournedos de boeuf were perfect, red inside but done exactly to temperature. The panko crust suited the flounder. Don't need more seasoning than a little thyme and a sprinkle of salt. Your chef got that on the nose. Dill would have overpowered that and the beef."

  "Yes, sir. He knows his fish. I saw that you appreciated our turtle soup."

  "Flaming the sherry was an inspiration. Added a little smoky, aged flavor that just gave it another dimension. I have got to try that myself. Don't get a chance to really do any fancy cooking on my schedule, but I get a vacation once a year. Does he saute the meat before he simmers it, or does he start with raw?"

  "You better not overcook turtle, Detective," Edwin said, warningly. The two of them dropped into incomprehensible jargon including such terms as "the Maillard effect" and "sous vide." Griffen was slack-jawed.

  "I get the Food Network," Harrison said, defensively. "You can't live in this city and not become a food fan."

  "Damm it, take the card!" A too-loud voice interrupted the restaurant review. All of them turned. A red-faced man in a light brown suit glared up at a waiter. Griffen could see from where he sat that the man's eyes were red, too. In fact, he looked a lot like the steak Griffen had just eaten. "It's fine! Run it again!"

  "Sir," the waiter said, dropping his voice and leaning close, "I am very sorry, but it was declined."

  "Declined, hell! You're just running it wrong! Do it again!"

  "We did, sir. Would you happen to have some other means of settling your bill?"

  The belligerent expression on the man's face told Griffen he was between tipsy and drunk. "That's the way I'm paying. Now, run the slip, because I am walking out of here in exactly sixty seconds whether you do or not."

  "Sir, that won't do. They won't pay."

  "Tough shit. What are you gonna do? You gonna call the cops?"

  "No, I'm already here," Harrison said, striding to the man's side. The diner jumped. Harrison put a hand on his shoulder and pushed him back into his chair. Griffen followed along just to see the show. "I was just having a nice dinner, and I heard the commotion. I'm not gonna bust you up in here. Place is too nice for that, and it would just embarrass the hosts you were trying to stiff."

  "The card's good!" the man protested.

  "Instead of blaming the staff, you tried calling the credit-card company? Gimme your cell phone," he said to Griffen. Griffen immediately surrendered it. Harrison dialed the number on the back of the card and thrust it at the man. "Ask 'em."

  The man recited his number into the receiver and waited. "What do you mean I'm over my limit? I had three thousand dollars credit before we left . . ."

  Harrison took the phone. "Who'm I talking to? Well, ma'am, I'm Detective Harrison of the New Orleans Police Department. Yes, ma'am, good evening. No, I know you can't tell me anything about his account. But how about you tell Mr."--he glanced at the card--"Tadeuz if there was any big purchase recently? Uh-huh. You have a nice night." He handed the phone to the embarrassed tourist, who listened closely.

  "The car rental," he told his scarlet-faced wife. "We declined the insurance, so they took a deposit on our credit card. But that's not fair!"

  "You signed the agreement," Harrison said, his voice low and just on the soft side of threatening. "So maybe you remember that you have enough money in your wallet to pay cash. Otherwise, there're crimes known as theft of service, theft by deception, and a bunch of other charges that I could read out. I am sure you would rather pay your money for this excellent food and wine than for bail money." The guy was slightly drunk but not insensible. He got the point. His face was scarlet as he opened his wallet and counted cash out into the small black tray on the table.

  "And the tip," Harrison said. "These people treated you really nice. Don't take it out on them."

  Very grudgingly, the man put another bill on top of the others.

  The man's wife, a nice-looking woman with gray, cur
ly hair, lifted beseeching eyes to him. She was genuinely upset. "Really, Officer . . ."

  "Detective," Harrison said.

  ". . . Detective, we'll see what happened. It wasn't deliberate. We have a high credit limit. Really!"

  "It's okay, ma'am," Harrison said. "You enjoy the rest of your night, now." The couple gathered their belongings and rushed out of the restaurant. Behind Harrison, the family at the next table mimed applause. Griffen grinned. They went back to their table.

  Edwin followed them and helped them be seated. "Well, Detective, we are very grateful for your help. We'd like to--"

  "Now, don't you say another damned word!" Harrison snarled. Edwin halted, eyes wary. "I do not want to hear another word about it. I am just doing my job. No freebies." Griffen pushed down on the air with his flattened hand just behind the detective's back.

  The waiter subsided. "Well, I will just go and make sure the coffee is as good as it can be." He bustled away.

  Harrison's pager buzzed. He looked down just as Edwin brought a cafe presse to the table.

  "Shit. I almost made it to the coffee," he said.

  "We'll put it in a go-cup for you, Detective. I hope you enjoyed your meal."

  "Sure did," Harrison said. He pointed a finger at Griffen's chest. "Don't think this takes you off the hook, McCandles."

  "No, Detective, sir," Griffen said. Harrison hung around long enough for Edwin to pour his coffee into an insulated container. "And I want to make sure you're gonna pay for this meal."

  "I know," Griffen said, reaching for his wallet. "Theft of service, theft by deception, and whatever else you can think of."

  "Damned straight," Harrison said. "I'll use whatever tools are in my toolbox on you if I have to. Whatever makes it work down here so that life goes as peacefully as it is going to go."

  He took his coffee and went out into the night. Griffen felt his shoulders relax as soon as the detective was out of sight. That hadn't gone as badly as it could have. They weren't exactly friends again yet, but they were allies. Harrison felt more in control than he had before. Griffen didn't mind letting him think he was on top of that hierarchy. It worked better for both of them.