A Latino male caught his eye, walking by at a normal pace wearing the uniform black pants and tuxedo shirt of the service industry. A green jacket topped his ensemble. A waiter. From the Court of Two Sisters, by the jacket. What was unusual was that it was the wrong time of day for him to be going to work. Too late for the breakfast and lunch crowd, but too early for the dinner crowd. Still, maybe he had gotten a call to fill in for someone.
Finding nothing he could definitely label unusual, Griffen was about to give up and move along when he spotted the Latino again. The man was returning on the far side of the street, but moving slowly and looking through the windows of la Madeleine, a restaurant Griffen sometimes stopped at for a late lunch. He reached the end of the windows, then turned and stared back toward Jackson Square. Finally, he produced a cell phone, keyed a number, then spoke into it briefly.
Within minutes, another man appeared. This one was wearing a suit complete with a convention badge displayed prominently on the lapel. The only thing that made him vaguely distinguishable was that he wore a wide green tie and was carrying a bright orange shopping bag. Normally, Griffen wouldn’t look at him twice on the street. The man went into a brief huddle with the Latino, then they both walked hurriedly toward the Square and the video stores, splitting so that they were moving some fifteen feet apart.
Bingo!
Griffen smiled and reached for his own cell phone.
By the time he reached Yo Mama’s, Griffen was in a foul mood. After waiting on pins and needles for over six hours for some kind of word as to what, if anything, had happened, this summons to meet with Harrison seemed almost anticlimactic.
The detective was there ahead of him, holding down a booth, and waved him over as soon as he walked through the door. The fact he seemed to be in a good mood did nothing to ease Griffen’s disposition.
“Sit down, Griffen,” the detective said. “You got a steak dinner coming to you courtesy of the NOPD.”
“I didn’t know they served steaks here,” Griffen said.
“They do,” Harrison said. “They’re just not as popular as their hamburgers. Mostly, the hoi polloi prefer to eat cheap.”
“Actually, I’ve already eaten,” Griffen said.
“Well, it’s paid for in advance,” the detective said. “Just tell Padre the next time you’re in the mood for a steak.”
“I’ll remember that,” Griffen said.
Harrison peered at him.
“Are you okay?” he said. “You sound kinda peeved. We don’t buy steaks for people every day, you know. As a matter a fact, that steak dinner bonus was supposed to be for me. I decided to pass it along to you instead.”
“It’s been six hours,” Griffen said. “You could have called.”
The detective leaned back in his seat and scowled.
“Did I miss something here?” he said. “Am I reporting to you now on the chain of command? Jeez, you sound like my wife.”
Even though he was young, Griffen knew enough to be aware that when someone compared you to his wife, it wasn’t a compliment. He decided it was time to lighten up a little.
“I didn’t know you were married,” he said.
“I’m not. Not anymore.” Harrison sighed. “I’d forget to call her, too. She didn’t like it either.”
All of a sudden, the detective seemed more like a man and less like a cop. It made Griffen uneasy. He preferred to think of Harrison as a cop.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. “So what happened after I called you?”
“Oh, it was beautiful!” Harrison said, regaining his good mood. “First of all, we managed to pick up all three of them…good descriptions, by the way. I was a little worried about the Latino…afraid we’d get tagged for profiling…but they were all carrying, which made it real easy. Seems that someone told them that this town of ours is dangerous.”
“Slow down a little,” Griffen said, holding up his hand. “Profiling?”
“Sorry,” the detective said. “I keep forgetting you’re not in the business. Profiling has been all the rage ever since 9/11. Homeland Security is real big on it. Basically, it means keeping a special eye on people who fit the profile of a terrorist or a career criminal. It’s not a bad technique, and you can build up a nice case against a suspect using it, but the civil rights groups don’t like it. All too often, the profile includes a reference to a racial or national group, so we get accused of treating anyone of that group as a criminal. Now, I’m sure not going to try to say that all blacks are criminals or that all Arabs are terrorists, but the records do show that a disproportionate percentage of criminals or terrorists do come from those groups. Trying to ignore that fact when you’re looking for potential perps is just plain silly.”
Griffen actually had a fair idea of this from reading the newspapers, but after having gotten off on the wrong foot with Harrison, he figured it wouldn’t hurt things to give the detective a chance to show off a little. From the extent of the speech, the longest he had heard from the otherwise gruff cop, it worked.
“So the fact that one of them was a Latino was a problem?” he said.
“As I started to say, it never came up,” the detective said. “All the boys did was stop them and ask for some identification. We had plausible stories for doing that if they had raised a hassle, but the fact that they were all carrying firearms moved everything past that point in a hurry. That meant they had to show not only identification, but their permits to be carrying, so it became readily apparent that they were federal men from the get go. Then the only question was what they were doing in New Orleans.”
“What did they say?”
“One of them…the street entertainer…tried to bluff his way through, saying he was just here on vacation. Yeah, right. Like federal agents always spend their vacations standing on the street in the French Quarter playing guitar for loose change. The other two admitted they were on assignment, but wouldn’t say what it was. That’s when things really got fun.”
“What did you do?”
“Took ’em down to the station on Royal and let them talk to the chief. He had them get this guy Stoner on the horn so he could confirm their story. Stoner admitted that he had an operation in place down here, but refused to tell the chief any more about it claiming it involved national security.”
The detective broke off and laughed.
“I wish you could have seen it,” he said with a grin. “If there’s anything the chief hates more than Feds on his turf, it’s being told that it’s none of his business.”
“He told Stoner in no uncertain terms to get his team the hell out of town, and that if he ever ran an operation down here again without going through proper channels, the chief would personally see to it that any agents he caught would do time as well as getting their pictures plastered all over the Times-Picayune.”
“What did Stoner say?”
“He didn’t like it, no. Not one bit, but there was nothing he could do but agree. With the chief in the mood he was, if Stoner had tried to bluster his way out of it, the chief would follow through, startin’ with the three already in custody. Of course, he had to get in one good lick before he hung up.”
“What was that?”
“He said something to the effect that the chief had better hope that Homeland Security never got the chance to return the courtesy that the NOPD had shown them.”
Griffen scowled and shook his head.
“That doesn’t sound good,” he said.
“Just a little face-saving bluster,” the detective said dismissively. “There isn’t much he can do against the whole city…or the police force, for that matter. If he tries, he’s in for a surprise. The chief had him on the speaker phone and taped the whole conversation.”
Griffen sighed and shook his head again.
“What is it?” Harrison said.
“I don’t know,” Griffen said. “I mean, I’ve heard about how local cops don’t like the Feds coming into their territory, but it all se
ems…I don’t know, a little petty is all.”
“You’ve never had to deal with them like we have,” the detective said with a snort. “Come in throwing their weight around and treating us like dirt. They act like the whole force is incompetent, on the take, or both.”
It occurred to Griffen that he had met Harrison when the detective was growling at him about having to put up with protected gambling operations, but it didn’t seem like a good time to point that out.
“Well, enjoy your steak,” Harrison said, sliding out of the booth. “I’ve got to run. The boys are getting together for a little celebration, and I told them I’d stop by. We owe you one or two for this one, McCandles.”
Griffen sat staring for a long time after the detective had left. He was still staring when Padre came up to the booth.
“So, do you want that steak now?” the bartender said.
“I’ll take a rain check on that,” Griffen said. “Sit down for a second, Padre. What all did Harrison tell you?”
“Enough that I could tell they caught the ones shadowing you and that they were Feds,” Padre said. “He seemed really happy about it.”
“Yeah,” Griffen said, making a face. “Tell me, is it just me or does all this seem a little too easy to be true?”
“It’s not just you,” the bartender said. “Remember what I said about the possibility of an infiltrator? It could be that whoever’s running this show is pulling a little misdirection. Let you catch the obvious tails so you relax and don’t look around internally.”
“I remember, and I’m keeping an eye out,” Griffen said. “Of course, it doesn’t really matter.”
“It doesn’t?” Padre said.
“No, it doesn’t,” Griffen said. “We really aren’t doing anything that merits federal attention. The only reason I said anything to Harrison was to switch his focus from our operation to the Feds, and that seems to have worked out just fine.”
Thirty
Nighttime Bourbon Street was the usual kaleidoscope of color and sound. Even on a slow weekday night it swirled with energy unmatched by the “hot spots” in most cities even at their most celebrative. Some of it was because there was so much packed into a small area. A lot of it was both due to the no traffic, pedestrian nature of the street after seven o’clock, and the go-cup ordinances that allowed the revelers to wander from club to club with their drinks in hand. Most of it, however, was because of the mood. People came to Bourbon Street to have fun. To see and be seen and party like there was no tomorrow. If, at times, the gaiety was a little forced or strained, well, they were there to enjoy themselves and were bound and determined to do just that.
Tonight, Valerie was on a mission, and had convinced Griffen to escort her as “a change of pace from the rut he was getting into.” He had gone along with it partly because he agreed that he needed to do something different, and partly because he enjoyed the music clubs.
That was Valerie’s mission. She had met a musician, sort of helped him haul stuff into his new apartment, and he had invited her to come hear his band play. The trouble was, she couldn’t remember which club he was playing in, the name of the band, or even his name for that matter. Then, too, there was the minor detail that there were two to three dozen clubs along an eight-block stretch of Bourbon Street that had live music.
By Griffen’s calculations, there was no way they could stop and have one drink at every club without running out of energy, money, or both. Not drinking really wasn’t an option. With the overhead, mostly rent, the Bourbon clubs paid out every month, they couldn’t afford to have people taking up the limited seating and floor space without their contributing to the coffers. There was a one-drink minimum at most places, and even a Coke would cost you six dollars.
He pointed this out to Valerie, but she waved him off. To start with, what she did remember was that the musician in question played with a “cover band.” That is, a band that mostly played popular rock and rhythm and blues music made popular by name bands. That meant they could bypass the clubs that played Dixieland, Chicago blues, Cajun, or folk music. That substantially reduced the number of clubs, but it still left a lot. Griffen, however, had long since learned to recognize when his sister was set on an idea and didn’t bother trying to argue. Instead, he just drifted along with her, enjoying the night and the company.
“I still can’t believe we’re doing this when you can’t even remember the guy’s name,” he said as they paused at a cross street that let the cabs cross Bourbon.
“You know how it is, Big Brother,” Valerie said with a shrug. “He mentioned his name when we first met, but I didn’t really make a mental note of it. After we spent some time together, I was embarrassed to ask him to repeat it. That’s kind of why I’m trying to find him again. I want to see if the first impression holds up. If it does, I can catch his name when you introduce yourself.”
“Is that why you wanted me to come along?” Griffen laughed. “Not that I mind, but…”
A soft shove in his back sent him staggering forward a step. Catching his balance, he turned quickly, expecting to find a clumsy drunk or a bad pickpocket.
Instead, he found himself looking at the horse of a mounted policeman, which was looking back at him with soft brown eyes.
Startled, Griffen took another step backward.
The horse followed, ignoring its rider’s attempts to rein it in.
Valerie, of course, was laughing hysterically.
Griffen looked sternly at the horse.
“No!” he said firmly. “I can’t even have a cat at my apartment. There’s no way they’d let me keep a horse.”
The horse looked hurt and shook its head.
“I think you broke its heart, man.”
Griffen looked around.
Standing a few feet away was a street entertainer, a mime by the look of him. He was tall and skeletally thin, wearing an all-white outfit crowned by a top hat decorated with red, white, and blue stripes.
“Hey, Slim,” Valerie said, stepping forward. “How’s the crowd tonight?”
“So-so, Ms. Valerie,” Slim said. “There are a lot of ’em, but they ain’t parting with their money. Guess they think ‘tipping’ is a city in China.”
“You two know each other?” Griffen said, still tracking the horse, which was now being turned away by the officer on its back.
“We’ve met,” Valerie said with a smile.
Griffen wondered about that smile but decided not to ask.
“You must be Griffen McCandles,” Slim said, holding out his hand. “I’ve been hearing things about you.”
Griffen shook the offered hand.
“I hope that none of it is that I’m a horse thief,” he said.
“Oh, the beast just took a shine to you, is all.” Slim laughed. “It happens sometimes.”
“We’re out to do a little club crawling, Slim,” Valerie said. “Want to tag along?”
“It’s tempting,” Slim said. “But I got rent due soon. I’d better keep working the crowd.”
With that he waved and wandered off down the street.
Griffen didn’t take too much note of his passing. Instead, he was thinking about the horse.
Something hit him a sharp blow high on his back, staggering him a few steps. Catching his balance, he turned quickly, but there was no one behind him close enough to have hit him. Scanning the crowd, he realized his back was wet.
“Here it is, Big Brother,” Valerie said holding up a large plastic go-cup. “I think someone threw it at you from one of the balconies.”
Griffen shifted his gaze and studied the crowds on the balconies that bracketed the street. They seemed to all be tourists, with no familiar faces visible.
He realized he smelled of beer. He also considered how it might have been if the go-cup held something other than beer.
“Ya gotta love this town, even if it does get a bit crazy from time to time,” Valerie said, waving at the crowds.
Griffen found himself
wondering if it had been the George counting coup on him, or if it had really just been a drunken tourist blowing off steam.
He was starting to see what Mose meant when he said the George’s stylish approach could make his victim jittery, jumping at shadows.
They never did find Valerie’s musician.
Thirty-one
Griffen was sitting on the Moonwalk, the half-mile-long pedestrian walkway that wound along the Mississippi River from the cathedral to the Aquarium of the Americas, watching the sun rise over the Mississippi. Because of the bend in the river that gives the crescent city its name, in the Quarter, one could experience the unusual phenomena of watching the sun rise over the “West Bank.” Though the locals had long since taken it for granted, Griffen was still new enough to the area to find the paradox amusing and often prolonged his night an extra hour or two just to witness it.
Also, he was idly watching the activity of the wharf rats along the edge of the pier. Maybe he was just starting to notice things more, but he didn’t recall them being this active when the sun was up.
“Seems like every time I see you, you be stirrin’ up the wildlife.”
Griffen looked around and found the lanky black street entertainer standing behind him in full costume.
“Hey, Slim,” he said. “Are you up early or late?”
“Early,” the man said. “Competition’s getting pretty heavy for street space since they started regulatin’ where we can entertain.”
There was an ongoing fight in the Quarter between the street entertainers, particularly the tarot readers, and the painters, as to who did and didn’t have the right to set up shop on Jackson Square.
“Is it just me,” Griffen said, “or are the rats along the wharf more active than normal?”
Slim peered dramatically at the foraging rodents. “Naw.” he said firmly. “They be just trying to grab some food before the heat of the day sets in. Don’t take it personally. I was just pullin’ your chain a little. Well, hang loose, Grifter. I gots to be gettin’ to work.”
Dragons Wild Page 17
