The passenger turned in his seat to stare directly at Flynn.
“McCandles?” he said. “Are you talkin’ about Griffen McCandles?”
“That’s right,” Flynn said. “Why? Do you know him?”
“Get out of my car.”
The statement was made with such finality that Flynn was startled.
“I don’t understand,” he said. “What’s the problem?”
“The problem is that either you don’t know who you’re talkin’ about, or you’re some kind of special dumb,” the passenger said, shaking his head. “Well, we ain’t dumb, and there’s no way we’re goin’ after Griffen McCandles. That man is protected big-time… and I don’t just mean the cops. Word is he has supernatural help. If TeeBo knew who you had in mind, there’s no way he would have even had us talk to you. Now get out of my car, and I mean now. You want to go after Griffen McCandles, I don’t even want to be seen talkin’ to you. Now get out.”
Standing on the sidewalk again, Flynn watched the car drive off. If the McCandles boy had built that much of a reputation in just a few months, then maybe George wasn’t exaggerating when he described the young dragon as “formidable.”
One thing was certain, though. If Flynn was going to continue with his plan, he couldn’t rely on local contacts. He’d have to try another tactic. Maybe import someone.
Six
It was the silence that first caught Griffen’s attention. A bar is never completely quiet, a French Quarter bar least of all. The Irish pub was no different. Still, a sudden drop in the constant background noise caught and held his attention.
He couldn’t immediately track the source of the change. People were still chatting. The music, never Irish, still played. A couple pretended to shoot pool on the back table between their flirting. All this flashed before his attention, then he looked down. Looked down, and saw the dogs.
There were three of them. A high number for the pub, but he had seen worse. Griffen had gotten used to the fact that dog owners in the Quarter tended to take their animals everywhere. Sometimes, when a particularly yappy bunch came in, it annoyed the hell out of him. Usually not, though. The sounds of puppies at play had become “normal” to him. Part of the background noise that made a happy bar.
These three had been doing their part. Running from patron to patron, looking for attention. Wrestling with each other over a bone one of the chefs had brought for them when she got off shift. It had been the sudden stop in their antics that had caught Griffen’s attention. All three now sat in a line in front of one of the entrances. Sat, and stared.
That was enough to bring Griffen fully on guard. Even though no one else seemed to be paying attention. Griffen turned slightly away from the bar, freeing his legs in case he needed to move quickly. He only relaxed slightly as the door opened, and Slim walked in. He didn’t turn back to the bar.
Slim was a tall, thin man whose skin always looked darker because of the pristine white suit he always wore. He was one of the Quarter’s street performers. A living statue, with red, white, and blue stripes on his tie and the band of his tall, white top hat. He was also one of the few humans gifted with the ability to control animals.
As soon as he was in the bar, the dogs pounced. Griffen had experienced similar reactions, and expected Slim to calm them as he tended to. Instead, Slim plopped down onto the barroom floor and spent several minutes scratching and rolling with the excited beasts. The dogs’ owners glanced down to see who was riling up their pets, then went back to their drinks with wry smiles.
The play stopped so abruptly that another lull rolled through the bar. If Griffen hadn’t been watching closely, he would have missed the slight change in Slim’s expression completely. One moment the man had been covered in tail-wagging dogs, the next he was alone. Each canine went back to its owner’s side and lay down, as calm as it had been excited. All from what appeared to Griffen as an instant’s concentration. Slim’s brow barely furrowed.
Slim stood up and brushed off his suit. He nodded to the bartender, who didn’t seem to mind that the dogs had gotten the first greeting. Then he picked up the large, white bucket that he used to collect his tips and headed toward Griffen.
“Can I have some words with you, Mr. Griffen?” Slim said, nodding to one of the tables set a bit apart from the bar.
Griffen had to admit to himself that Slim’s entrance had impressed him. Particularly the subtlety, the complete lack of interest anyone had shown. Griffen’s own animal control was a skill he was still developing. Being a dragon seemed to give him a boost in strength and power, but his control was still shaky. Slim was a natural.
“Sure, Slim.”
Griffen gathered up his drink and went over to the table as Slim reached into his bucket for a few ones to buy his own drink.
“Tell me something, Slim,” the younger man said, as the entertainer joined him. “How come nobody bats an eyelash when you do something like that?”
Slim looked over at one of the sleeping dogs, which twitched lightly in its sleep. It seemed to calm under the man’s attention.
“Well, hell, this here’s the French Quarter. ’Sides, everyone does know ol’ Slim has a way with chillen and animals.”
“Then why don’t you use your talents in your act? Bring a dog or bird or something into the bit, and the tourists will eat it up.”
“Why don’t you do some fire-breathin’ in Jackson Square? Tourists will eat it up.”
Griffen was taken aback by the sudden harshness in the man’s tone. He reminded himself Slim had threatened him before. That he was, in his own way, a dangerous man. Even with his own powers to protect him, Griffen felt somewhat vulnerable.
“Some things ain’t given to us to make the tourists laugh. Or to fill the pockets, ya hear?” Slim went on.
“Sorry, Slim, I didn’t mean any offense,” Griffen said.
“Well… no, guess you didn’t, Mr. Griffen. Sorry, it’s a sore spot. Not everyone thinks the same way ’mongst folks like me. I remember this here fine gal in New York did just that. Lovely girl, worked with pigeons, but didn’t hold that ’gainst her none. ’Course she also had squirrels. Picked pockets and the like. Gots into all sorts of trouble…”
Griffen let him trail off. It was the first time Slim had really shared anything personal with him. Slim seemed to shake himself, coming back from whatever memory he had drifted into.
“Anyways, touchy subject. Specially since it always comes up at the big meets. ’Spose I been bracin’ myself for when the fightin’ starts, ya know?”
“You mean at the conclave?” Griffen asked.
“Yep. Damn near forgots what I was lookin’ for you for. Got some stuff for you.”
Slim reached into his bucket again and pulled out a black folder. Griffen took it from him and looked inside. The contents looked no different than what one might receive at any convention: a map of the Quarter, a hotel map with meeting rooms marked off, a list of helpful phone numbers.
“I been helpin’ Rose out. Doin’ the stuff that it’s helpful to be fully corporeal for. All the attendees gets a folder like this. We’ll work up an itinerary as the guest list gets finalized.”
“I didn’t know you were attending, much less helping to organize things,” Griffen said.
“Well now, the other animal-control people is attendin’ this year. Since this is my home, falls to me to help things go smooth. ’Course, I sure hope I don’t end up stuck bein’ the main spokesman. We is too damned independent. I don’t want to be the one holdin’ the bag.”
“Can’t say I blame you,” said Griffen.
He felt a good amount of the irony from that statement. It looked more and more like he was going to end up the main bag holder.
“Slim, you mentioned a guest list. I’d really appreciate if someone would tell me who, and what, exactly is coming to this thing.”
“Rose didn’t tell you?!” Slim said, face more than a little shocked. “Well, damn. Guess I understand since th
ings ain’t too solid yet. Keep in mind this might change as invites get accepted and declined.”
“Invitation only, right?” Griffen said.
“Uh… mostly. Always a surprise or two at these things, ya know?”
Slim leaned back and started to count off on his fingers.
“First comes us animal types. So you can figure the shifters, too. All sorts: chimera, werewolves, no tellin’ what mix yet.”
Griffen thought inwardly, Shamans and werewolves, oh my.
“The local voodoo people will show. They ain’t helpin’ out like they should, though. Don’t rightly know why. Figure a handful of other human magic users, wicca and the sorts. Again, no idea what mix exactly. Then, ’course, Rose and a few from the other side.”
“Vampires?” Griffen asked, intrigued.
After all, if there were going to be ghosts and werewolves, who knows?
“Didn’t get invited. Too much trouble. The emotion ones depress or piss off everyone. Other sorts… well, after Rice and the like, you just don’t want to meet the types of vamps that New Orleans might attract.”
“You’re probably right. Is that it?” Griffen said.
“Pretty much. Bigwigs aren’t showin’. Likes the… well, like the dragons. Oh, somethin’ different. First year the fey kids are gettin’ in.”
Griffen blinked.
“The what?!” he asked.
“Yeah, they been tryin’ for a long time to get a spot in the meets. Call ’em changelings. Supposed to be what the fey leave behind when they snatch a human kid. Bunch of bull ya ask me, but the kids gots some power.”
“Then why haven’t they been included before?”
“Mostly ’cause they are weird. Even by our standards. Even push Quarter standards, you listen to some of the rumors. Only reason they get a shot this year is because the conclave is here. Never met one myself, of course, but that’s what I hear.”
Slim finished his drink and stood abruptly, straightening his suit again.
“That’s all I got for now. I’ll call you sometime to talk ’bout the itinerary.”
“You sure about that list?” Griffen pressed.
“Pretty sure. But remember, always a surprise or two.” Slim walked toward the door and had it halfway open when he stopped, looking down at his empty hand. He had left his bucket back at the table. Before he even turned, one of the three dogs stood up and was dragging it to him in its teeth. He scritched the dog affectionately and winked to Griffen before leaving.
If anyone found it odd, no one commented. Or even looked up from their conversations. Which left Griffen stuck on one very important question.
What could be too odd for the French Quarter?
Seven
Griffen really didn’t want to talk to Detective Harrison. If nothing else, he wasn’t sure what to say to the man.
“By the way, Detective, there will be a bunch of weird, supernatural types hitting town over the Halloween weekend. You might want to keep an eye out for them, but don’t lean on them too hard.”
That would raise some questions Griffen would just as soon have left unasked.
Still, the vice detective had done him some favors in the past, mostly because he hated feds operating on his turf even more than he hated protected gambling operations. Knowing there was potential trouble coming down the pipeline and not alerting the policeman would be a poor way to pay him back.
Griffen decided against calling Harrison on his cell phone for fear it would make the whole thing too official for comfort. Instead, he would try to meet with the detective casually, making it appear to be a chance run-in.
To that end, he put the word out through his various watchers in the Quarter to alert him when Harrison was spotted in the area but not actively working.
He thought this would buy him a bit of time to figure out what he was going to say, but the call came back almost immediately, letting him know that Harrison was eating at Yo Mama’s.
Sometimes he wished his network of watchers was a little less efficient.
Padre, one of his favorite bartenders, was behind the bar when he rolled in. Catching his glance, the man jerked his head slightly toward one of the back booths, then rolled his eyes in mock exasperation. Not knowing quite what to make of the signal that had been passed to him, Griffen made his way toward the indicated booth. It didn’t take him long to figure out what Padre had been trying to tell him.
Harrison, as always looking more like an overweight biker than a cop, was sprawled loosely in the last booth, a half-full bottle of beer in front of him.
“Well, look who’s here,” the detective drawled. “My friend the Grifter… or should I say Mr. McCandles. Pull in, son. Let me buy you a round or two.”
Harrison waved at Padre as Griffen settled into the seat across from him. The young dragon certainly didn’t need to use his enhanced powers of observation to realize that Harrison was more than slightly tight.
“So, what can I do for you?” Harrison said, his words a little slurred. “The only time I see or hear from you is when you want a favor. Nobody wants to drink with a cop except other cops.”
“Are you okay, Detective?” Griffen said, genuinely concerned. “You seem a little out of it. Is anything wrong?”
“Wrong?” Harrison said, louder than was necessary. “How could anything be wrong? I’m a cop with the NOPD. We’ve got the world by the short and curlies. Ask anyone. Better yet, read the newspaper. Everybody loves us.”
Padre brought over the round of drinks. As he set Griffen’s Irish in front of him, he caught his gaze again and widened his eyes slightly in mock exasperation. Griffen understood completely and sympathized. Dealing with drunks was an unpleasant but nightly occurrence for anyone working in the Quarter. Dealing with a drunken cop in your bar, however, was a no-win scenario for any bartender.
“I was just curious,” Griffen said, pointedly ignoring the detective’s condition. “We’ve got the Halloween weekend rolling up on us. Is that a problem for you and yours? Do you have to lay on extra help or what?”
Harrison made a rude noise, blowing a short raspberry through his lips.
“Hell. It’s no big problem,” he said. “It’s like any other weekend. Just a bit more crowded, and the crazies are wearing costumes is all. Tourists getting drunk and messing with each other and the locals, same as always.”
“Well, they do keep the Quarter green,” Griffen said, trying to make light of the situation. “Tourism is one of our biggest industries down here.”
“Tourists,” Harrison said, like the word tasted bad. “Why do they call it tourist season if we can’t shoot ’em?”
“Oh, come on,” Griffen said. “They aren’t all that bad. In fact, most of them are pretty decent and well behaved.”
“Niggers, fags, and dope addicts! That’s all the French Quarter is!”
The intrusion on their discussion came from a suit at the far end of the bar. The speaker was obviously drunk and loudly lecturing his companions, who were trying vainly to quiet him down. They were obviously conventioneers, still wearing their name badges on their lapels.
Most of the late-night crowd, heavily local, pointedly ignored him. They had all heard it before.
Harrison, however, leaned out into the aisle and stared at the offending party, blinking his eyes as he tried to focus.
“Right on cue,” he said. “I may have to bend that boy a little.”
“No big deal,” Griffen said, hastily. “Padre’s got it under control.”
There was an unspoken rule in the Quarter: Let the bartender handle any altercations unless he or she specifically called for help. Even as Griffen tried to calm Harrison down, Padre came down the bar toward the trio, leaned close, and said something softly to them. Even though he couldn’t hear the words, Griffen had heard the routine often enough to know it by heart.
“Excuse me, gentlemen. I’m afraid you’ll either have to lower your voices, or I’ll have to ask you to leave.”
Griffen started to protest, but the situation erupted again.
“Don’t tell me to quiet down!” the drunk was declaring, shaking off the restraining hands of his friends. “And if you lay a hand on me, I’ll sue your ass and this bar for everything they got! You want me out of here? You’re gonna have to call a cop!”
Harrison was out of the booth and walking up to the man before Griffen could say anything more.
“You want a cop, mister?” he said flashing his badge. “You got one. Let’s step outside.”
The drunk gaped at the detective.
“Bullshit! You don’t look like no cop I’ve ever seen!” He turned his attention to Padre again. “Who’s this? Your boyfriend?”
Moving fast for his bulk, Harrison took the drunk backward off his bar stool and onto the floor. He had a fist cocked and ready to go, then he hesitated and took a deep breath.
Still gripping the drunk with one hand, the detective hauled him erect and set him on his feet.
“We want our visitors to have a good time when they’re down here,” he hissed, “so we’ll just call this a misunderstanding.”
He glanced at the man’s two companions.
“Take him back to the hotel and don’t let me see him on the streets until he’s slept it off.”
He shoved the drunk into the arms of his friends, who gathered him in and hustled him out the door.
Harrison watched them go, still breathing hard, then walked unsteadily to the door and stood staring after them. A few beats later, he stepped out onto the street and strode off in the direction the men had taken.
“What in the world was eating Harrison?” Griffen said, when the bartender came to the booth to clear away the empty beer bottles.
“He’s been suspended,” Padre said. “Got a reprimand for roughing up a couple frat boys.”
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