Staring into the mirror, he didn’t see a dragon. He saw a college student, ex-college student, harried and stressed like any other person might be when faced with the prospects of no job or home. That alone gave him some minor reassurance in an odd way. He still looked normal, not like someone who had their whole world turned upside down. The thought gave him some amount of calm, and brought a tight smile to his lips.
What did he believe?
He found himself evaluating the opinions of those he had encountered. Malcolm had always been a distant figure; he didn’t know how to read the man. Likewise the senator, who he had only seen through the TV. Mai was really the first real chink in his armor. Someone close to him, someone who had shared his bed. Yet when dragons had come up, she had betrayed her normal characteristics and deserted him.
Now Jerome, another friend. In some ways, a closer friend then Mai. One who seemed to wholeheartedly believe this dragon nonsense. And, perhaps more important to the insecure jobless man, wasn’t shunning him or running away, but offering out open hands. His invitation seemed from one angle too good to be true, and from the other angle made perfect sense.
If one believed in dragons.
Griffen had already made his decision to tentatively accept Jerome’s invitation. That didn’t mean he fully accepted the premise behind it. It was so foreign to anything in his limited experience. He felt adrift, lost, floundering. He searched his own thoughts and feelings for some solution. Any solution. Only one came to mind.
“Okay Griffen,” he said to his own reflection. “They claim you’re a dragon, a monster, a beast of power. So…be a dragon.”
He concentrated, willing himself to show some sign, any sign, of dragondom. Inside he kept repeating the phrase “be a dragon, be a dragon,” trying to avoid distracting himself by the obvious corollary of “be the ball.” He focused his thoughts instead on scales, wings, fiery breath. Trying to force some physical sign that could prove, or disprove, this madness.
So firm was his concentration that his vision blurred, tears forming in the corners of his eyes and further blurring his sight. The image in front of him stared back, features set in concentration, outline going blurry from the tears. He pushed, desperately reaching for something, anything, that he could get a grip on.
A sudden wave of nausea broke over him and his concentration broke. He slumped against the sink, sweat pouring off his forehead from the exertion. There hadn’t been so much as a split second where his face in the mirror had seemed to him anything but human. Yet, the effort had left him feeling weak and drained, more so than anything he could remember.
The bathroom door swung open and Jerome looked in. He looked over Griffen, frowning slightly. Something about his eyes made Griffen suspect that he had already known what he would find before opening the door.
“Some things you can’t force, my man,” said Jerome, confirming Griffen’s suspicions.
“How did you know?” Griffen asked.
“You mean ’sides the fact you’ve been in here a good twenty minutes? I know you, Grifter, and I know what I’d be thinkin, and tryin, if I were in your shoes.”
Griffen shook his head to clear it. He hadn’t any idea that he had been in there so long. To him it had been five minutes, tops. He thought that he must have been lost in thought.
“I still find this dragons thing…”
“Illogical? Impossible? A load of crap?” Jerome said.
“D. All of the above,” Griffen answered.
“Still coming with me to New Orleans? If only to find out why so many would be lying about something so nuts?”
“That is just it, Jerome. I can be slow sometimes, but I can read people pretty well. If you are lying, you are better at it than you have ever shown before. I…I just don’t understand.”
“You will, Griffen. So help me, you will.”
Griffen nodded and straightened himself up. Carefully, he forced his expression to better hide the tiredness and strain he felt. Jerome smiled and clapped his friend on the shoulder as Griffen walked out of the bathroom and into the bar proper.
Jerome considered the scene for a moment before following and shook his head. His smile was both wry and a touch tired.
“Can’t see the forest for the trees,” he said to himself and then followed Griffen into the bar.
It would be many hours before anyone sober enough came into that restroom, and noticed the long, finger-shaped dents in the rim of the metal sink.
Ten
Jerome drove a Jeep Cherokee, and the tires sang a high, whiny monotone as they headed west along I-10.
Griffen watched the passing scenery and mentally blotted out the conversation between Valerie and Jerome as he tried to sort out his thoughts. He still hadn’t managed to get any sleep, and the last few days were taking on an almost surreal aura in his mind.
Dragons.
He didn’t feel like a dragon. In fact, he didn’t feel any different than he had two days ago. He hadn’t been able to turn into one when he needed to. Still, Valerie was right. It seemed enough other people believed in it and were willing to act on it that he had to take it seriously.
Unfortunately, taking it seriously now had him en route to New Orleans with someone he only knew as a gambling acquaintance.
Before they had gotten into the Jeep, Valerie had pulled him aside. Giving Jerome a none-too-friendly look and asking to talk with Griffen privately. As usual, she cut straight through the bullshit.
“You know you are being an idiot, Big Brother,” she said.
“So what else is new?”
She sighed and crossed her arms.
“I know he’s your friend, and you trust your friends too much sometimes. That doesn’t mean you can trust whoever he works for.”
“Maybe we can, maybe we can’t, but how can we know till we get there?” Griffen said.
“Okay, but don’t you think his showing up is awfully convenient?”
She looked shocked and then angry when Griffen laughed.
“For us maybe. For him, not a chance. He timed this very carefully and spent more time and effort than he wants to admit tracking me down. Not to mention enrolling in a school and putting in a few years. No, frankly I didn’t think Jerome had this kind of patience, which makes me want to meet his boss all the more.”
He wrapped an arm around her waist and gave her a squeeze.
“Little Sister, you are just mad you can’t think of any better ideas.”
“Damn straight!”
She grinned, finally relenting, but the first part of the drive had been tense. She had glared at Jerome and it was she who finally asked for more detail about the organization. Griffen didn’t stop her, not that he could if he tried. Besides, he wanted to know, too.
“Now, Mose is the man who’s been running our crew for a while,” Jerome was saying. “Once you get settled in, I’ll introduce you to him and he can start teaching you the ropes.”
“So, what kind of specialty is your crew involved in?” Valerie said.
“This and that,” Jerome said, “mostly on the edge of the law. Our main income comes from gambling.”
“Wait a minute,” Griffen said. “Are we talking about organized crime here?”
Jerome laughed.
“Like I read somewhere, when you see it up close, it ain’t all that organized.”
“Does the ‘this and that’ part include drugs and prostitution?” Griffen said. “’Cause I’ll tell you Jerome, I don’t think I could be part of that.”
“That’s up to you,” Jerome said. “You might want to take a closer look at it before you make your decision, though.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I don’t think you’ll find it’s what you think. The way we do it, it’s not like you see in the movies.”
“Suppose you tell me about it.”
“Well, as to the drugs, we don’t do any street sales or anything like that,” Jerome said. “If a player in one of our game
s wants some pot or maybe a little coke, we know some people to call to get him some. That’s about the extent of it. If anyone wants the hard stuff like heroin or crack, they got to leave the game and find it on their own, and even then we probably won’t let ’em back in. We don’t mess with junk like that.”
“And prostitution?” Valerie put in.
“Same thing. We don’t run strings or do any recruiting,” Jerome said. “If a player is looking for company, we know a few girls we can call…not full-time professionals, but bartenders or secretaries who turn an occasional trick to supplement their income. Even then we don’t take a piece off the top. We make our money from gambling.”
“Isn’t there a casino in New Orleans already?” Griffen said. “And I know there are some in Biloxi. Why do people sit in on your illegal games when they can gamble legit at a casino?”
“I can answer that in one,” Jerome said. “Taxes. You win big at one of the casinos, it gets reported to the IRS. What happens at our games is between us and the players. If you win, it’s pure profit without paying a slice to Uncle Whiskers.”
“There’s another point, too,” he continued. “Mose has been running his games for a long time…a lot longer than the casinos have been around. Some of the players that sit in when they’re in town have been playing in his games since way back…some of their daddies, too. It’s kind of a tradition with them, and if there’s one thing New Orleans is big on, it’s tradition.”
“So, how are they going to react when you run Grifter here in on them?” Valerie said. “Doesn’t that kind of mess up this whole tradition thing?”
“Don’t rightly know,” Jerome said. “I expect Mose has some plan in mind to ease you in. There might be a few problems, though. We’ll just have to see.”
“What about you?” Griffen said.
“What about me?”
“I mean, how do you feel about this whole thing with my being brought in. Don’t you have any problems with that? I should think this spot that’s being set up for me would rightfully be yours.”
“Don’t worry about that, Grifter.” Jerome laughed. “We’ve been talking about this for a long time. Hell, the reason I was up in Michigan was to keep an eye on you and see how you developed. If I didn’t think we’d be better off with you on board, I would have either tried to veto the plan or bailed out myself. No need to worry about me. I’m behind you one hundred percent.”
He glanced over his shoulder at Valerie.
“What I’d like to know,” he said, “is how all this sits with your sister. She has the same bloodline as you do, and she’ll be coming into her secondary powers pretty soon. Is she going to have any problems with your being treated like the big cheese while she stands in the background?”
“Nice of you to think about that, Jerome,” Valerie said. “I’ve never wanted to be the head of anything. I figure to enjoy the city and help out when and if I can. Mostly, I’m here to cover my big brother’s back. He isn’t always as careful as he should be.”
“Well, sure, anyone who’s known him for ten minutes knows that,” Jerome said.
Valerie smiled despite herself.
“I would like to get one thing straight, Jerome,” she said.
“Shoot.”
“You are bringing Griffen into this. If you aren’t up front with him, if this is a trick, a trap, or some cruel college prank, I’m holding you responsible. And you will answer to me, up close and personal.”
There was a moment of silence in the car, broken by Jerome laughing.
“When I said shoot I didn’t mean straight from the hip! Hey, Grifter, it’s Big Jake all over again.”
Catching the reference, Valerie grinned.
“‘Your fault, my fault, nobody’s fault,’” she said.
They both nodded at each other, and the tension that filled the car seemed to seep away.
“It seems we’re in agreement as much as we can be until we actually see the setup,” Griffen said, clearing his throat. “So what’s the plan, Jerome? What do we do when we hit town?”
“We’ve figured to let you take a week or so to get settled in and get to know the town…at least the Quarter. Then I’ll introduce you to Mose and he can start showing you the operation and answering your questions.”
“So where will we be staying?” Griffen said.
“We got a place ready for the two of you,” Jerome said. “Actually, you’ll each have a place.”
“What are we talking about here?” Valerie said. “Rooms at a hotel? That could get real expensive real fast.”
“Better than that,” Jerome said. “You see, we own a few properties around the Quarter. Mostly, we use them to host poker games and sometimes to give out of towners a place to crash. What we’re going to do is have you use one of our slave quarters as a home base until everything gets sorted out.”
“Slave quarters?” Griffen said.
Jerome laughed. “You’re going to have to get used to how we refer to things in the Quarter. A lot of the buildings you see in the Quarter are built around courtyards. Some of the courtyards were used for gardens, and some were used for carriages or horses. At the back of each courtyard is a smaller building. Way back when, it was used to house the slaves, which is why they’re referred to as ‘slave quarters.’ Nowadays, they’re mostly rented out as apartments. Depending on the size, either as a bi-level single apartment, or as two separate apartments, one ground level and one upstairs. We’ll be putting you up in one of the two-unit slave quarters. I think you’ll like them. They’re off the street, and that means they’re quiet…something that’s sometimes hard to find in the Quarter.
“Anyway, I’ll drop you off there with the keys and a grand or so walking-around money. We’ll get you a couple cell phones so you can stay in touch with each other or call me if there are any problems. Then take your time and start getting a feel for the Quarter. There’s enough to do and see that I don’t think you’ll get bored.”
Eleven
The French Quarter was an unending sideshow of tastelessness. It was steamy by day and seamy at night.
Griffen fell in love with it immediately.
The place was incredible enough to pull him somewhat out of his brooding and self-doubts. Failure to change into a dragon, not to mention his troubles coming to grips with the whole situation, faded to the back of his mind as he reveled in his new surroundings. Six blocks wide by roughly thirteen blocks long, it was a world unto itself.
To some, particularly the tourists, it was a Disneyland for adults. Narrow streets lined with old buildings, overhung with flower-bedecked balconies; half-hidden courtyards with picture-book gardens and fountains; antique shops and boutiques mixed with T-shirt shops and adult specialty stores; every corner turned brought new sights and contradictions.
Some tourist towns advertised their scenic nature. When one actually visited them, however, it would be readily apparent that unless one found the exact spot the publicity photo was taken from and hunkered down at precisely the right angle, the scenic wonders would only be visible from between the hotels and office buildings.
Such was not the case in the Quarter. As one walked the streets, the eye and mind were captured again and again by small wonders; the “gaslight” street lamps, the hidden courtyards with flower beds and fountains, the old buildings with their cracked plaster and ferns growing out of the walls, and, of course, the Mississippi River.
While he experienced it, he couldn’t prevent a vague feeling of regret. If Griffen had managed to visit New Orleans while he was still in college, he might have been able to enjoy it more. Now, with worries pressed down upon him, he felt more overwhelmed than anything. There was so much in the Quarter to be overwhelmed by.
Then there was the music. It was next to impossible to escape the music in the Quarter even if one wanted to. In addition to the expected blues and Dixieland, there were Cajun and zydeco fiddles and accordions, Chicago blues, piano bars, Irish folk music, rock clubs, and ev
en country/western hangouts. The jukeboxes in the various clubs featured anything from Glenn Miller to Billy Holiday to Janis Joplin to Frank Sinatra to Dr. Hook and the Medicine Show to The Stones, etc., etc. The list was seemingly endless. Even the street musicians were good, supplying hammer dulcimers, Appalachian groups complete with cloggers, jazz flute or violin, and one guy who would play classical music on an array of water filled brandy glasses.
Food was something Griffen had never really concentrated on. Growing up, his diet had consisted mostly of institutional food and restaurant fare, the latter being mostly Chinese or German. It seemed that in New Orleans, food was almost a religion. At the very least, it was a major pastime right along with drinking and partying. There were almost as many restaurants in the Quarter as there were bars…which was to say a lot. Along with the upscale Creole and Cajun local food, there were an assortment of other ethnic dining opportunities present, including Chinese, Japanese, Siamese, Tai, Italian, Mexican, and Greek.
Nor were the low-end diners neglected, as there were delis, gyros shops, and the traditional KFC/Pizza Hut fast food assortments. What was more, to Griffen’s delight, many places delivered directly to your door and would also provide groceries, cigarettes, a newspaper, and a pint of liquor if you added it to your order. All in all, it was a marvelous place to sleep late, order a brunch delivered while letting the world come slowly into focus, and not have to face the world until you were good and ready. When you threw in the twenty-four hour bars, it was small wonder that the Quarter was such a favorite vacation spot for tourists.
Of course, there were other aspects of the Quarter Griffen had a bit more difficulty adjusting to.
For one thing, there was the custom of “hoo-rawing” people on the street. This consisted of hailing to someone a half block away or on a balcony, then continuing the conversation at the top of your lungs until at least pleasantries were concluded, and often until the latest gossip had been exchanged. As someone who was accustomed to conversing in normal speaking tones, Griffen found this practice vaguely unnerving.
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