The complex itself was impressive. It had been designed and built in the 1800s by the same person who had designed and built Pat O’Brien’s, a popular bar and restaurant on St. Peter in the heart of the Quarter. Griffen learned this by listening to the carriage drivers who paused at the entrance-way to rest their mules while regaling their passengers with the history of this particular landmark.
Griffen found himself feeling not only comfortable, but safe. It was as if, nestled as his temporary home was in the surroundings, it was protected by the Quarter itself. He felt himself relaxing, comforted by old brick and the constant swirl of activity beyond the complex walls.
After the inevitable wrought-iron gate on the street, there was a low carriage passage leading to the open-air courtyard. The courtyard itself featured heavily planted gardens, with the apartments in the three buildings surrounding it reaching up two stories. The second floor was circled by a wooden walkway edged by a railing, affording residents a fine view of the courtyard as they emerged from their dwelling.
It was on that walkway that Griffen found himself one morning in the early daylight hours. He was in one of those rare moods that occasionally strike young men. That is, he had abandoned the music and lingering crowds of the clubs to return home, but upon reaching that destination, discovered he was not yet ready to go to sleep. Having noted the clear sky and fresh air still not heated by the new day’s sun, instead of watching a DVD or curling up to read, he decided to pull a chair out onto the walkway and enjoy the morning while he read.
Unfortunately, the book he was reading proved insufficient to hold his attention. He had picked it up at the used bookstore down the street, but as he started to read it, he realized it was merely a reprint of a novel he had read before, rereleased under a new title with a new cover.
As his attention wandered, his eye was drawn to a movement in the courtyard below. It was a cat…no, two cats, strolling regally along one of the walkways between the gardens.
Griffen had noted them, or other similar cats, in the courtyard before, but had never paid them much attention. They usually kept their distance, or, if one attempted to call them over, they would either run or simply fade back into the shadows.
This time, as he watched them, Griffen remembered what his uncle Mal had said about animal control. On a whim, he set aside his book and descended to the ground level to see if there was any substance to the claim.
As he approached the animals, however, he realized that he didn’t have the foggiest idea what was involved in animal control. Pausing about twenty feet away, he stared at them.
They ignored him.
After a few moment’s consideration, he tried to focus a suggestion at them.
“Come here.”
It was a simple enough order.
One sat down and began to wash its crotch.
“Come here.”
Nothing.
Maybe he should try something else.
“Go away.”
The washer broke off its hygienic activity, and they both began to saunter toward the carriageway.
Griffen felt his hopes lift. Maybe there was something there after all.
“What are you doing up so early, Big Brother?”
He turned to find Valerie emerging from her apartment. She was decked out in sweat suit and cross trainers, obviously ready to go jogging.
Griffen was suddenly embarrassed at having gotten caught in his animal control attempt. Viewed through a sober and well-rested eye, his actions probably would seem silly. As a matter of fact, it seemed a little silly now even viewed through his own eyes. He was just glad she hadn’t seen enough to be able to figure out what he had been attempting.
“Hi, Val,” he said. “Actually, I’m just coming in.”
“Well, since you’re up, want to come running with me?”
Griffen had to admit that the suggestion seemed even sillier to him than animal control.
“You know I’m not much for exercise,” he said evasively.
“You sure?” his sister said. “I’ll spring for breakfast at the Cafe Du Monde afterward.
“Actually, it’s about time for me to crash and burn,” Griffen said. “It’s been a good day, but it’s time it was over.”
“Actually, it’s a different day,” Valerie said pointedly.
“You know what they say down here,” Griffen countered. “Whatever the clock says, the day isn’t over till you go to sleep and wake up again.”
His sister started her stretching exercises to warm up her legs.
“Isn’t that usually for people who work night shifts, like grave shift bartenders and cab drivers?” she said.
“That and people who can pick their own hours of when to sleep and when to be awake,” Griffen said.
“If you say so,” Valerie said, starting for the front gate. “Anyway, good luck on your animal control. Let me know how it works out.”
Watching her go, Griffen had a moment of wry despair of ever being able to put one over on his sister.
“Hey, Big Brother,” Valerie called, returning to the courtyard. “Looks like someone left a message for you. This was taped to the front gate.”
She handed him a regular white envelope with his name written on it. He took it and stared at it for a long moment.
“Aren’t you going to open it?” Valerie urged.
“Not right now,” Griffen said, trying to sound casual.
“Don’t worry. If it’s from a new woman, I won’t tell Fox Lisa.”
“Uh-huh,” Griffen said, tucking the envelope in his back pocket.
“So be that way,” Valerie said, sticking her tongue out at him. “I can tell when I’m not wanted.”
With that, she turned on her heel and headed for the front gate again.
Griffen waited until he was sure she was gone, then pulled out the envelope again. From the feel of it, he was afraid he knew what was inside. He opened he missive and confirmed his fears.
Inside was a tarot card. The Knight of Swords. A duplicate of the one he had been carrying in his wallet since Detroit. The sense of safety Griffen had allowed himself to be lulled into by his new surroundings crumbled.
George was not only in New Orleans, he knew where Griffen lived.
Eighteen
Despite all the warnings and promises he had received about the rumor mill in the Quarter, Griffen was startled with how far and fast the word of his encounter with Gris-gris had spread. Even though the confrontation had occurred in the midafternoon, by the time midnight rolled around, he had been stopped or approached no less than a dozen times by people who had heard about it.
“Griffen! What’s this I hear about you tossing four guys out of the Irish pub this afternoon?”
“Hey, my man! Been hearing talk about how you got in the face of a bunch of bruisers today.”
“Here. This one’s on me. Heard about how you stepped in and settled a brawl at the pub.”
The accounts varied, and none of them were correct. The story being spread was that Griffen had either been in a fight or settled a fight with three to six guys bigger than he was. When he tried to clarify that (a) there had only been two people on the other side, (b) one of the opposition had done nothing but watch, (c) he himself had not been directly involved, and (d) no punches had been thrown and the altercation was nothing more serious than raised voices, he was greeted with exaggerated winks and declarations of, “Yeah. That’s always the best way to handle it.”
The pattern continued the next day as Jerome was walking him around the Quarter, introducing him to the various spotters and runners who were involved with the gambling network. It seemed that three out of four or four out of five of the people he met had already heard of him. What’s more, they all made a point of expressing their approval and support as well as telling him how much they were looking forward to working with him.
After a while, this inflated notoriety began to annoy him, and eventually generated a seed of worry in his min
d. Eventually, he expressed his concern to Jerome.
“Don’t worry about it,” Jerome said with a wave of his hand. “It never hurts to have a reputation for being a bit of a badass, even if the facts get garbled a bit. It’s not like you’re bragging it up yourself.”
“But it was Valerie that actually braced him.”
“So? You think Gris-gris is gonna say anything about that?”
“Why wouldn’t he?”
Jerome laughed.
“For the same reason Jumbo didn’t step in when it all went down. It would look bad all around if it came out that he got backed off by a girl, and even worse if Jumbo had to help him.”
“But isn’t he going to come back at me over this?”
“Not much chance of that,” Jerome said. “That would make it seem bigger and more important than it already is. Besides, unless I read him wrong, he’s more than a little bit afraid of your sister.”
“Really?”
“Uh-huh. To tell the truth, I’m a little spooked by her myself. That’s one impressive mama you’ve got there…and remember what I told you about female dragons. You really don’t want to get them stirred up.”
They walked on in silence for a few moments, then Jerome cocked his head.
“Tell me one thing, Grifter,” he said. “If you didn’t know how Gris-gris and Jumbo would react, why did you set it so it would be Valerie who’d do the talkin’?”
“I don’t know,” Griffen admitted. “From what Mose was saying, it sounded like Gris-gris had a problem with me. I figured it would be better to play it from the angle of his disrespect than making an issue of the money…and that bracing him for respect would sound better coming from someone else, like Valerie. I really hadn’t thought about the whole male/female aspect of it. Call it instinct and good luck.”
“Well, any gambler needs good luck,” Jerome said, resuming his walk. “Just keep listening to your instincts. So far they’re the best thing you have going for you.”
Jerome’s words stayed with Griffen, and he gave them considerable food for thought. He had always been good at reading people and situations…something he was now being told was part of his dragon heritage. Now that he was consciously thinking about it, however, his senses and observations seemed heightened to a new level.
Now, whenever he walked down the street or sat down in a bar or restaurant, he was aware of who was looking at him and who wasn’t. More particularly, of those who looked at him, he was building a sense of who was friendly, who was curious, who was neutral, and who seemed to be harboring some kind of hostility.
For the most part, the tourists and conventioneers barely glanced at him, if that. Of the locals, whether if was due to his new found notoriety or simply the fact that more and more people were recognizing him as a Quarter regular, he found an increasing percentage noting his presence and tracking his movements with the casual attention a veld full of antelope will give to a strolling lion.
It was both unsettling and exhilarating at the same time. Back up north when he walked across the campus, he had been all but invisible, his passing noticed by only a scattered handful of acquaintances. Here in the Quarter, while the transients were oblivious to his presence, he was being watched by the locals as a power to be reckoned with.
One night, he was walking Fox Lisa back to her apartment. She had called him from her bartending job and suggested that he pick her up when she got off work so they could spend some time together, and he had complied.
It was a weekday night, so the side streets were virtually deserted except for a few single pedestrians either making their way home or to a late-night club for a nightcap. The weather was pleasant, if warm, and he enjoyed her company as she clung to his arm and chatted about the problems that had arisen on her shift, obviously decompressing now that she was off duty.
All at once, the night felt wrong.
There was nothing tangible or specific that had changed, but he suddenly realized he was feeling edgy and a bit tense, as if there was static electricity dancing just above his skin.
A month ago he would have shrugged it off as a mood swing. Now, however, he surreptitiously swept the street ahead with his eyes.
Nothing in particular caught his attention, but the feeling persisted.
Leaning down slightly to kiss the top of her head, he glanced behind them.
One guy walking alone on the far side of the street about a half block back. No feeling of threat there.
He looked ahead again.
There was a man standing in the shadows twenty feet ahead, partially hidden by the cement steps running up to an apartment door. It looked like he was tying his shoelace, but it seemed to be taking him a long time to do it.
The setup didn’t seem to match the way Mose described the George operating, but he figured it was better to be safe than sorry.
He kissed the top of Lisa’s head again and murmured in her ear.
“Don’t like the looks of the guy ahead, there. Be ready to get behind me.”
With that he straightened again and continued walking, casually putting his hand on the knife in his pants pocket.
Angling their path so it slanted closer to the curb, he stopped about eight feet short of the man in question and made as if to kiss Lisa on the lips.
The man came out of the shadows and started toward them, one hand hidden in his pocket.
Griffen moved a step forward, steering Lisa behind him with his left hand.
“Can we do something for you?” he called while the man was still six feet away.
The man continued toward them.
“I was wondering if you could…”
“Hold it right there!”
Griffen realized with a start that Fox Lisa was beside him, a small, black, automatic pistol in her hand leveled at the man in front of them.
The man froze in his tracks.
“Let’s see your other hand…and it better come out empty.”
The man slowly removed his hand from his pocket and held it empty at shoulder height.
“I don’t want no trouble,” he said. Soothingly.
“You got him?”
The call came from the far side of the street. Griffen glanced back and recognized the man who had been walking behind them as one of the two men who had been shooting pool in the Irish pub when he and Jerome had met with Gris-gris.
“I got him,” Lisa called back. “Make sure he’s alone.”
The shadower waved and moved on ahead.
The man under the gun hadn’t moved, but he kept glancing nervously down the street behind him and muttering softly to himself.
Fox Lisa took two steps forward, her weapon still leveled, and jerked her head toward Griffen.
“I want you to take a long look at this man,” she instructed. “Do you know who he is?”
The man stared at Griffen and shook his head.
“This is Griffen McCandles,” she said, drawing the name out for emphasis. “You may have heard of him. He’ll be taking over Mose’s business.”
The man stared harder at Griffen and said something that sounded apologetic.
“Remember him and tell your friends they can save themselves a load of trouble if they walk wide around him. Understand me?”
“Yes’m.”
“All right. Get moving and don’t let us see you again tonight.”
The man turned and sprinted away down the street.
“That was a good call,” Lisa said as she returned her automatic to the pocket in the back of the fanny pack she was wearing. “Most people wouldn’t have spotted…What?”
Griffen continued staring at her.
She cocked her head and frowned.
“Is something wrong, lover?”
“You’re carrying a gun,” he said.
“Yeah. So? Sometimes it comes in handy…like tonight.”
“It’s just…I’ve never known anyone who carried a gun before.”
“That’s right. I keep forgettin
g you’re from up north.” She flashed him a quick grin. “Well, you’re in the South now, and a lot of people carry. It’s even worse over in Texas.”
“Isn’t that illegal or something?” Griffen managed at last.
Again the grin.
“So’s gambling, but we do it anyway. No. Seriously. It’s not that hard to get a concealed weapons permit here in New Orleans. Especially if you live in the Quarter and have to go out at night. Of course, being a girl helps. Anyway, all you have to do is take a class and get certified so they know you won’t shoot anyone including yourself accidentally. Other than that, the only big rule is that you can’t carry in a bar.”
“But you…”
“Think a minute, lover. How often have you seen me peel off my fanny pack as I walked into a bar and asked them to hold it behind the counter for me?”
Griffen realized it was almost a habitual routine for her.
“I thought you were just doing that because it was like a purse to you and you didn’t want to have to keep watching it all the time.”
“That, too,” Lisa said. “Still, it keeps me within the rules. Any other questions?”
Griffen nodded.
“Yeah,” he said. “Who was the other guy?”
“Who? The one I ran off?”
“No. I meant the guy on the other side of the street,” Griffen said. “The one that was hanging back until the action started. He called to be certain you had things in hand.”
“Oh. That guy.”
“Uh-huh. You seemed to know each other.”
“Yes, we do.”
“Let me try to make this easier for you,” Griffen said. “Unless I’m mistaken, he was shooting pool on the back table at the Irish pub the afternoon Jerome and I met with Gris-gris. Am I right?”
“Well, yes.”
“Let me take this one step further. Am I being body-guarded? Did Jerome or Mose hire you and the others to cover me?”
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