Dragons Wild gm-1

by Robert Asprin

  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.

&n
bsp; 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.”

  “Watch yourself, Slim,” Griffen said, waving good-bye.

  Turning his attention to the rats again, Griffen found himself frowning. Until the street entertainer made his comment, it had never occurred to him that his presence might be affecting the local wildlife.

  Staring hard at them, he tried to will them to go away. They steadfastly ignored him. Glancing around, he tried again.

  His cell phone rang, starting him out of his exercise. Glanced at the caller ID, he flipped it open.

  “Hey, Mose,” he said. “What’s up?”

  “Didn’t think you was going to be awake, Grifter,” came the old man’s voice. “I was going to leave a message on your voice mail, but this is even better. When y’all went shoppin’ a while back, did you happen to pick up a suit?”

  “No, we didn’t. I’ve got my sports coat and slacks that I used to use for interviews and theater dates, but never figured I’d need a full suit,” Griffen said. “Why? What’s up?”

  “Well, try to pick one up today or tomorrow.”

  Griffen frowned slightly.

  “Okay. Any particular reason?”

  “We got us a funeral to attend,” Mose said. “A suit isn’t really necessary, but it’s a nice gesture.”

  “Whoa. Hold on a minute, Mose,” Griffen said. “Sorry, but I don’t do funerals. Weddings either, for that matter.”

  There was a moment’s pause before the answer came.

  “I can understand that, Griffen. Nobody really likes to go to funerals. Still, I think you should go to this one. It’s one of our people.”

  Griffen was now very attentive.

  “Who? I mean, what happened?”

  “Do you remember Reggie? Works as a spotter for us at one of the hotels in the CBD?” Mose said.

  “Older guy? White hair and mutton chops?” Griffen said. “Yeah, I remember him. I didn’t even know he was sick.”

  There was a short snort of a laugh at the other end.

  “Not sick. Lead poisoning,” Mose said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “New Orleans plague,” Mose said. “Went and got himself shot last night.”

  Griffen was stunned. He looked out over the river again, the scene now having taken on a slightly surreal aspect to it. Then he remembered he was on the phone.

  “Sorry, Mose,” he said. “That freaked me out for a second. Remember, I’m just a kid from the Midwest who’s led a sheltered life. This is the first time someone I’ve known has been shot.”

  Griffen turned from the river and started to walk away, heading toward Cafe Du Monde and Jackson Square. He held the phone to his ear as Mose talked.

  “I hate to say it, but start getting used to it,” Mose said. “It’s not all that uncommon in New Orleans these days. Just be thankful you live in the Quarter.”

  “What happened?”

  “Jerome will fill you in on the details,” Mose said. “Talk to him while you’re picking out a suit. Like it or not, you should be at that funeral. He was one of ours, and folks will expect you to be there. It’s one of the downsides of heading up a crew down here.”

  “Sure, I’ll talk to Jerome, but can’t you tell me a little more?”

  Griffen felt a featherlight tug at his pocket. Instinctively, his free hand went to his pocket and he twisted to look behind him. He hadn’t had his pocket picked yet in his time in New Orleans, but his mind flashed the suspicion that he had just had that new experience.

  If he hadn’t been distracted by the phone, he would have been more aware of the stairs in front of him.

  He never caught the barest glimpse of his assailant. Body twisted and off balance, a hard shove threw him forward. He barely registered that the shove had been two handed, one just above his hips, the other between his shoulder blades, guaranteeing he wouldn’t recover. Then he was in the air.

  The stairs leading from the Moonwalk down to Decatur Street are a flight of curved, amphitheater like steps. Made out of concrete.

  His first impact was on his side, but the force of the hard steps into his ribs jerked his body, and his head hit a moment later. The cell phone dropped from a hand that shot out to try and stop his fall, but he was already rolling. Nails scraped on concrete, and felt as if they would tear. Three more steps went by, each a sharp pain as his body twisted.

  Griffen lay stunned. Blood pounded in his ears. Dazed, his eyes caught upon his hand, gripping the step above him. His nails were long, almost claws, and had dug the smallest of grooves into the concrete. They slowly receded back to normal.

  “Griffen! Griffen what’s happening!?”

  Mose’s voice called from the fallen phone, snagging his attention and jerking him back into focus. He pulled himself up, intending to stand but groaning and sitting down as pain shot through his ribs and side. He scrabbled for the phone and put it to his ear.

  “I’m here,” Griffen said.

  “God, lad, where’d you go?!”

  A few people were rushing toward him, not many. More kept walking, not seeing him. Wouldn’t be the first drunk to fall, even in daylight. He waved off those who approached.

  “I fell, down the stairs.”

  “Griffen, the thickest skin in the world won’t save you from a broken neck.”

  “Now he tells me. Mose, I was pushed.”

  “By who?”

  “I don’t…wait.”

  Griffen reached into the pocket. He realized, the tug he had felt had not been where he kept his wallet. Hand shaking slightly, he pulled out a long card that had been slipped in before his fall. The Knight of Swords.

  “It seems,” Griffen said, fear momentarily numbing his pain, “that the George has taken things up a notch.”

  Thirty-two

  “I’m telling you, Jerome, I’m even less thrilled about going to a funeral now.”

  “Hey, at least it’s not yours,” Jerome said.

  “Yet,” Griffen said, neither one of them had much humor in his voice.

  They had gotten together as planned to pick out a suit for Griffen. A cheerless chore nowhere near as interesting as their last shopping excursion. His mind kept going back to the fall, and how easily it could have been much, much worse.

  O
f course, Griffen’s mood wasn’t improved by the ache in his ribs. Mose had checked him out, and declared nothing broken. They still protested every time he lifted his right arm too high. He winced as he tried on a somber jacket.

  “Sure I can’t help you with that?” Jerome said.

  “Yes.”

  Griffen waved him off stubbornly and shrugged the jacket on. They were more or less alone, having told the salesperson they didn’t need assistance. Griffen wanted freedom to talk.

  “You can help me understand about Reggie. How he died and why you and Mose seem to be treating this as business as usual.”

  “Can’t really treat it as anything else. It’s the drug gangs,” Jerome said. “Most murders are within family or friends when someone gets drunk or mad and goes for a gun or a knife. The so-called ‘killer’ is usually still sitting there when the cops come. It’s the drug gangs that are pushing the murder rate so high in this town.”

  “Wait a minute,” Griffen said. “Are you saying that Reggie was part of a drug gang?”

  “No. Nothing like that,” Jerome said with a half laugh. “He sold a little pot and coke on the side is all. Dude was just stopping by his supplier to replenish his stock and got caught in the cross fire is all.”

  “That’s all?” Griffen said, a vague note of hysteria creeping into his voice. “You make it sound like it’s an everyday occurrence.”

  “It is.” Jerome shrugged. “There are a couple areas of town that are combat zones for all intents and purposes. That’s where most of the nondomestic killings happen. The gangs have been fighting it out for who supplies what sections of town, and when the shooting starts, they don’t care much who’s in the way.”

  “Why doesn’t somebody do something about it?”

  “Like what?” Jerome said. “As long as there are folks taking drugs for kicks or to try to make themselves feel better about their lives, there are going to be people making money off selling the shit to them. When there’s a lot of money involved, they’re going to fight over who gets how much. You kill off or lock up one bunch, and someone else will be there to step into the vacuum.”