The event had been going smoothly. Griffen could almost forget his personal concerns in satisfaction for the way the elements had fallen together. He kept checking his cell phone for calls from Val or Gris-gris.
He had no way of knowing where Val and Mai were. At 5:40 in the morning, they had called one more time to say they had crossed the line into Alabama. Mai’s phone battery was nearly empty. They had no charger and were too afraid to stop and buy one. Both of them were unharmed. Neither of them had seen the bald demon since their last fill-up. Griffen had just enough time to give her the hotel address before the connection had gone dead for good. Malcolm felt there would be greater safety in numbers, and in a building with several entrances and exits. The apartment complex might prove a trap for Val as well as her pursuer. They couldn’t risk that.
George had called in. He was in a similar fix with regard to his cell phone. It seemed that he and Mai had switched cars. He refused to give Griffen any details as to how that had come about. George didn’t know if he was ahead of or behind Val, though he suspected he was trailing her. He informed Griffen that four demon hunters were on-site in New Orleans and would help Griffen catch the dragon killer when it turned up. He told Griffen its name, but Griffen couldn’t make sense of eight syllables of nonsense that weren’t English or any other language he had ever heard.
Malcolm had not been pleased to hear that a demon capture might occur during the high-profile event. He stalked the hall like a private detective looking for evidence, as he tried to identify the demon hunters among the throng of players and onlookers. He was even more of a distraction than the girls, coming almost within elbow’s reach of the tables to survey the action. After a few complaints, Ms. Opal had set a young porter to walk beside Mr. McCandles and keep him back out of the players’ sight lines.
The elder McCandles had to be satisfied with the take the event had made so far. In addition to the players who had signed up in advance, a few dozen others had shown up just before noon to play. Griffen’s chart was not only full but overflowing. He had had to calculate a rotation for additional newcomers. Malcolm checked the ledger from time to time and collected excess cash from Jerome and the campaign volunteers at the tables. Griffen had done the math in his head. The seed money from this tournament would kick-start Penny’s campaign again. She could go the distance. To his own surprise, he felt excitement at the prospect.
Horsie seemed to be everywhere at once. She brought local luminaries over to shake hands with Penny. Griffen caught glimpses of her on the sidelines giving interviews to the press. He even saw her chatting with the dour producer from his visit to the local morning talk show. The glare from television cameras strobed over the tables like searchlights as the camera operators sought interesting angles. Horsie was thrilled with the way the event was running. On those rare times that Griffen caught her eye, she beamed at him and gave him a happy thumbs-up. Griffen and Malcolm had not told her or Penny of Val’s imminent arrival. It might turn out to be a nonevent. In the meantime, they saw no point in adding to her concerns. To Winston, on the other hand, they had given a full briefing. The security agent accepted the confidence with a stony face and a curt nod. Since then, he had remained close to Penny, present but unobtrusive. Griffen had to admire him even if he didn’t much like him. He had also approved hiring three off-duty Vice cops, Harrison among them, as extra protection.
Penny was on her brightest public behavior. She greeted everyone with a warm handshake and smile, and posed for dozens of pictures. She saved her normal vitriol for her volunteers and Griffen when she couldn’t be overheard by reporters. He had made a point to avoid her, until they had ended up at the same table in round five.
Griffen had handicapped her in the middle of the pack so she would play against more than just visiting professionals. She dazzled the less-skilled players with her skill as well as her banter. She, Fox Lisa, and another redheaded volunteer from the campaign office had on tight, bright, aquamarine T-shirts printed with LUCKY PENNIES. They went well with other team shirts, such as the black-clad Agents of Chaos, the blue-shirted Ball Hogs, and many others based on puns or in-jokes. The roar of conversation in the hall was cheerful. As players were knocked out of competition, they started scratch games at available tables, half the (official) bets going to Penny’s fund. Griffen had spotted a few of the local oddsmakers and had shaken them down, gently, to put in a portion of their winnings at the end of the day.
Griffen lined up his next shot, trying to ignore the antics of Maestro, an Agent of Chaos, who kept flicking a cigarette lighter just in the corner of his peripheral vision.
“So, do y’all know what it means to have ‘savoir faire’?” Elmer said suddenly, just as Griffen prepared to shoot. Griffen lowered his head. At least it hadn’t caught him in midstroke.
“Why, no,” Penny chirped, smiling over her shoulder at a photographer from the Times-Picayune. “What does it mean?”
“Well, say you have a man in bed with a lady who is not his wife, and the husband comes home unexpectedly. The husband stops at the door of the bedroom. Then he steps back and turns away, pretending he doesn’t see a thing. Would you say he has savoir faire?”
“Yes, I would.”
The old man leaned back and put his thumb in his belt.
“Well, you’d be wrong. How about if the husband stops at the door of the bedroom, sees what’s going on, then says to the man, ‘Sorry to interrupt. Keep going.’”
Griffen tried not to chuckle. He took that moment to shoot. The three rebounded off a corner cushion. It slowed, then crept toward the side pocket. If he blew on it, it would drop. Instead, he stood up and leaned on his cue. The ball ambled along the felt, then dropped with a clatter.
“Sounds like savoir faire to me.”
The dark glasses turned his way. “Not so fast, my friend. That still ain’t it.”
Griffen sighted the four ball. It was in a tricky position, next to the eight. If he sank the eight, he’d scratch. He could do it with a two-bank shot. He leaned over the cue.
“No, if the husband came home, saw the man, said, ‘Keep going,’ and the man can, then he’s got savoir faire!”
Griffen couldn’t help himself. The cue skidded out of his fingers. The white ball snicked right into the black eight ball, and both of them fell into the corner pocket.
Elmer smiled at him. “Like that one, huh? Well, looks like it’s my turn.”
“Now, was that nice?” Penny asked, sidling into Elmer’s sight line.
“No, but it’s a good story, ain’t it?”
Maestro racked up the balls. Elmer leaned down. His cue was a beauty, hard maple, shiny with age. Griffen watched as he sighted down the diamond of balls, then moved the cue ball four inches to the right. It wasn’t where he would have placed it.
Snick!
Elmer stood back. The balls leaped away from the white intruder in their midst. Griffen watched in amazement as the balls bounded off their fellows. The one, two and three, dropped into the left-hand pockets in order, one after the other.
“Well, damn,” Maestro said, with open admiration.
“You just got to know where to stroke ’em,” Elmer said. “Now, watch the four and five. They don’t get along so good, but I can make ’em behave.”
“That I have to see,” Griffen said.
The old man took his time lining up the shot. The four and five sat a couple of inches apart near the rear-right cushion. An amateur would knock the five into the corner. Elmer seemed to take it as a challenge.
“I like to clear more than one ball at a time, if there’s even a chance at sinking them. Makes the game more exciting, don’t it?”
The physics that must have been going on in his mind made Griffen’s own mind whirl. Elmer angled his thin body to aim his cue at the rear-left edge of the white ball.
Clack!
The white ball ba
nked off the left, shot straight across the table. It narrowly missed the eight ball and nipped into the narrow space between the four and five.
As if stung, the four ball zipped down the back side of the table. Griffen held his breath. The colored sphere dropped with a clatter into the left-rear pocket. Almost at the same time, the five, caught by the backspin of the cue ball, rolled lazily up the right side, teetered, and plunked into the right-center pocket.
“Damn,” Maestro said. “I think I paid my entry money for a master class.”
“You too kind,” Elmer said. “You could buy an old man a drink.”
“My pleasure. What are you having?”
Griffen felt his phone erupt. He pulled it out of his pocket and stepped away from the table.
“Griffen McCandles.”
“Grifter, I got ’em!” Gris-gris said triumphantly. “Melvin spotted the car comin’ in on Route 10. He’s been followin’ ’em, and I just joined the parade. We’re on Canal Street, comin’ toward the central city.”
“Any sign of a bald white guy?”
“Nothin’ but a lot of traffic,” Gris-gris said. “You want us to come right into the ballroom?”
“No, bring Val to the lobby,” Griffen said, glancing around at the tables. “If that thing turns up, I don’t want it to be right in the middle of this crowd. How does she look?”
“Beautiful. See you in a few.”
He put the phone away.
“Gotta take care of something,” Griffen said. “I’ll come back if I can. You get to fight it out for who advances to the semifinals.”
“Well, that’ll be me, of course,” Penny said, with an exaggerated wink. Elmer missed a shot in his third frame and ceded the table to Maestro. Griffen left them to it.
Val was coming home! Griffen kept the glee he felt off his face in case the other players misunderstood it. He would be so glad to see her. Then he was going to give her a piece of his mind for running away and not letting him know where she was for months. He put his cue away and headed toward the lobby.
Fox Lisa waved to Griffen from a table near the front of the room. Feeling light on his feet in spite of his lack of sleep, Griffen loped over to tell her. He swept her up, cue and all, and gave her a big kiss.
“Well, thank y’all,” Fox Lisa said, her eyes shining as he put her down. “What’s that all about?”
“Val’s on the way in.”
“Wonderful!” Fox Lisa said. “She okay?” Griffen nodded. She gestured toward the two men and a woman who were playing on her table. “Do you need me to bow out here?”
“How are you doing?” Griffen asked, peering at the scoreboard.
“Winning.”
“Then don’t stop,” Griffen said. “If I need your help, I’ll yell. I promise.”
“Well, see that you do.” Fox Lisa leaned close to him and put her lips to his ear. “Maybe you can do something about the man who’s been staring at us. I’m okay with it, but it’s been bothering Natalie something awful. I’d speak to him, but you’re an official of this event.”
“No problem,” Griffen said. He checked the time on his cell phone. “I have a minute. Which man?”
Fox Lisa turned Griffen’s shoulders so he was facing the rows of seats near the left corner of the hall. A knot of onlookers sat there in twos or threes, talking among themselves, eating popcorn, drinking or smoking. Griffen couldn’t figure out who Fox Lisa meant, until the form of Rose coalesced into view behind a man in sunglasses leaning on a cane and a neatly dressed tawny-skinned woman in the front row. As he recognized them, Griffen felt an inner jolt that shook him to his feet. The hot spark in his belly started dancing up and down.
“I know who that is. I’ll take care of it.”
Fifty-one
Griffen marched over to Duvallier and glared down at him. The shrunken cheeks molded themselves into a pleasant smile as Duvallier removed his cigar from his mouth.
“What are you doing here?” Griffen demanded.
“Well, hey there, Griffen. Good afternoon to you, too. You remember Miss Callaway?”
Griffen felt shamed into politeness.
“Hello, Miss Callaway. Nice to see you. What are you doing here, Mr. Duvallier?”
“I paid my money. I want to see what happens.”
“What are you talking about?”
Duvallier peered up at him over the tops of his dark lenses. The red eyes glinted.
“I sponsored a few players. I intend to win a majority of your prizes.”
“You what?”
“I have a few friends from the old days. They don’t need the money, but they like a chance to match sticks against the young people. I love a good competition. Why, you been playin’ with my old pal Elmer. A real pro. Wipes up the floor with the competition. My other old boys is the same.”
Griffen was horrified but fascinated.
“You brought in a ringer. A dead ringer.”
Duvallier grinned, showing square teeth in the shrunken gums.
“Might put it that way. Nothin’ in your rules says that the players got to be among the living.”
Griffen began to have a creeping feeling that few of the people in the room, except for the reporters, and maybe not all of them, were human. Shape-shifters, dragons, dead people . . . But he refused to be distracted.
“You can’t stay here.”
Duvallier took a drag on his cigar and blew a stream of gray smoke at Griffen. Griffen coughed.
“Can’t make me go. It’s a public event, for a wannabe elected official.”
“Yes, I can,” Griffen said. About ten yards away, he spotted Harrison making his rounds at the perimeter of the room. He strode over and grabbed the burly police detective by the arm.
“What’s your problem, McCandles?”
Griffen hauled Harrison over to the seats and pointed down at Duvallier.
“Arrest this man!”
Harrison looked from the elderly gentleman in dark glasses to Griffen and back again.
“On what charge?”
“Attempted murder!”
“Whose murder?”
“Penny Dunbar.”
Harrison gave him a glance that asked if Griffen was in his right mind or not.
“That Penny Dunbar? The one who’s doing a victory lap around her table?”
“She looks pretty alive and kickin’ to me,” Duvallier agreed. “You barkin’ up the wrong tree, son.” He eyed the detective up and down. “Say, ain’t you Oscar Harrison’s boy?
“Yes, sir,” Harrison said, then went very still. “Do I know you, sir?” Duvallier took off his glasses. The red eyes blazed into light. The cop didn’t back away. Griffen admired him for standing his ground. “Yeah, I thought that might be you, Mr. Duvallier. McCandles, you don’t want to kick over this anthill.”
“I have to,” Griffen insisted. “Rose told me that Penny’s life is in danger!”
The eagerness on Harrison’s face made Griffen’s heart turn over.
“Is Rose here? Where is she?”
“Back there,” Griffen said. He pointed to the second tier of seats, but the voodoo queen had disappeared. Harrison’s face fell. Griffen was sorry to disappoint him, but his mission was urgent. “Duvallier told me that he was going to have Penny killed!”
Harrison sighed and took a notebook out of his pocket.
“Did you say something like that, sir?”
Duvallier tried to look outraged, but his eyes twinkled with sparks.
“I certainly did not. You don’t get to put words in my mouth, Griffen. I ain’t no danger to that girl’s life!”
Griffen goggled at him.
“But you said . . . what about you trying to kill her?”
Duvallier tipped a length of ash onto the carpet. Miss Callaway tsk’ed at him. D
uvallier patted her hand. “Haven’t you felt like strangling her now and again over the last few months? She could drive a man to drink. I told you a man asked me to kill her. Don’t have to do that. He’d really be happy enough if I drove her out of the race. That’s gonna happen real soon now. I work in mysterious ways. Would I kill my own great-granddaughter?”
Griffen put a finger in his ear and wiggled it, but he knew he had heard correctly.
“Your . . . what?”
Duvallier grinned around his cigar. He exhaled a huge puff of smoke.
“Sure enough, son. That girl’s a chip off the old block, a real deal-doer and bargain-maker. I just don’t want her in this race. She can’t win it, and she’s beating her head against a wall for nothin’. She won’t listen to me. I even told her I’d back her in a decade or so, but she wants everythin’ right now. I’m just playin’ both sides. And getting’ paid for it, I might add.” He gestured toward a pale-faced man with light brown hair who stood among the onlookers near Penny’s table. “He’s gonna get what he wants for his candidate, but I ain’t doin’ nothing to Penny. She’s done plenty herself.”
“So you have no real power,” Griffen said, looking down his nose at the old man. “You know a bunch of zombies and ghosts who play dirty tricks for you.”
Duvallier was unmoved by the insults.
“You don’t know a damned thing, and that’s a fact, Griffen. I thought you was more mature than Penny.”
Griffen felt his temper flare. Smoke jetted from his nostrils. He moved toward Duvallier, who beckoned him with an upturned hand.
“Come ahead, boy. Try. You’ll be sorry, but come right ahead.”
A heavy blow fell on his shoulders, and Griffen found himself being hauled backward. Harrison kept hold of him.
Robert Asprin's Dragons Run Page 38