With the little bag under his arm, he turned back into the heart of the Quarter. The restaurant was on a corner facing Jackson Square. Griffen strode the four blocks north on Decatur Street, dodging tourists and traffic.
The heart of the square was full of artists, fortune-tellers, and street performers. Close to the eastern edge of the park, a couple of the teenage boys were dancing to a boom box for a small knot of tourists. By their posture, Griffen didn't think they were inclined to leave tips in the upturned hat on the ground. He diverted into the stone-flagged confines and removed a five from his wallet. Ostentatiously, he dropped it into the hat. The boys did sunfish rolls on their sheet of cardboard in thanks. A couple of the visitors reached for their wallets. He grinned and angled for the diagonal path that would take him to the restaurant on the corner.
He suddenly felt uneasy. Someone was watching him, but where? He glanced around. A man in a lightweight gray suit was not-looking near the wrought-iron fence. Griffen eyed the broad shoulders. That was no tourist. He was a cop or some other kind of law enforcement. He wasn't the only one. Another man, in a tan jacket and dark blue pants, was reading a newspaper with his shoulder propped against one of the replica gaslight streetlamps. All he was missing was the rectangle cut out of the paper to peer through. Why the obvious surveillance? Was Harrison trying to hassle him just before they had dinner together? Why?
Then he was there at Griffen's side.
"Nondescript" was the perfect word to describe Jason Stoner. He had absolutely no distinctive features, nothing to set him apart from any other ex-serviceman who had gone into civilian service. His hair was buzz-cut short. It could have been graying at the temples, but Griffen couldn't tell. What set Stoner apart was his uncanny stillness. He could have been a statue. He stood at ease on the balls of his feet. Griffen, who knew a little about martial arts, understood that the stance made him prepared to respond to an attack from any direction, even one coming from above or below.
"Mr. Stoner," he said.
"Griffen."
"To what do I owe the honor? I don't have time to spare. I have a dinner engagement."
"Yes," Stoner said, his eyes registering no emotion. "Detective Harrison. This won't take long. I told you that if you became involved in my interests, I would warn you."
"What interests are those?" Griffen asked. "Homeland Security?"
"That is my only concern with regard to you, or anyone else in this city," Stoner said.
"I have nothing to do with your business," Griffen said, alarmed. "I'm just trying to keep mine going."
"What about the Mardi Gras situation?"
"That's nothing," Griffen said. "The only thing that makes the krewe different from every other krewe in New Orleans is that all the members are dragons. I have no authority. I'm just the king. They're all hyperorganized, but it's nothing that should interest the government."
"Don't try to pretend you don't know what's going on," Stoner said.
"There's nothing going on," Griffen said, feeling desperate. If Stoner picked him as dangerous, he could end up in a federal penitentiary awaiting a trial that never came, or shipped off somewhere they didn't speak English and had no phones, or just plain killed. "I swear. It's accountants and bartenders playing dress-up for a day."
"Then you will cooperate with me. I represent your nation's government."
"What do you want?"
Stoner turned to face him. His eyes bored into Griffen's like awls. "These accountants and bartenders do want to interfere with my job. My job is to protect the United States from all attacks. These people are a threat to this country." Griffen hesitated. Callum and the others had implied that they had a mission of some kind, but never said what it was. Had Griffen fallen into the hands of terrorists? All of the altruistic talk about charities and generosity to the Mardi Gras crowd suddenly sounded too good to be true. All the enthusiasm he had felt soured in his stomach.
"Of course I will do anything I can to keep the country safe. I won't cooperate with anything that endangers it."
"And you'll report to me if you observe anything?"
"Observe what?" Griffen asked.
Stoner's eyelids lowered a fraction of a millimeter. "That is classified information."
Griffen felt his temper rise. "I don't work for you. I'm not going to spy on these people. It sounds like you have the place wired already."
"Not yet. No," Stoner said. "I don't want you to put a bug in for me." The way he emphasized "bug" suggested he had seen Griffen's little stunt, or knew about it. "This krewe has plans that will interfere with the country's safety. If you get involved in their scheme, I will have to take you down with them."
"I told you, I won't help with anything dangerous or subversive, but that is as far as I will go. I don't want to get on your bad side, Stoner, but I'm not going to do your job."
Stoner just looked at him. "I don't need you to do my job. All I need from you is information if you get it, and for you to stay out of the way if I need to take these people down. Remember what I said."
Then he was walking away. Griffen jumped back. It was like watching a statue come to life. The defiant part of his mind said that Stoner would have made a terrific street performer.
He felt upset and confused. Was there really a plot to overthrow the government hidden among all those blueprints and artists' renderings? Rose wanted him involved in the Krewe of Fafnir. She couldn't be wrong about them. Or was there something else she hadn't told him?
His head spinning, Griffen jogged the half block to the restaurant.
Thirteen
Griffen checked his watch with annoyance. He was a few minutes late. He scanned the room for Harrison.
The burly figure holding up part of the wall opposite the maitre d's desk detached himself and came to meet him. Harrison still wore his weather-beaten leather coat, but underneath it was a nice blue-and-white-striped Oxford-collar shirt--ironed--and a blue tie striped on the diagonal with red--neatly knotted. Griffen tried not to stare outright. Harrison gave him a squint-eyed glare of challenge.
"Thought you were gonna blow me off."
"Not a chance." Griffen grinned. "This is some of the best food in the city. I was going to eat here whether you made it or not." Harrison grunted. The challenge retreated but didn't disappear completely. Griffen smiled at the hostess, a statuesque woman named Nami. She knew him and his sister well. She held up a finger for patience.
"I have your usual table, Mr. Griffen. Just a moment, please."
"Your usual table, huh?" Harrison said.
"We come in here for special occasions," Griffen said.
"The turtle soup is the best thing I have ever eaten. You'll have to try it."
"Can't be as good as my aunt Emily's," Harrison said doubtfully, as Nami picked up two tall, leather-backed menus and led them into the dining room. About thirty tables covered in white tablecloths stood well spaced for privacy but close enough to suggest intimacy. The lighting was mellow, adding to the cosy atmosphere. Somewhere, light jazz music played. It didn't interfere with the quiet hum of conversation. Nami brought them to a table for two by the wall underneath an Art Deco sconce. It was original to the restaurant's decor, as were other pieces of bronze and stained glass.
The restaurant had the potential to intimidate, but the staff, as in so many top New Orleans restaurants, defused the situation and made their guests welcome. The waiter, a middle-aged man with a shaved head and very dark skin, came out to greet them immediately. Edwin was Gris-gris's uncle. He wore the fine-dining server's uniform of a white shirt, a black bow tie, black trousers, and a long, plain, white apron tied at the waist.
"Mr. Griffen! And Detective Harrison. Welcome."
"You know each other?" Griffen asked.
"We've met," Edwin said. It didn't sound as if it had been a happy event, but the waiter was willing to forgive and forget, at least within the confines of the restaurant. "Let me give you a chance to look at the menu, and I'll get yo
u some water and rolls."
Edwin bustled away. Griffen felt nervous again. He didn't know whether to mention Stoner. Harrison hated that the Homeland Security man might be interfering in his city. There was no good reason to raise his blood pressure unless Griffen needed his help. He had yet to figure out what Stoner had been talking about. Still, he had gotten in trouble for holding out on knowing about supernatural elements. He was torn as to what to do. Harrison gave him a curious glance.
"What're you staring at?" he asked.
"Nothing," Griffen said. "Nice tie."
"Sound surprised. You think I don't know how to dress?"
"You look fine, sir," the waiter said, returning. He filled their glasses from a silver pitcher and put a basket covered with a snow-white napkin on the table between them. Fragrant steam rose from it. "Now, what may I get you to drink? We have some good wines, beer on tap, or something from the bar?"
"Coke," Harrison said, grimacing. "I hate insulting the food, but I'm still on duty today. This is my dinner break. Those slugs in IA would be happy to Breathalyze me to find out I'm drinking. Hope I get something to eat before I have to pull another body off the street."
"Diet Coke," Griffen said. It was a sacrifice on his part, too. The wine cellar was as excellent as the food. Even the modestly priced bottles were good. They also kept his favorite Irish whisky, Tullamore Dew, at the bar.
The waiter disappeared. Griffen leaned in a few inches and dropped his voice to an undertone.
"How's the investigation going?"
Harrison shook his head. He took a roll out of the basket and pulled a piece from it. He buttered the piece and ate it. "No progress. The girlfriend was flattened. They were gonna get married. Can you do something for her, Griffen?"
"Sure, we can. We already are. Were there any witnesses?"
"You know I can't talk about an ongoing investigation. But there were people within twenty feet, didn't see a thing. So," he said loudly, with a glance at the diners at the surrounding tables, "I can't answer your question about witnesses." He opened his menu.
Griffen got it and opened his own. A pristine white card announced the evening's specials, a fresh-caught Gulf lobster, prime rib, and a chicken breast with oyster stuffing. They all sounded good. "Remember, this is on me," he said. "Order what you want."
"Um-hmm." Harrison didn't look up. Griffen decided not to press the matter. He had already told Edwin ahead of time to make sure he got the check, no matter what argument Harrison put up.
"Well, do you have any more questions for me?" he asked.
"Not about that. I'll need to talk to any of your other employees who interacted with him in any way."
"Sure. I'll make sure they are around when you want them."
"Good. Enough shop. What's good?" he asked Edwin, who returned with a white paper pad in his hand.
A nod from Griffen urged him to go all out. Edwin applied the full force of his personality on the detective. "Our strength is our seafood, Detective. We've got fine black bass this evening. I can also recommend the seafood platter. Steamed mussels, roasted scallops, and a lobster tail. Everything's fresh and delicious, guaranteed."
Harrison frowned. He looked longingly at the seafood side of the menu, but his finger moved toward the specials card. "What about that chicken breast?" he asked.
Edwin snatched the menu out of his hands. "Hey! You insult my restaurant, Detective? I'll choose. That way you don't have to think about it. You'll enjoy it, I promise." Harrison looked annoyed but didn't protest or try to take it back. Griffen handed over his menu placidly.
"Sounds good to me," he said. "I trust you."
"All right," Harrison said. "But none of that nouveau cuisine. Ain't enough calories in that to keep a canary alive."
"Are you kidding me?" the waiter asked. "In this establishment?"
He disappeared into the dimness and reappeared in moments with two tiny china plates in his hands. He set them down with a flourish.
In the center of each plate was a golden brown round of bread topped by a dark green, ridged leaf Griffen thought was spinach. It was the setting for one plump oyster, still glistening with its liquor, sprinkled with white shavings and a single red dot that was unmistakably hot sauce. Griffen lifted the plate to smell the white shavings and recoiled slightly. Horseradish.
"Here's a little amuse-bouche to start you gentlemen off," Edwin said.
"That means a little appetizer . . ." Griffen began.
"You think I don't know my Franglish?" Harrison asked. "This is my city. You just got here." He disposed of the oyster in a gulp. Griffen swallowed his own oyster. His eyes watered, and his whole body shuddered. He followed it with the brown bread and basil leaf. It filled his sinuses with a heady licorice scent that went perfectly with the horseradish and hot sauce. That was the way to enjoy a bivalve.
No sooner had Griffen recovered from the oyster than Edwin swooped in to remove the plates and replace them with two flat basins of warm, fragrant green liquid. Griffen inhaled appreciatively. The turtle soup was what brought him back time after time to this restaurant. He hoped it would mollify the gruff officer, and it did. The aroma made Harrison smile.
"It's made with sherry," the waiter explained, "but I had the chef flame it to take down the alcohol before he added it. Enjoy it."
"We will," Griffen promised. The rich liquid rolled on his tongue like cream, and the savory, meaty flavor made him feel all was well with the world. Neither of them spoke until the soup plates were empty. Harrison sat back in his chair.
"I'm gonna have to arrest the chef," he said.
"Why?" Griffen asked.
"He stole my aunt Emily's recipe."
Griffen laughed. "Are you sure? Should we check the kitchen to see if she's back there?"
"Now that you mention it," Harrison said, "I haven't heard from her in a while. Maybe she's moonlighting. Damned economy."
"I hear that a lot," Griffen said.
"Your business doing okay?" Harrison asked.
"Glad you asked," Griffen said, keeping it casual. "Your fellow guardians of the law came and tossed one of our games the other night."
"Keeping you honest. You guys don't pay taxes."
"Actually, we do pay taxes," Griffen said. "I have all my employees filing W-9s before the end of the year."
"Anyhow, we got a complaint from the hotel. Got to follow up on complaints. You're still unlicensed, unless you've swung that in the last few weeks."
"You have me there, Detective," Griffen said. "I prefer to think of it as operating in a gray area."
"You know I don't give a damn unless someone gets hurt." He glared at Griffen. Griffen spread his hands.
"Look, Harrison, we both want the same thing, for everyone to live in peace and make a living. You don't have to have a stick up your ass."
Harrison grimaced. "I don't like to relax around people like you. I might have to run you in one day for vice."
Griffen shifted uncomfortably, then noticed the mischievous gleam in Harrison's eye. The detective was ribbing him. He didn't know whether to counter with a retort or just accept it. Edwin rescued him from the awkward moment.
"Salad, gentlemen," he said.
"I hate frisee," Harrison said, as Edwin put the plate down in front of him and carefully drizzled dressing on it from a sauceboat. But he finished it. "Great dressing. Too bad they put it on weeds and grass clippings."
A busboy removed the empty dishes. Edwin and another waiter brought the main course out to them, big silver covers on the plates. At a silent count of three, the waiters whisked the domes away.
"The best of New Orleans. Enjoy."
A rush of hot steam washed Griffen's face. Contentedly, he contemplated a surf and turf at a far remove from ordinary family restaurant fare of fried shrimp and tough steak. The parsley-sprinkled bread-crumb crust on the filet of flounder was so delicate it broke like the snap of crisp snow on a winter morning. The tenderloin was sliced and fanned to show the
red center in the rectangle of brown. Griffen applauded the chef's using a fish that was firm and hearty enough to stand up to the meat. Fingerling potatoes and baby vegetables filled in the empty places on the plate, and the entree was surrounded by a savory sauce. Griffen had been schooled by Edwin and other servers at the finer restaurants that good meat shouldn't be covered by the sauce. That trick was for keeping Salisbury steak and turkey breast from drying out. Everything smelled so good it was hard to decide what to try first.
He had his eyes closed, enjoying a perfect bite of flounder, when Harrison's gruff voice interrupted his reverie.
"I have to keep learning all the time, or I'm gonna get killed out there," he said.
Griffen's eyes flew open. It was an awkward beginning, but at last the elephant-in-the-room subject was coming up. The tough street cop was appealing to the college kid from Michigan, and he did not like the uneven quality of the playing field. It took a brave man to admit he had a weakness. Griffen dipped his head to acknowledge it.
"Whatever I can do to help out the NOPD," he said.
"Forget the NOPD," Harrison said, chewing a miniature squash. "They'd lock me up in a mental institution if they could hear us now. How many of . . . you are there?"
"I have no idea," Griffen said, honestly. "I knew as little as you did until recently, and I still don't know everything that's out there."
"What about people like you?"
"Dragons." Griffen let out a low whistle. "There are a lot more dragons in New Orleans than I thought, and I know I haven't met all of them yet. And there are all the other ones."
Griffen paused while Edwin came and topped up their glasses.
"What other ones?" Harrison pressed.
"Uh, changelings, uh, werewolves. Shape-changers. Vampires. Ghosts. Wiccans. You know . . ." Griffen let his words trail off uncomfortably. Harrison's expression didn't change, but Griffen could almost hear the gears turning. The detective was handling the revelations better than he would have thought.
"I already knew about the wiccans," Harrison growled. "I feel like I'm living in Disneyland. Why's this city got more weirdos than anywhere else in the world?"
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