Dragons Wild

by Robert Asprin

  He had even thought to give the bartender forewarning. All it took was a quiet explanation that he was going to be meeting with someone and that it might get a little noisy. The bartender agreed to stay out of it, on the proviso that if it got rough they would take it outside and that Griffen would make good any damages.

  The customers were all regulars and wouldn’t need any instructions to keep their distance. It was the Quarter.

  Still nervous, Griffen played with his cup of coffee. He had considered having a shot of Irish whiskey, but decided he needed a clear head more than steady nerves.

  “So, Jerome,” he said at last, just to break the silence, “what do you think of my plan?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Jerome said, watching the door.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said it doesn’t matter what I think,” Jerome said. “You and Mose came up with this idea, and now it’s in motion. I’m just here to back you. If it works, it works. If not, we take it from there.”

  “I’d still like to know what your opinion is,” Griffen said.

  Jerome looked at him levelly, then returned his attention to the door.

  “Well, I’ll admit I’m curious as to why you wanted to handle this yourself,” he said. “Would have thought you had more than enough on your plate right now. For that matter, would have thought you’d want to wait a bit and get a feel for things before you plunged in.”

  “It seemed like the only logical way to play it,” Griffen said. “Gris-gris trying to pull out just when I’m coming in is too much of a coincidence. I think his problem is with me…and if it is, I’ve got to square things away with him myself. Hiding behind Mose won’t cut it.”

  “Well, however it goes, it’s going down,” Jerome said. “Here they come.”

  Griffen forced himself to take a slow sip of his coffee as the door opened.

  The first one to come in was a huge chocolate-colored black man. Easily six foot six or seven, he had a thick massive body that made Griffen think of Fat Albert in the old cartoon show. He recognized him as the one they call Jumbo who works as a shill and bouncer at one of the strip joints on Bourbon Street. Rumor was that he also picked up a bit of extra money as a strong-arm man and debt collector. Despite his size, he was supposed to be very fast.

  Pausing just inside the door, Jumbo swept the place with a slow, steady stare. When his eyes met Griffen’s, they paused and he gave a small nod of recognition. Meaning: We know each other, but I’m working. It’s just a job, nothing personal. Griffen nodded back.

  Apparently satisfied, Jumbo opened the door behind him. A small, wiry, ebony black man came in. He was maybe in his late twenties or early thirties, and seemed to vibrate with energy. As he moved, he seemed to throb to the beat of unheard music. Gris-gris.

  Jumbo stayed by the door as Gris-gris moved to their table.

  “Hey, Jerome,” he said by way of greeting. “This the new guy?”

  Jerome nodded.

  “Gris-gris. Griffen.”

  “Have a seat, Gris-gris,” Griffen said, gesturing to an empty chair at the table. “I thought we should meet and have a little talk.”

  “We got nothing to talk about, white boy,” Gris-gris said. “What I got to say, I can say standing up.”

  He pulled himself erect and folded his arms across his chest.

  “Since I’ve been running my game, I’ve been paying a piece to Mose. I didn’t have to, but he’s been operating down here forever and I figured it was only respectful to acknowledge that. Then I hear he’s bring in some white-bread college boy from up north to take over his operation.”

  He unfolded his arms and put his fists on his hips.

  “Now, Mose is Mose, but I don’t figure I owe you anything. I’m going to keep my money and keep running my game and I don’t see there’s any way you’re going to change that. You sure ain’t going to do it with talk. That’s all I got to say to you.”

  The bar was now dead quiet as everyone concentrated on not looking like they were listening in on the exchange.

  Griffen took another sip of his coffee and set the cup down.

  “You’re wrong, Gris-gris,” he said. “I didn’t ask you to come here to threaten you in any way. In fact, I just wanted to let you know that I’m your new best friend.”

  Gris-gris frowned.

  “And just how do you figure that?” he challenged.

  “Simple.” Griffen shrugged. “I’m the only thing between you and her.”

  As he spoke, Valerie came off her stool at the bar and grabbed Gris-gris with both hands, slamming him against the wall.

  “You listen to me, little man,” she hissed, her face close to his. “I don’t give a rat’s ass if you run your game or not or if you pay in a percentage. But if you dis my big brother again…if I hear about you talking trash the way you’ve been doing…I will personally kick your boney ass up one side of Bourbon Street and down the other. Now, do we understand each other?”

  She gave him a small shake.

  “I said, do you understand?”

  “Um…Val?” Griffen said. “He can’t answer if he can’t breathe.”

  “He can nod,” she said, not looking around.

  Gris-gris managed to vibrate his head up and down.

  “Fine,” Valerie said, setting him down. “I knew you’d listen to reason. Hey, Jumbo. How’s it going?”

  With that she slid back onto her bar stool and returned to her drink.

  Gris-gris straightened his clothes, then looked at Valerie’s back.

  She ignored him.

  Then he looked at Griffen.

  Griffen shrugged and gave a little grimace.

  Finally, Gris-gris turned on his heel and left the bar, with Jumbo, deadpan, trailing along after him. As the door closed behind them, the bar talk resumed, a little louder than before.

  Griffen exhaled a deep breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

  “I think that went well,” he said, leaning back in his seat. “I’m about ready for a real drink. How about you?”

  “In a minute,” Jerome said. “Did you notice anything unusual happen during that exchange?”

  “You saw it, too, huh?” Griffen said. “I was thinking that maybe it was an optical illusion.”

  “Um…what did you see?”

  “When Val picked Gris-gris up and pinned him against the wall,” Griffen said. “It looked to me like she grew about six or eight inches while she was reading him the riot act. She’s back to normal now, so I thought it was just my eyes playing tricks on me.”

  “If so, then my eyes are playing the same tricks,” Jerome said. “But I was talking about the other thing.”

  “What other thing?”

  “While she was working on Gris-gris and everyone was watching the action, you blew a smoke ring.”

  “I what?”

  “You blew a smoke ring. A nice round one until the draft blew it apart.”

  Griffen looked at him.

  “You’re kidding me. Right?”

  “Well, while you’re laughing at that, sneak a peek at your right hand.”

  Griffen glanced down at his hand that was holding the coffee cup.

  At first he thought he was having trouble focusing his eyes, as the image was fading…but his hand, for a few lingering moments, was covered with leathery scales.

  Seventeen

  Even though it was only supposed to be temporary shelter, Griffen found himself growing increasingly fond of the complex he and Valerie were housed in. He had been puzzled at first by the apparent lack of neighbors, but when he asked, the answer was quite simple.

  Mose owned the whole complex. He used the apartments to host the occasional poker game if they didn’t want the lack of privacy that was the downside of using a hotel room. They also served as “perks” for various out of town high rollers, one of the few concessions made to the new competition of the casino. New Orleans wasn’t used to Vegas-style casinos, but with a relatively new H
arrah’s literally across Canal Street, the locals had to adapt.

  The location of the complex was convenient, tucked away on a small street running parallel to Decatur one block into the Quarter proper. It was only a block and a half away from Jackson Square with its wide range of amusements and distractions, and the street itself was lined with small shops featuring used books, small restaurants, craft and vintage clothing shops, and even one small local bar, Harry’s Corner, that was open twenty-four hours a day.

  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 Café 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 t
he 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 mind. 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.”