Dragons Wild

by Robert Asprin

  “Again,” Griffen continued, “I’ve never experienced it, but I’ve heard that once the Feds get a bee in their bonnet about someone, it’s hard to get them to let go. One version I’ve heard is that Stoner might try to say I should be watched for suspected terrorist involvement.”

  “Terrorist?” Harrison snorted. “Yeah. Suddenly since 9/11 every penny-ante pissant they want to mess with gets the terrorist label slapped on. But a terrorist poker game. I’ll admit, that’s a new one.”

  He stared at Griffen for a long minute, then got to his feet.

  “All right, McCandles,” he said. “I’ll keep an ear open. Just don’t get in the habit of asking for favors. Got it?”

  “Got it,” Griffen said. “Thanks, Detective.”

  “Don’t mention it,” Harrison grunted. “Please!”

  “You did what?”

  “I asked him for a favor,” Griffen said into his cell phone.

  “Detective Harrison? Harry the cop?” Jerome’s voice came back to him over the phone. “I should have warned you about him, Grifter. If there are three cops in the entire city of New Orleans who hate our operation and having to lay off it, they’d all be him. Finding a way to bust us up would make his entire incarnation.”

  “I don’t know,” Griffen said casually, smiling as he did it. “He seemed reasonable enough to me.”

  “Detective Harrison? Are we talking about the same guy? Big white biker-type dude? Looks like a circus bear gone bad?”

  “That’s him.”

  “Maybe you’d better tell me about this conversation from the top.”

  Griffen complied, starting with Harrison sitting down at his booth and ending with his request about Stoner.

  When he was finished, there was a long moment’s silence.

  “That might do it,” Jerome said at last. “If there’s anything Harrison hates more than our protected gambling operation, it’s having Feds come traipsing around what he considers to be his private turf. Particularly if they don’t bother to check in first.”

  “Yeah, and somehow I didn’t think our first meeting was the right time to ask his thoughts on the possibility of a professional killer named George being on my trail.”

  “Yeah, why don’t you wait till the second date for that sort of thing, Grifter. Or, ya know, maybe never would be a better idea.”

  “Probably right. So, you think he’ll do it?” Griffen said.

  “Fifty-fifty chance,” Jerome said. “If nothing else, it might give him something to focus on except us for a while. All in all, I don’t see a downside to this.”

  “Just thought you should know,” Griffen said.

  “Yeah. Grifter? Remember when we were talking about luck and instinct?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’d say you’re giving them both a real workout.”

  Twenty

  Griffen was shooting pool at the Irish pub as he waited for Fox Lisa to get off work. He had never been much of a pool shooter in college, but had started taking the game up since arriving in New Orleans. Much of the social life in the Quarter revolved around the clubs, and one of the main pastimes and subjects of conversation was pool.

  In the time he had been shooting, he had noticed a marked improvement in his game, which in turn encouraged him to practice more. He had even been asked to join one of the pool-league teams, but had refused because his schedule was so uncertain. The house shooters remained friendly, however, and were more than happy to show him some drills or to advise him on the ins and outs of position play and spin.

  He was just lining up what he hoped would be an easy combination shot, when a minor stir rippled through the bar, and he glanced up to check the reason.

  Gris-gris had just walked in alone, and was scanning the place. When he saw Griffen, he held his hands up in a “no hassle” gesture and walked over to him.

  Since everyone knew there was bad blood between the two of them, half the bar was watching closely. Some craned their necks to see better, while a few others left their seats to drift a little closer to the action.

  Gris-gris stopped a few paces from where Griffen stood.

  “Mr. McCandles,” he said.

  “Gris-gris.” Griffen nodded back. “And it’s ‘Griffen’ or ‘Grif’ to my friends.”

  Gris-gris’s face split with a wide grin.

  “Listen. If you got a minute, I need to talk to you. Can I buy you a drink?”

  “No problem,” Griffen said. “Hey, Steamboat! Can you take over this rack for me?”

  Passing the stick over to his replacement, they stepped to the bar, gathered their drinks, and retired to one of the circular tables along the wall…the same one, in fact, that Griffen had been sitting at for his last meeting with Gris-gris.

  More and more, Griffen found himself sitting with his back to the wall, facing the doors, wherever he was. No sense letting anyone, local or more dangerous threat, have an easier drop on him. He tried not to overthink his new paranoia, especially when it seemed to be justified.

  “So, what’s up?” Griffen said, settling into his chair.

  Gris-gris looked nervous, fidgeting with his drink as he talked.

  “There’s a couple of things I need to talk to you about,” he said. “Let me get the first one out of the way so you don’t think the second one has anything to do with it.”

  “All right,” Griffen said. “Shoot.”

  He immediately wished he had used a different word, but Gris-gris didn’t notice and plowed on.

  “Well, first of all I wanted to tell you that I’ve thought about it and decided to keep my game with your organization. I’ll be using your network and paying you a percentage like before…including the payments I missed during our little difference of opinion.”

  Griffen kept the surprise off his face and simply nodded.

  “That’s great, Gris-gris,” he said. “I’m looking forward to working with you.”

  He made a little toasting motion with his glass that Gris-gris returned.

  Instead of continuing, however, Gris-gris kept fidgeting uncomfortably, glancing around the room.

  “What’s the other thing?” Griffen said, prompting him.

  Gris-gris seemed to gather himself.

  “Well, you see…”

  He broke off and took another sip of his drink.

  “What it is…” he began again, then stopped.

  Griffen frowned at him.

  “You’re starting to worry me, Gris-gris,” he said. “Talk to me. Are you in trouble with the law? Do you need money?”

  Gris-gris shook his head.

  “Nothin’ like that,” he said. “Look. What I’m trying to say is that I want to date your sister…if it’s all right with you, I mean.”

  Griffen sat back in his chair and blinked. For a moment, he could think of absolutely nothing to say.

  “Hey, if there’s a problem…that’s cool.” Gris-gris said hastily, misunderstanding the silence.

  “No. It’s just…you just caught me by surprise is all,” Griffen managed at last. “You know, this is the first time anyone ever asked my permission to date Valerie. We’ve always pretty much gone our separate ways.”

  “Then it’s okay?”

  “I don’t have a problem with it,” Griffen said. “I figure it’s her decision to make.”

  Besides, Griffen thought, the rumor mill has been so good that he has worried less and less about her. Here, the town protected his “little” sister.

  “I understand that,” Gris-gris said. “I just didn’t want you to think I was sneaking around behind your back to hit on your sister. Some guys get real upset if they think you’re trying to pull a fast one.”

  “Well, I appreciate you letting me know,” Griffen said, finally starting to recover from his surprise. “It’s always good to keep communication lines open.”

  “Speaking of that,” Gris-gris said, “I don’t have any way to get in touch with her…or you for that matter. That’s why I came l
ooking for you here.”

  “We can fix that easy enough,” Griffen said. I’ll pass you both our cell phone numbers before you leave. In the meantime, let me get the next round here.”

  As he went to the bar to get the drinks, it occurred to Griffen that he should probably check with Valerie before giving out her cell phone number. The more he thought about it, though, the more he was convinced to let things go as they stood.

  Why should he be the only one to have to deal with surprises?

  Twenty-one

  Fourth of July weekend meant different things to different people in New Orleans.

  For some it was the Essence Fest, another of the numerous music festivals that dotted the city calendar.

  For others, it meant a long weekend break from work. Weather permitting, an excursion to the beach, the Audubon Zoo, or even just a picnic or backyard barbecue provided a sufficient change of pace.

  With the hotels and restaurants full, the service industry dropped it into low gear and worked their tails off. No rest for the wicked.

  For Mose’s crew, and therefore for Griffen, it meant a high-stakes poker game.

  It seemed that this was a yearly event that a group of regular players attended, both local and out of towners. To be accurate, it was one of several yearly games that Mose hosted, usually coinciding with holidays or major local celebrations. This was just the first big game that Griffen had been invited to play in since he arrived in New Orleans three weeks earlier.

  While he was at college, there were several regular games that Griffen would sit in on. These would usually be at someone’s apartment or fraternity house, and would be held on specific nights of the week. Some of them would begin midday on Friday and continue through the weekend, with players sitting in, then leaving to go on a date or sleep, then sitting in again. Those games were usually at nickel/dime/quarter or, in some cases, quarter/half/dollar stakes. The host would usually pull a low chip or two out of every pot to cover the cost of the cards (they always used new decks) and refreshments. Griffen’s real preference was half/dollar/five stakes as it upped the power of the bluff, but students were traditionally poor and games like that were rare unless you were willing to collect large quantities of IOUs.

  The Fourth of July game Mose hosted was nothing like that.

  Instead of sitting around someone’s dining room table in an apartment, they had a suite at the luxurious Royal Sonesta Hotel in the heart of the French Quarter. There was an open wet bar with top-shelf liquors, and instead of potato chips and pizza they had trays of sandwiches and potato skins from room service. They also had a real casino poker table with two nonplayers (Jerome being one) alternating as dealers.

  The stakes were $25/$50/$100 with $500 chips available if the betting got fierce. It was the highest stakes game Griffen had ever sat in on, and he was worried that it would affect his game. While in theory, one should play a blue chip the same whether it was worth a dollar or a hundred dollars, it was hard to keep the actual dollar value out of one’s mind. As an example, Griffen had always avoided the penny/nickel/dime games back at school. For one thing, the amount to be won in a single evening wasn’t worth the time and effort. More important, the low stakes affected everyone’s play. Even if someone raised your bluff the limit on the last card, for a dime it was easy to call the raise just to see if your busted flush and one medium pair would stand up.

  There was another worry just as bothersome.

  Mose had told him that the word was out through many of the regular players that Griffen was being groomed to take over the operation. When they phoned or e-mailed in to reserve a seat in the weekend’s game, they had also commented that they wanted to meet and play against the new wunderkind. This made Griffen very self-conscious and aware of his age. Even though both Mose and Jerome counseled him not to worry about it, he was afraid that the players would consider him too young to run the operation and take their play elsewhere. That would bode ill for his eventual involvement.

  There were five players in addition to Mose and himself: a middle-aged businessman and his teenage son from Oklahoma, a solidly built Philippine woman from Los Angeles who was a surgeon, a well-dressed black man who was some kind of politician locally, and a Chinese restaurant owner who Griffen recognized as a semiregular at the Irish pub. He had wondered about the teenager being allowed to sit in, but was told that it was sort of a coming-of-age ritual. The businessman’s father had brought him to sit in on one of Mose’s games when he was in his teens, and the man wanted to continue the tradition.

  As the evening progressed, Griffen began to gradually relax and lose himself in the play of the game. For once, he felt that he didn’t have to worry about threats on his life. All of the players were well-known and vouched for by Mose, and no one else came in or out of the room. They were all good players, though the teenager was clearly the weakest, but Griffen found he could read them as easily as he had his old opponents at school.

  Mose had the fewest “tells” with the Philippine lady a close second, but everyone seemed to have those little habits and gestures that would signal when they had a good hand or if they were bluffing. In addition, there were changes in breathing patterns and eye blinks that were more telling than the players’ betting patterns or table talk. The teenager might as well have been playing his cards faceup.

  When a break was called after four hours of play, Griffen estimated that he was several thousand dollars ahead.

  “So, Mose. What’s this I hear that you’re going to be stepping down in favor of this young Turk here?” the businessman said, freshening his drink.

  “Nothing goes on forever, Mr. Goodman,” Mose said. “I figure it’s time I started taking it easy.”

  “Oh, bullshit,” the businessman said. “Com’on Mose. You were old when I was Junior here’s age…and I keep telling you, it’s Hank, not Mr. Goodman. I mean, you call Lollie here Tía, don’t you?”

  “‘Tía’ is a Spanish word,” the Philippine woman said. “It means ‘aunt’ and is a title or honorific, like when he calls you ‘mister.’ Mose is just being polite.”

  “Whatever.” Hank waved. “And we’re getting off the subject here. I want to hear why Mose is thinking of retiring, and I don’t think it’s just because he’s getting old.”

  “Seems to me that’s Mose’s business, not ours,” the politician put in.

  “That’s right,” the restaurant owner said. “We play here because Mose runs an honest game and we trust his judgment about who he lets play. I don’t think we should start questioning his judgment if he wants to step down, much less who he chooses for his successor.”

  “Gentlemen, please,” Mose said. “Mr. Goodman has a right to ask any question he wants, just like I’ve got a right not to give any answers I don’t want. In this case, I don’t mind answering him.”

  He took a small sip of his drink before continuing.

  “I’ve been running these games for a long time now. And I mean a LONG time. That’s gotten me kind of set in my ways. You know, thinking, ‘It’s always been good doing it this way before, so why change?’ The trouble is, the world moves on. Maybe the old way isn’t as good as it could be. Maybe it needs new blood like Jerome or Griffen here with new ideas to bring some changes in. Just as an example, you know I don’t like Texas Hold ’Em, but it’s all the rage now. They got tournaments and television shows on it now, not to mention books and magazines. Maybe it’s time to give it a try.”

  “So why bring this kid in?” Goodman said, jerking a thumb at Griffen. “I mean, he’s a hell of a poker player, but Jerome’s been around these games for a long time. Why bring in some outsider?”

  “As a matter of fact, Mr. Goodman,” Jerome said from the sofa where he was watching television with the sound turned off, “I was the one who recommended Griffen. I’ve been playing cards with him for years and have gotten to know him pretty well. I think he can help our network in ways I can’t.”

  “Like how?” Goodman pressed.
“By bringing in Texas Hold ’Em? I don’t happen to like that game myself. If I wanted to play Texas Hold ’Em, I’d go to the casino.”

  “For the record, sir, I don’t care for it either,” Griffen said. “If we were going to try it, my first thought would be not to bring it into these games, but to set up some separate games on a trial basis.”

  “So what other kind of changes are you thinking of?” the businessman said, speaking directly to Griffen for the first time.

  “Frankly, sir, I don’t know,” Griffen said easily. “As you pointed out, I’m still very new to this setup. I’ve got a lot to learn and consider before I’d even start to think about changing anything.”

  “One thing you might be interested in,” Jerome said. “Griffen’s only been with us for a few weeks. Mostly, I’ve been introducing him around and showing him how we do things. In that time, we’ve had no fewer than eight independent games contact us and ask to join our network. That’s more than we had join in the last year. What’s more, the ones I’ve talked to make it clear that they’re doing it because they want to work with Griffen. I think that says something.”

  “There. You see, Goodman?” the politician said. “Mose knows what he’s doing. Hell, if they were selling stock, I’d buy some.”

  Mose caught Griffen’s eye and winked.

  Twenty-two

  Griffen had wholeheartedly adopted the nocturnal schedule of a Quarter rat, but Valerie lacked her brother’s tastes and habits. More and more she found herself embracing the Quarter by day.

  At first, it had been morning jogs on the Moonwalk to keep her active and in shape. She was used to an active lifestyle, and it felt good to get her heart rate up and pounding with some simple aerobic exercise. Of course, night or day, there were always temptations to be found.

  Naturally, after such healthy and worthwhile endeavors, she deserved a healthy bit of indulgence. As often as not, she ended up breakfasting at the Café Du Monde. The inexpensive and delicious beignets, buried under their mountains of powdered sugar, sent a rush through her at least as enjoyable as the endorphins her run produced.