She sat as she always did, right beside the rails marking the boundaries of the open-air café. Though it meant occasionally being hassled by tourists and panhandlers, it provided her a splendid view of Jackson Square. Already, as a lazy Sunday morning flowed over the Quarter, the Square was full of life. As she sipped her hot chocolate, another indulgence more satisfying then the strong coffee preferred by most of the café’s regulars, she leaned back in her chair and watched as the street entertainers plied their arts for the scattered groups of ever-present tourists.
Artists hung their canvases on the iron railing of the Square, or set up mobile easels to do quick sketch portraits and caricatures. Valerie knew that on the opposite side of the Square, psychics would have set up small tables to read palms and cards and bones. Performance artists, from men painted as silver robots to jugglers to living statues who never moved, stood in front of hats or boxes or buckets that held the smatterings of bills and coins from appreciative passersby. The snappy patter of a street musician blended into the soft strains of an accordion accompanied by a young girl’s voice singing in French, and somewhere in the mix a lonely guitar repeated the same blues riff over and over.
Though she hadn’t quite fallen in love with New Orleans as her brother had, she had succumbed to many of the local habits. People watching, for example. She found it fascinating the types of people attracted to the area, day or night, and spent just as much attention on the endlessly changing stream of tourists as she did the more stable performers. Whether it be families weighed down by too many children far too young to enjoy the Quarter at night, or well-dressed professionals on a break from their various conferences, or even the expensively but slovenly decked out retirees just off the cruise ships, each brought their own style, and their own amusement. And that was without the eclectic mix of locals who sauntered across the Square or down Decatur Street. They nodded to and tipped the performers just as often as the tourists, and knew just how lucky they were to get such a display of humanity anytime they should choose to indulge.
After she had finished with her breakfast, she decided to take a leisurely stroll down Decatur Street. Unlike the tight, channel-like feel of Bourbon, Decatur was split into two lanes to accommodate greater vehicle traffic. Both sides were lined with shops and restaurants, with bars being less common and the Bourbon Street–style strip club nonexistent. Valerie found hours could pass just window shopping the countless shops, which ranged from the tacky T-shirt shops to upscale clothing and jewelry merchants. She usually found many things she wanted, though limited herself to a rare purchase. Shopping was a spectator sport for her.
On the way back, she decide to browse through the many galleries on Royal Street. Again, shops ranged wildly, and not just between paintings and sculptures. There was a cluttered hole-in-the-wall poster gallery a few doors down from a high-class place that seemed to have nothing but Dr. Seuss art. Valerie didn’t even pause while walking past the famous “blue dog” gallery. There were some things about New Orleans that she just never would understand.
Of course, above every shop and tucked away in every crevice were houses and apartments for the many living in the Quarter. Valerie stopped, amused, watching a man struggle to pull a couch through a doorway that seemed much too small. What’s worse, the couch was white, and the man working alone kept scraping it against the slightly grimy door frame or the ground. Valerie shook her head and smiled, then silently crept up and took the other end of the couch. When he hauled, she lifted, and the couch passed through like magic.
“Hey, thanks! Whoa.”
The man had looked up, and caught sight of his assistant. His jaw hung open just slightly, and Valerie fought the urge to reach up and push it closed. Instead she replied, with just a bit of teasing in her voice.
“Now isn’t the time to ‘whoa,’ you’ve still got to get it to your apartment door.”
“And upstairs. Three floors,” he said with a sigh.
Like most apartments, there was actually a bit of a walk from the street door to the separate entrances. And the buildings were renowned for spiral staircases of dubious stability. Valerie smiled and cocked her head.
“Well, going to ask for help?”
“Hell, no. I’m going to ask you up to my place for a drink,” he said.
“At two in the afternoon?”
“Hey, it’s the Quarter. But, oh, woe is me, there seems to be a nasty old couch in your way.”
“Ha! Now you are back to the woe again. Well, I suppose I’m far too stubborn to let a couch stand between me and a free drink.”
“Great.”
The man jumped onto the couch, lying back and grinning up at her.
“Third floor, second door on the left please,” he said, and pretended to close his eyes and go to sleep.
Despite the narrow alleyway, Valerie managed to turn the couch enough to dump him on the ground.
“The operative word was ‘help,’” she said.
“It was worth a try.” The man laughed. “By the way, the name’s Kid Blue. I play guitar on Bourbon Street.”
“You’re a street entertainer?” Valerie said, shaking the offered hand.
“Pul-eeese,” Kid Blue said, drawing himself up haughtily. “I play in one of the clubs. I’m with a band. And you?”
“Oh. My name’s Valerie. Valerie McCandles,” she responded.
“I meant what do you do?” the man said. “What pays your bills?”
“Nothing,” Valerie said softly.
Until just now when she vocalized it, she hadn’t realized how discontented she was with that situation.
Twenty-three
Griffen had a new resolve as he sauntered down the Moonwalk. He had been sitting around bars and card games too long. It was time for him to get back in shape. Well, get into shape, as he had never been that athletically inclined.
Valerie had always been the fitness freak of the family and, since moving to New Orleans, had taken to getting up mornings to jog along the Moonwalk before the midday heat set in. The other day, however, she had mentioned that she had discovered that someone was teaching a fencing class upstairs at Yo Mama’s Bar and Grill on various weekdays. Since the upstairs was only open to the public Thursday through Saturday nights, the owner was letting them use the space for free.
That alone had caught Griffen’s attention, as he had done a bit of fencing with a local club while he was at school. He had a wry picture in his mind of him and the George, or at least him versus a knight in full armor, going sword to sword. Of course, nothing like that would happen in real life, even as odd as his “real” life was.
What really piqued his interest, though, was when she mentioned the teacher’s name was Maestro. Griffen was pretty sure it was the same guy that Bone had introduced him to the night he first met Fox Lisa. After all, how many people in the Quarter could there be that went by the name of Maestro.
Joining his class would accomplish two things. First, it would give Griffen some much needed exercise, and second, it would give him a chance to learn a little more about Maestro.
Of course, he would have to get in shape first. (Guys getting in shape before joining an exercise class was not unlike the thing women do when they clean up before the maid comes.) Maybe a bit of power walking and light jogging to increase his stamina and lung capacity.
That was enough to set him up for today’s errand…a shopping trip through the Riverwalk, the small shopping center along the river just outside the Quarter. After all, if he was going to start exercising, he would need some athletic shoes…and maybe a warm-up outfit or two.
It was late morning, earlier than he usually was out and about, but late enough for there to be a fair amount of activity along the Moonwalk. The street musicians were out in force, working the inevitable crowds of tourists who were getting an early start on their day’s itinerary. The breeze off the river was doing a nice job of holding the ovenlike heat of midday at bay, and a light, high cloud cover kept the sun f
rom being blinding. All in all, a beautiful day, and Griffen enjoyed the relaxed ambiance as he made his leisurely way along.
His reverie was interrupted when his cell phone rang. The caller ID showed an unknown caller, but that wasn’t unusual. Since passing his phone number to Gris-gris, he had gotten several calls from strangers, often setting meetings to ask about joining some satellite card game to his network.
Flipping the phone open, he held it to his ear while casually looking around.
“Griffen,” he said into the receiver.
“Mr. McCandles,” a male voice said. “I think it’s time we talked. I’d like to clear the air between us.”
“And you are…?”
“This is Jason Stoner. I believe you’ve heard of me.”
It took a moment for the name to register. Stoner. The man with Homeland Security that was supposed to be hunting for Griffen.
“So talk,” Griffen said. “You have my undivided attention.”
“I was thinking more of a face-to-face sit-down,” Stoner said.
Griffen thought for a moment. He really didn’t want to be alone with this man. Still, his curiosity was piqued.
“That might take a while to arrange,” he said. “If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to meet somewhere in public.”
“My thoughts precisely,” Stoner said. “How about that bench just ahead of you…say, in two minutes?”
Startled, Griffen looked around, trying to see in all directions at once. There didn’t seem to be anyone in the crowd paying particular attention to him, but it was obvious he was being watched.
“How will I know you?” he said, stalling for time.
There was no answer. Glancing at his phone, Griffen realized Stoner had broken the connection.
Replacing the cell phone on his hip, he stared at the indicated bench, looked around again, then slowly walked over to it and opted to stand rather than sit.
Pedestrians continued to stream by in groups of two to six, with an occasional jogger mixed in for variety. Nothing there that seemed particularly threatening or ominous.
There were people leaning on the railing watching the river traffic, a couple of tired looking women herding a group of shrieking children from a day-care center, and a trio of sailors in uniform taking pictures of each other, but no one seemed to be paying any attention to Griffen.
Then a man sat down on the bench. There was nothing noteworthy about him. He was dressed tourist casual, opting for the polo shirt and light slacks rather than a T-shirt and shorts, and even had a small shopping bag that he carried in one hand. Griffen wouldn’t have looked at him twice if he wasn’t expecting to meet someone. Still, there was something about him…
Suddenly, Griffen realized what was wrong. The man was sitting absolutely motionless.
If one watched closely, most people were constantly in motion…even when supposedly at rest. They would fidget and look around, or shift their position slightly, or fiddle with their clothes, but they were always moving. To a card player, these were “tells” about a person’s thoughts or mood, to be noted and studied.
This man just sat, muscles relaxed, eyes unfocused.
Steeling himself mentally, Griffen also took a seat on the bench.
“I assure you, Mr. McCandles, your misgivings are unwarranted,” the man said. “I mean you no harm. That’s why I wanted to have this conversation.”
“Mr. Stoner?” Griffen said.
The man turned his head and looked at Griffen directly.
“That is correct,” he said. “It has come to my attention that you are laboring under certain misconceptions regarding our relationship.”
“I wasn’t aware that we had a relationship,” Griffen said. The stilted, formal speech patterns Stoner used were contagious. “I have, however, heard that you might be looking for me. Something about dragons.”
Stoner smiled slightly, then his mouth returned to its normal, neutral position.
“Something about dragons,” he said. “I suppose that’s one way of putting it. What have you heard, exactly?”
Griffen took a deep breath.
“Well, sir, I’ve heard that you are one of, if not the, most powerful dragons operating on this continent. I’ve also been told that, now that I’m coming into my secondary powers, I could be seen as an ally or a threat. Specifically, they say that you’ll either try to recruit me or kill me. Since I’m brand-new at this dragon thing, hearing something like that tends to make me nervous.”
“Understandable,” Stoner said, giving the smallest of nods. “Well, Griffen—May I call you Griffen?—I’m here to give you my personal assurance that I currently have no plans to pursue either of those options.”
Griffen considered that for a few moments.
“Forgive me, sir, but could you elaborate on that? I can’t help but notice the careful use of the word ‘currently’ in what you’re saying.”
“Very well,” Stoner said. “My main focus is on international events…things that could create a threat to this country. If my information is correct, your current activity centers around running a small, local gaming operation. That is of no interest to me at all. Also, as you mention, you are still extremely new to…as you put it…the dragon game, I can see no point in recruiting you until you have developed considerably beyond where you are now…say, in twenty or thirty years. That is the situation as I see it currently. Should either of those conditions change, if you increase the scope of your operation or if your development takes a sudden surge forward, I would have to reconsider my position. If not, I see no reason for us to have any dealings with each other. Is that clear?”
“Crystal,” Griffen said.
“Well then,” Stoner said, starting to rise, “if there’s nothing else to discuss…”
“Um…since you’re here, sir,” Griffen said hastily, “might I ask you a few questions? I mean, I’m new to all this and it would be a big help.”
Stoner glanced at his watch, then sat down again.
“Very well,” he said. “What do you want to know?”
“Well, first of all,” Griffen said, “if you weren’t looking for me, how did you find me? I find it hard to believe you just happened to be here.”
“There was an inquiry submitted to our offices by the local police,” Stoner said. “They wanted to know if Homeland Security in general or I specifically had any interest in you and if so, why. That gave me a pretty good idea of where you were. Once I had that, it was easy, with my resources, to find out what you were doing and what your habits were.”
Griffen was too good a poker player to let anything show on his face, but inwardly he cursed himself. His clever plan to use Harrison to run an official check for him had backfired. If Stoner had really been hunting for him, that could have been disastrous. As it was…
“So, you’ve been having me watched?” he said carefully.
Stoner smiled slightly.
“Don’t misunderstand me, Griffen,” he said. “Just because I mean you no harm does not mean I’m totally disinterested. A dragon is still a dragon.”
“Does that mean you’re going to continue having me watched?”
“I’ll be keeping casual surveillance on you,” Stoner said. “Again, more curiosity than anything else. In my position, it’s relatively easy to add a few more names to the list of those we’re keeping tabs on.”
“What about before,” Griffen said.
“Excuse me?”
“Was my name on the list before I reached New Orleans?”
Stoner sighed.
“If you’re referring to that incident on the expressway, that was regrettable. The attack, such as it was, was spontaneous. Certainly not ordered by me or anyone reporting to me. Your movements were to be noted and reported. Nothing more. Be assured that the officer who leaked the information to some of his friends has been dealt with severely.”
Something in the tone of Stoner’s voice reminded Griffen that this was not a man to be taken l
ightly…as if he needed reminding.
It also made him reconsider exactly what Stoner’s concept of “not having dealings with each other” might consist of.
“One more question, Mr. Stoner,” he said. “Are you aware of a person known as George?”
“The George?” Stoner said, cocking his head to one side. “That old myth? I’ve heard of him, but never felt the need to run down the truth of the matter or look into hiring him. I have my own organization with a carefully audited budget. It more than suffices for my needs. Why do you ask?”
“Just something I heard,” Griffen said negligently. “No one down here seems to know much about him. I thought maybe with your resources you might have more information.”
“Nothing I’d consider reliable,” Stoner said, getting to his feet. “If you’re sincerely trying to keep a low profile, Griffen, I’d recommend you leave that subject alone. Asking too many questions could draw unwanted attention.”
Griffen was having a Peanut Butter Burger at Yo Mama’s when Harrison slid into his booth.
“Hey, Griffen,” he said. “You owe me a cup of coffee.”
His poker reflexes came to his rescue, and instead of showing his true feelings, Griffen managed to keep a straight face.
“Really?” he said, raising his eyebrows slightly. “How so?”
“I got good news for you,” the detective said. “One of the computer whizzes down at the department ran a check for me on that rumor you asked me about. Near as he can tell, Homeland Security doesn’t have a flippin’ clue who you are. No interest in you at all. That piece of information will cost you a cup of coffee, since that’s what I gave him for the favor.”
Griffen smiled.
“As John Arbuckle would say…” he said.
“Excuse me?” Harrison frowned.
“It’s from an old television coffee ad,” Griffen explained. “The whole quote is ‘As John Arbuckle would say, you gets what you pay for.’”
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