Dragons Wild

by Robert Asprin

  “Watch yourself, Slim,” Griffen said, waving good-bye.

  Turning his attention to the rats again, Griffen found himself frowning. Until the street entertainer made his comment, it had never occurred to him that his presence might be affecting the local wildlife.

  Staring hard at them, he tried to will them to go away. They steadfastly ignored him. Glancing around, he tried again.

  His cell phone rang, starting him out of his exercise. Glanced at the caller ID, he flipped it open.

  “Hey, Mose,” he said. “What’s up?”

  “Didn’t think you was going to be awake, Grifter,” came the old man’s voice. “I was going to leave a message on your voice mail, but this is even better. When y’all went shoppin’ a while back, did you happen to pick up a suit?”

  “No, we didn’t. I’ve got my sports coat and slacks that I used to use for interviews and theater dates, but never figured I’d need a full suit,” Griffen said. “Why? What’s up?”

  “Well, try to pick one up today or tomorrow.”

  Griffen frowned slightly.

  “Okay. Any particular reason?”

  “We got us a funeral to attend,” Mose said. “A suit isn’t really necessary, but it’s a nice gesture.”

  “Whoa. Hold on a minute, Mose,” Griffen said. “Sorry, but I don’t do funerals. Weddings either, for that matter.”

  There was a moment’s pause before the answer came.

  “I can understand that, Griffen. Nobody really likes to go to funerals. Still, I think you should go to this one. It’s one of our people.”

  Griffen was now very attentive.

  “Who? I mean, what happened?”

  “Do you remember Reggie? Works as a spotter for us at one of the hotels in the CBD?” Mose said.

  “Older guy? White hair and mutton chops?” Griffen said. “Yeah, I remember him. I didn’t even know he was sick.”

  There was a short snort of a laugh at the other end.

  “Not sick. Lead poisoning,” Mose said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “New Orleans plague,” Mose said. “Went and got himself shot last night.”

  Griffen was stunned. He looked out over the river again, the scene now having taken on a slightly surreal aspect to it. Then he remembered he was on the phone.

  “Sorry, Mose,” he said. “That freaked me out for a second. Remember, I’m just a kid from the Midwest who’s led a sheltered life. This is the first time someone I’ve known has been shot.”

  Griffen turned from the river and started to walk away, heading toward Café Du Monde and Jackson Square. He held the phone to his ear as Mose talked.

  “I hate to say it, but start getting used to it,” Mose said. “It’s not all that uncommon in New Orleans these days. Just be thankful you live in the Quarter.”

  “What happened?”

  “Jerome will fill you in on the details,” Mose said. “Talk to him while you’re picking out a suit. Like it or not, you should be at that funeral. He was one of ours, and folks will expect you to be there. It’s one of the downsides of heading up a crew down here.”

  “Sure, I’ll talk to Jerome, but can’t you tell me a little mor—”

  Griffen felt a featherlight tug at his pocket. Instinctively, his free hand went to his pocket and he twisted to look behind him. He hadn’t had his pocket picked yet in his time in New Orleans, but his mind flashed the suspicion that he had just had that new experience.

  If he hadn’t been distracted by the phone, he would have been more aware of the stairs in front of him.

  He never caught the barest glimpse of his assailant. Body twisted and off balance, a hard shove threw him forward. He barely registered that the shove had been two handed, one just above his hips, the other between his shoulder blades, guaranteeing he wouldn’t recover. Then he was in the air.

  The stairs leading from the Moonwalk down to Decatur Street are a flight of curved, amphitheater like steps. Made out of concrete.

  His first impact was on his side, but the force of the hard steps into his ribs jerked his body, and his head hit a moment later. The cell phone dropped from a hand that shot out to try and stop his fall, but he was already rolling. Nails scraped on concrete, and felt as if they would tear. Three more steps went by, each a sharp pain as his body twisted.

  Griffen lay stunned. Blood pounded in his ears. Dazed, his eyes caught upon his hand, gripping the step above him. His nails were long, almost claws, and had dug the smallest of grooves into the concrete. They slowly receded back to normal.

  “Griffen! Griffen what’s happening!?”

  Mose’s voice called from the fallen phone, snagging his attention and jerking him back into focus. He pulled himself up, intending to stand but groaning and sitting down as pain shot through his ribs and side. He scrabbled for the phone and put it to his ear.

  “I’m here,” Griffen said.

  “God, lad, where’d you go?!”

  A few people were rushing toward him, not many. More kept walking, not seeing him. Wouldn’t be the first drunk to fall, even in daylight. He waved off those who approached.

  “I fell, down the stairs.”

  “Griffen, the thickest skin in the world won’t save you from a broken neck.”

  “Now he tells me. Mose, I was pushed.”

  “By who?”

  “I don’t…wait.”

  Griffen reached into the pocket. He realized, the tug he had felt had not been where he kept his wallet. Hand shaking slightly, he pulled out a long card that had been slipped in before his fall. The Knight of Swords.

  “It seems,” Griffen said, fear momentarily numbing his pain, “that the George has taken things up a notch.”

  Thirty-two

  “I’m telling you, Jerome, I’m even less thrilled about going to a funeral now.”

  “Hey, at least it’s not yours,” Jerome said

  “Yet,” Griffen said, neither one of them had much humor in his voice.

  They had gotten together as planned to pick out a suit for Griffen. A cheerless chore nowhere near as interesting as their last shopping excursion. His mind kept going back to the fall, and how easily it could have been much, much worse.

  Of course, Griffen’s mood wasn’t improved by the ache in his ribs. Mose had checked him out, and declared nothing broken. They still protested every time he lifted his right arm too high. He winced as he tried on a somber jacket.

  “Sure I can’t help you with that?” Jerome said.

  “Yes.”

  Griffen waved him off stubbornly and shrugged the jacket on. They were more or less alone, having told the salesperson they didn’t need assistance. Griffen wanted freedom to talk.

  “You can help me understand about Reggie. How he died and why you and Mose seem to be treating this as business as usual.”

  “Can’t really treat it as anything else. It’s the drug gangs,” Jerome said. “Most murders are within family or friends when someone gets drunk or mad and goes for a gun or a knife. The so-called ‘killer’ is usually still sitting there when the cops come. It’s the drug gangs that are pushing the murder rate so high in this town.”

  “Wait a minute,” Griffen said. “Are you saying that Reggie was part of a drug gang?”

  “No. Nothing like that,” Jerome said with a half laugh. “He sold a little pot and coke on the side is all. Dude was just stopping by his supplier to replenish his stock and got caught in the cross fire is all.”

  “That’s all?” Griffen said, a vague note of hysteria creeping into his voice. “You make it sound like it’s an everyday occurrence.”

  “It is.” Jerome shrugged. “There are a couple areas of town that are combat zones for all intents and purposes. That’s where most of the nondomestic killings happen. The gangs have been fighting it out for who supplies what sections of town, and when the shooting starts, they don’t care much who’s in the way.”

  “Why doesn’t somebody do something about it?”

  �
��Like what?” Jerome said. “As long as there are folks taking drugs for kicks or to try to make themselves feel better about their lives, there are going to be people making money off selling the shit to them. When there’s a lot of money involved, they’re going to fight over who gets how much. You kill off or lock up one bunch, and someone else will be there to step into the vacuum.”

  “It just doesn’t seem right, is all,” Griffen said, almost to himself.

  “Right or not, that’s the way things are,” Jerome said firmly. “Welcome to the real world, Young Dragon. You can’t save everyone, especially not from themselves. The most we can do is try to take care of our own…and in this case that means showing up at the funeral to pay our respects.”

  “Well, at least from what I hear your funerals down here are livelier than in other cities.” Griffen sighed.

  “Don’t believe all the hype, Grifter,” Jerome said. “Not all funerals down here are jazz funerals with second lines. Most of them are as sad and depressing as funerals anywhere.”

  The funeral had been as low-key and sad as Jerome had predicted. There were no colorful brass bands or people dancing with parasols and handkerchiefs on the way back from the cemetery. Just long-faced people who spoke in low tones and cried from time to time.

  The crowd was mostly black, but there was a fair spattering of whites and Latinos in the gathering. Griffen supposed that they were people from the hotel where Reggie had worked, but never got a chance to converse with any of them to confirm or deny his assumption.

  He had tried to hang back in the group, but Mose had taken him by the arm and brought him forward to meet Reggie’s family. They all seemed to know who he was, and were genuinely pleased to meet him in person, effusive in their gratitude for his attendance.

  Afterward, he and Jerome accompanied Mose back to the latter’s residence for drinks and conversation.

  “This may not be the right time to bring it up,” Griffen said, contemplating his glass, “but there’s something I want to discuss with both of you.”

  “And what would that be, Young Dragon?” Mose said, leaning back in his easy chair.

  “I want to implement a new policy in our organization,” Griffen said. “I want to set a rule that people can either work for us or deal dope, but not both.”

  Mose and Jerome exchanged glances.

  “I don’t know, Grifter,” Jerome said carefully. “We don’t pay our spotters enough for them to live on. I’m not sure it’s fair to cut them off from a source of income.”

  “I don’t care,” Griffen said firmly. “They’re already getting paid by the hotels and clubs they work for. If that’s not enough combined with what we pay them, there are other ways of making money in this town without selling dope on the side.”

  “You’ve been down on dope ever since you got down here,” Mose said. “There’s no way you’re going to get people to stop using it.”

  “I know that,” Griffen said. “I’m not trying to reform the world or even the town.”

  He paused for a moment to gather his thoughts.

  “I don’t get the whole drug thing,” he admitted. “I’ve never used them myself, and I don’t understand what the attraction is that draws people to them. Fine. There are lots of things that people do that I don’t understand or take part in. People are different, and differences make the world go ’round. But this drug thing…”

  He hesitated again, then shook his head.

  “Aside from the fact that drugs are illegal and dangerous, from what Jerome says there are people getting killed over them. I can’t stop it, but I don’t want to contribute to it either. Gambling I don’t mind, but I don’t want to be the head of a group of dope dealers, even if it’s only a sideline. More specifically, I don’t want to go to any more funerals for our people, meet their families and watch them cry, because they were dealing dope on the side. Maybe it’s selfish of me, but that’s the way I feel.”

  Jerome looked at Mose, who scratched his head, then ran his hand over his face.

  “All right, Young Dragon,” he said at last. “If you feel that strongly about it, we’ll give it a try. We’ll put the word out and give our people a week to make up their minds. One thing you should remember, though. After the fall the other day, it’s definitely the George on your tail. Can’t think of anyone else, including most other dragons, who could have done that to you without you even seeing their face. I’d think that was trouble enough without your looking for some more by stirring up the locals with a no-drug policy.”

  Thirty-three

  Griffen couldn’t sleep.

  He’d tried calling it an early evening…well, early for him, anyway…and had called it a night around 2:30 a.m. He had even managed to go to sleep.

  Now it was quarter to four in the morning and he was wide-awake. He didn’t know what had awakened him. There was no apparent noise, either inside or outside his apartment, but he was awake and felt no inclination to go back to sleep.

  He considered reading for a while, but realized that for some reason he was feeling restless. Yielding to an impulse, he pulled on his pants and pair of shoes and headed out again.

  The courtyard of his complex was quiet. Valerie’s apartment was dark. Either she had also crashed early, or she was still out.

  Glancing idly around, he noticed the usual contingent of the complex’s stray cats were also nowhere to be seen. Apparently it was an off night for everyone.

  A scratchy rustling caught his attention. An oversized cockroach, nearly half the size of his fist, was crawling across the flagstones heading straight for him.

  Grimacing slightly, Griffen decided to try his so-called animal-control powers one more time. Frowning, he focused his mind into sending the insect a message, specifically to go away.

  The cockroach hesitated, then continued to approach.

  So much for animal control. Turning his back on the beast, Griffen crossed the courtyard and let himself out of the gate onto the street.

  Pausing for a moment, he considered his options. Harry’s Corner was close and open twenty-four hours a day, but he didn’t really feel like a drink just now. Instead, he decided to take a stroll along the Moonwalk. Sometimes walking along the river helped to clear his mind. Even if it didn’t, perhaps the exercise would make him tired enough to sleep.

  Turning south, he sauntered slowly along the street, enjoying the quiet of the early morning.

  Jackson Square was deserted when he reached it. Even the late-working street entertainers had called it a night and packed it in, even though the floodlights in front of the cathedral lit the area to near-day brightness. Griffen didn’t mind. Sometimes having the familiar streets to himself was a pleasant change.

  “I believe we need to talk.”

  The words were soft spoken, but came to him quite clearly.

  Looking around, Griffen saw a woman sitting on one of the benches that circled the Square. He hadn’t noticed her before, but she was partially in shadow so that was understandable.

  His first thought was that she was a panhandler, and that he was about to be approached with yet one more pitch to separate him from a few dollars. On second thought, however, he reconsidered. She didn’t look like a panhandler. She was black, in her late twenties to early thirties, and dressed in a white cotton blouse with a light fabric, multicolored full skirt. There was a dark handkerchief wrapped around her head, but he could still see that her hair was long, halfway down her back.

  “I’m sorry, do I know you?” Griffen said, stalling slightly for time.

  “We have never met,” the woman said, “but I have heard much about you, Griffen McCandles. There are those who are concerned about your presence in town and what it might mean to them. I felt it was time to meet you in person and to form my own opinion.”

  Despite his normal wariness, Griffen was intrigued. If this was a pitch for a handout, it was an approach he had never encountered before.

  “You seem to have me at a disadv
antage,” he said, wandering closer. “You know my name, but I know nothing about you.”

  “My name is Rose,” the woman said, gesturing for him to join her on the bench. “I am a practitioner of Santeria…what you would call a voodoo queen.”

  It occurred to Griffen that a month and a half ago, he would have found such a claim to be ludicrous. Now, he was merely curious, and a little cautious. This woman didn’t look like a threat to him, but how could he be sure? It was amazing what even a short time of living in the Quarter could do for one’s outlook on life.

  “I don’t understand,” he said, taking the indicated seat. “While I’m not a practitioner or a believer, I have some friends who are, and to the best of my knowledge I’ve never been opposed to or even disrespectful of your religion. Why should my presence be noticed, much less be of concern to anyone?”

  “Because you are a power,” Rose said. “A new power here in this area. We know of dragons, and have kept ourselves apart from their machinations. Word has been passed around, however, that it is your intent to exert your influence on all of us, to attempt to unite the various supernatural elements of this area under you control or command. You can see why this would cause some concern.”

  “But that’s ridiculous,” Griffen protested.

  Griffen had to consciously keep his jaw from dropping. He was having a hard enough time coming to grips with all that was around him. The idea of trying to control anyone, much less people he’s never met, had never occurred to him.

  “All I’m doing is trying to learn about Mose’s gambling operation. The main reason I came to town is to try to get away from dragons who either want to recruit me or kill me.”

  “I can see that, now that we’ve met,” the woman said. “I look into your heart and I see no greed or even ambition there…at least not so far. I will attempt to reassure those who will listen, but you can understand why there are those who are afraid of…what is it?”

  Griffen forced his attention back to the conversation.