Robert Asprin's Dragons Run (11 page)

Griffen
straightened the cards in his hand, then set them facedown on the green cloth. His opponents sorted their deals. A couple of them had easy tells. Albert Nieder, forty, married, and balding, an occasional client from Alabama, wrinkled his brow when he got bad cards, as now. Lacey Dominick, seventy-seven, rail-thin with flyaway gray hair, let the left corner of her mouth go up and straightened her shoulders slightly. She thought she had a winner. Griffen doubted it. Good thing she was loaded. She flew in monthly from Florida for business conferences and spent her evenings at one of Griffen’s games. She liked to have a female dealer at the table and tipped generously. Griffen had assigned Phoebe, a forty-year-old widow supporting a couple of teenage children. He watched Phoebe’s short-nailed, amber-tinted fingers deal out the three river cards with deft motions. She set down the deck and folded her hands.

“You’re the small blind,” Griffen reminded Albert. The bald man grunted and pushed in a couple of chips.

The Hotel St. Marie, halfway between Bourbon Street and the Irish pub on Toulouse, had never allowed Griffen to host a game on its premises before, until the manager met him at a meeting for local business owners supporting Penny that Horsie had set up. They had charged him corkage for his catered buffet but allowed him to bring in whatever he wanted. It was the first good thing that had come out of his connection with the candidate. Otherwise, Penny was running him ragged. That afternoon, he had walked five steps behind her as she toured a community house’s new after-school facility for middle-school children. She hadn’t commanded so much as appealed to Griffen to be there. Fox Lisa couldn’t make it since it was in the middle of her workday. Griffen had had to get up two hours earlier than he was accustomed. He hadn’t seen so much daylight since he’d been at college. At least the event hadn’t lasted long. Griffen had been able to escape to get together with Jerome for a late lunch at the pub. They had a chance to unwind and go over games scheduled for the upcoming weekend. This was the only table he planned to sit in on, but that was because a good friend had come to play.

The other two men at the table were local business owners. Bert Leopold owned several car dealerships. He had been king on the Nautilus Krewe float at Mardi Gras, two weeks before. He was a burly, balding man who had played high-school football. He and Griffen were friends, having recently shared a couple of experiences they would never discuss in front of the others. Griffen was inclined to go easy on him. Bert was shrewd though not much of a poker player. It was difficult to read him, but he tended to waste his opportunities. Bobby Hogan ran a funeral home in Metairie.

“You got no more expression than one of your corpses,” Bert kidded him. He leaned back to grab a handful of tortilla chips and a bottle of beer from the snack table. “You got anything in there?”

“Put up some money and find out,” Hogan said. He had a long, lugubrious face the color of mahogany, with three lines running across his high forehead. What was left of his frizzy hair around a polished dome was iron gray. “Say, Griffen, saw you at the Baptist Church on Sunday, when Miss Dunbar came to pray with us. You sang and clapped with the best of them. Didn’t know you were in the faith.”

“I’m not, Bobby,” Griffen said. “My girlfriend works for the Dunbar campaign. She wanted me to come with her.”

“You votin’ for that girl?” Hogan asked.

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“Well, me neither. She talks good, but so do all of them. It’s like they have a circuit, comin’ around all the churches. Otherwise, we don’t see ’em much.”

“Well, that’s when they have time for us,” Bert said. “Twenty.” He put two green chips in the pot.

“When they want money,” Lacey said, her lined face alight with wry humor. “I get invitations to party events, dinners, auctions, you name it, with the coupon carefully filled out in my name, and suggested donations, if you please.”

“Bad Penny hit you up for money yet?” Bert asked.

“Not yet,” Griffen said.

“Well, she will. They see us as walking wallets: not too smart and full of folding cash.”

“Lord God, if only that was true!” Bobby said. Albert laughed. His current hand was good. “It’s the incumbents that are the worst. All of a sudden, they not sure if your zoning is clear, or if you need an ordinance variation, and if you just contribute to their reelection fund, they’ll make sure it’ll go your way.”

“That sounds like asking for a bribe,” Griffen said.

Bobby made a wry face. “Oh, son, it’s all part of the game. You got to learn how Louisiana politics are played. They always talk about Chicago being the worst for corruption, but they ought to come down here to see how it’s really done. You’ve got to feed the wolf at the door to keep him from eatin’ you, but if you give him anythin’, he never goes away.”

“Damned if you do, and damned if you don’t,” Albert said with a frown. He had nothing, and Griffen knew it.

“Sixty,” he said. Albert grimaced and threw his cards away. Griffen’s triumph was momentary. Bobby was holding queens full and trashed the rest of them.

“Trouble is, Griffen,” Bobby said, as he raked in the chips, “if you show up around the state with one of the candidates, people are gonna think you want her to be elected. You know how appearances are.”

“I know,” Griffen said grimly. “But I haven’t decided for anyone yet, really.”

“Well, spread your time with some other candidates. That’s just my suggestion.”

“Thanks, Bobby. I’ll keep that in mind.” Not that Griffen was going to have much of a chance: Penny had strong-armed him into agreeing to have her back during a tour of the industrial plants up and down the Mississippi, a school recital, and a store opening over the coming week. It was no use protesting that he didn’t have the time. Penny would turn to Fox Lisa, who had trouble saying no to her idol.

“Lady Luck’s your only favorite, isn’t she?” Lacey said, with a sweet smile. “A pity she’s neglecting both of us today.”

Lacey was right, unfortunately. When the game ended about one in the morning, Griffen came away from the table with about 10 percent of the pot. If it hadn’t been for the house cut, he’d have been down for the day. His mind wasn’t on his job. He was worried about Val, but what Bobby said concerned him as well. The tables weren’t as full as they could have been, even considering that Mardi Gras had only been a few weeks before. He wondered if running security for Penny
was
hurting business. He’d have to discuss it with Jerome. There was no way he was going to allow his income to be jeopardized by a political candidate, no matter how personally endangered she was. He still had the presence of mind to thank the players for coming.

“Would you like me to call you in a day or two to set up another game?” he asked Lacey and Albert.

“Oh, my, yes,” Lacey said, with an exasperated wave. “I’m stuck here until Tuesday.”

“Leave a message,” Albert said, after checking his phone. “My wife’s got us going on some bayou tour. Night, everyone.”

Bert stopped to talk to him before heading to the elevator with the others.

“Say, what do you hear from your sister?” he asked in a low voice.

“Nothing,” Griffen said uncomfortably.

Bert regarded him sympathetically. “I’m sure she’s okay. I’ll pray for her.”

“Thanks, Bert. I appreciate it.”

Bert started to turn away, then seemed to remember something. “Don’t let this sound like I’m trying to hit you up like those politicians, but that Asian girlfriend of yours was talking to me during the Mardi Gras party about buying a car. I’ve got this little Ferrari she liked the sound of. Not trying to pressure you, but in this economy I’d love to move that vehicle.”

“Mai?” Griffen asked. “Uh, I think she went home to visit her family. I’ll make sure to ask her the next time she calls me.”

“Thanks, Griffen. See you next week?”

Phoebe sorted all the unused decks into a case along with the boxes of chips. She had a cooler on a folding cart for the food. Griffen always made sure Phoebe took the leftover buffet home with her. With two ever-hungry boys, her refrigerator was empty more often than full.

“Y’all want me to take the card bucket to the men’s shelter?” she asked. Mose had started the policy of donating the used decks, which were otherwise in good condition, for homeless men.

“Sure, if you’re going that way,” Griffen said. He had to admit that since Penny had mentioned his donation to the community, he had become more aware of the small things he did for others. Those that he had not inherited from his mentor had just come naturally to him. The altruistic streak they revealed surprised him. Before, when he had all his living expenses provided for him, he’d gleaned the maximum from every dollar and was always on the lookout for more. Now, though everything he had he earned, he found himself sharing money that was not needed for immediate expenses, and sometimes even those. It didn’t bother him; in fact, it felt good.

Bert reminded him again that he had not heard from Mai. He was concerned about her, too. Like Fox Lisa, she was formidable, but the two could not have been more different. Fox Lisa was tough in her way but a more approachable person, unlike Mai, who had much more dragon blood than Fox Lisa did. They had met during college, and like Jerome, she was older than she looked. How old, Griffen didn’t know. She had connections throughout the dragon community but was part of the coterie called the Eastern dragons. That group was his enemy—their choice, not his. Dragons tended to fight for dominance of an area. As the dragon with the most undiluted blood heritage, New Orleans was his, deeded to him by Mose, and he intended to hold on to it. He wasn’t sure where Mai stood. He wanted to know, but he no longer trusted that she would tell him the truth.

In all the fuss to find Val since Mardi Gras had ended, he hadn’t seen Mai. Automatically, he opened his phone to look for messages, but the only calls were from Jer or his uncle. She had checked out of her luxury hotel suite, leaving no forwarding information. She had answered none of the messages he had left on her phone. As she had during college, she vanished completely.

He was still angry at her, knowing that she had kept information from him that he needed to survive the attacks by the Eastern dragons who had come after him. Griffen was shocked to find how little he knew about people he had known for years. He had always thought that Mai had his best interests in mind, but that wasn’t true. He had cared about her. They’d had fun together. In his mind, he tried to separate the playful, spoiled girlfriend of his college years from the fierce, powerful Dragon Lady that he now knew her to be. It was a lot to take in.

Mai was an enigma. She had defended and helped him, but she had also betrayed him. He wondered if he would ever know where he really stood with her.

His phone rang.

“You said you wanted to talk,” a chilling male voice said over the line. Griffen recognized it immediately.

“Where and when?” he asked.

“Now. How about Pirate’s Alley?”

Griffen suddenly felt a frisson of icy fingers walk down his back. The narrow passageway was dark at that hour, and the high walls made him feel claustrophobic.

“How about the Café du Monde?” Griffen asked.

He could tell the speaker was smiling. “Well lit? More routes of escape? Fine. I’ll be there.”

Griffen
placed his chair up against an interior pole in the enormous café and tried not to look as if he was nervous. A young waitress, clothing dusted with the inevitable powdered sugar, came to take his order.

“I’m waiting for someone,” he told her, scanning the people who drifted in and out of the open-air building. He didn’t see anyone he recognized, but under the circumstances, he wasn’t sure if he would recognize his connection.

“Y’all want me to come back?”

Griffen calculated the benefit of having a cup of boiling liquid to hand, but decided that could be considered too hostile.

“Yes, thanks.” The waitress turned to the next couple to sit down.

A large, heavyset black man leaned over and nudged him in the elbow. “Say, ain’t you Griffen McCandles?”

“Yes, that’s right.” Griffen looked at him, trying to remember if he knew him from either of the Dunbar events or the Baptist church.

“My nephew Luc works for you,” the man said, with a big smile. “Thinks the world of you.”

Griffen grinned, relieved. “Glad to hear it. Luc’s a good dealer.”

“You don’t need another employee, do you? My son’s sixteen. He’s got to get some work this summer.”

“I don’t have anything at the moment, but I’ll tell Luc if I need anyone.”

“Hey, thanks, man.”

“Pass the sugar, please?” asked a middle-aged woman with diamante glasses and badly dyed brown hair at a nearby table. By the bags around her feet and the expensive camera on the chair beside her, she was a tourist.

“Sure,” Griffen said. He offered the round sugar dispenser to her. She poured a long stream into her coffee, then handed it back.

“Well, nice talkin’ to you,” the black man said, getting up. He hitched his belt under his large belly. “Gotta take a break.”

Griffen watched him go toward the café’s restroom. He felt a poke in the back. He peered around.

“Do you know what time the Cabildo opens in the morning?” the tourist asked.

“Sorry, no,” Griffen said. “I think the hours are listed on the door.”

“Oh. Okay.” She smiled and sipped her coffee.

A shadow fell over Griffen.

“It’s a good thing I’m not hunting you, or you’d be toast,” a rumbling voice said. Griffen looked up into friendly hazel eyes. The big man was back. Griffen tensed. The man’s eyes had been brown before. Griffen’s heart pounded loudly in his chest. The man smiled, showing large, brilliant white teeth. “How are you, Griffen?”

“Not so bad,” Griffen said, keeping his voice level with some difficulty. “How’ve you been, George?”

Griffen should have expected a disguise of some kind. The George, as he liked to call himself, was a shape-shifter, capable of appearing in any guise. Griffen didn’t know what he had looked like originally. He was no more human than Griffen himself. Most of the time, he seemed an ordinary, nondescript man with forgettable features. The George couldn’t be killed by any means Griffen knew, though he had tried. But the dragon hunter and his potential prey had come to a détente sometime ago. Griffen was hoping now for an alliance of sorts.

“Busy, busy, busy,” the George said, settling down at Griffen’s table. The waitress took orders for fresh coffee and a couple of plates of beignets. “But you don’t want to hear about my job.”

“No, I don’t,” Griffen admitted. Success in the George’s case meant a dead dragon. “But I have to.”

George’s eyebrows went up. He clasped the coffee mug with his big hand even though it was boiling hot, and took a deep swig.

“That’s interesting. Why?”

“My sister is missing. She’s been gone about three weeks. She hasn’t gotten in touch with me, and I’m worried about her.”

The George didn’t console him with empty assurances that Val might have gone off of her own accord. “No contract is on file in our office about Valerie McCandles, I assure you. Her disappearance has nothing to do with us. Do you have any suspicions that this is an assassination or an abduction?”

“Uh.” Griffen hesitated. He hated to inform George that another dragon was on the way, but he had no doubt that was at the heart of her disappearance. “I hope it’s an abduction. Val’s pregnant. She’s gotten chummy with, er, the father’s mother.”

“Melinda Wurmley.” George nodded. He cocked his head at Griffen’s surprise. “She’s about as subtle as a nuclear explosion. She hasn’t been shy about spreading the news that she’s going to be a grandmother. We keep tabs on as many of you as we can. I wondered why Nathaniel went to Africa. Mumsy sent him out of town.”

“To protect him from me?”

“From Valerie, I would assume,” George said. “You’re formidable, but Val will one day be terrifying. She might be a target, but not at present. A baby opens the field further, though. A pure-blood baby, or nearly so. A tempting prize for many parties.” He eyed Griffen speculatively. “Yes, you’re right to be concerned, but she and her offspring aren’t in any danger from us. We only work by contract.”

“What if you had a contract?” Griffen asked, drawing pictures in the powdered sugar on the table.

“On your sister?” George’s eyes widened.

“To find her,” Griffen corrected him. “To get her back here safe and sound, with her child. You have resources I don’t. At the moment, I have absolutely no idea how to track her. But that’s what you do. You find dragons.”

“And kill them,” George reminded him.

“Not always. I’m still here. And I want Val back alive.”

“What if she doesn’t want to come?”

“I’d want to hear that from her directly. I would have to believe that she wasn’t under any compulsion, magical or otherwise.”

“Fair enough,” George said. “Can you afford our rates?”

Griffen was frank. “I doubt it. I’d have to owe you. If you let me work out a payment plan, I will keep up with it.”

“Well,” George said, “we know where you live.”

Griffen gulped. The George smiled.

“A little hunter humor there. No offense. I have to check with the office, but I see no reason not to take the contract. There’s only one condition.”

“What?”

The George leaned across the table, his assumed bulk menacing. “We have the right to defend ourselves if threatened. Collateral damage is possible. You are not responsible for it, but if we need to take measures, we will.”

“Wait a minute, you’d kill . . . ?” Griffen had a mental picture of Melinda, Lizzy, and her brothers lying in pools of blood. In spite of his difficult history with them, he was horrified.

George held up his hand. “I told you, we don’t freelance. But you do not get to warn our quarry. The idea is to go in and out, achieving the objective as swiftly and as accurately as possible. Nothing more, nothing less. If you feel you have to warn someone, I am your first telephone call. I’ll take care of eventualities and changes in plan. Not you. This is life and death, Griffen. I expect to hear from you at once if Valerie returns on her own.”

“It’s a deal,” Griffen said. He hesitated.

“Good enough. We will bill you.” The George tilted his head. “Something else on your mind?”

“I’ve had . . . some intelligence from a source I can’t tell you that another dragon is in danger,” Griffen said. “Penny Dunbar.”

“Are you asking me if a contract has been taken out on
her
?”

“Yes.”

“You can’t expect me to reveal confidential dealings that have nothing to do with you.”

“They do!” Griffen said. The hunter raised one eyebrow. “I’m . . . obligated to help make sure nothing happens to her. I don’t want to become ‘collateral damage’ if you’re out to get her.”

The George fixed his greenish brown orbs on him. They looked less human than ever. “I can’t tell you if she is a target.”

“But . . .”

“But it’s none of my business if she’s not a target,” the George finished. He took a big, square beignet from the top of the pile and bit into it. He chewed slowly and deliberately, swallowing the first bite before taking another.

“Are you saying that’s the case?” Griffen asked.

“In truth, I say nothing,” the hunter said. He ate three beignets in a row, washed down with plenty of coffee, while Griffen puzzled that out.

“I think . . . maybe . . . that I have nothing to worry about,” Griffen began, tentatively.

The George’s poker face was almost as good as his. “That is your conclusion.”

Griffen wondered just what cards he was holding. “I am going to act as if it is, but I take nothing for granted.”

“Prudence is a wise course.”

Griffen made a face at George’s linguistic circumlocutions. He thought hard before asking the next question. “Have you ever heard of Reginaud St. Cyr Duvallier?”

That made the George’s eyebrows go up. “Yes, indeed. We try not to deal with him.”

Griffen almost whistled.

“That’s a relief!”

“He doesn’t need us.” The George considered him carefully. “He is a resourceful man and a dangerous one. I don’t need to warn you to look out where he’s involved.”

“No,” Griffen said. “I’ve met him.”

“Are you his target?”

“I’m not, but I know someone who might be.”

“That acquaintance may be more short-lived than you think, then.” The George cleaned his hands carefully with a paper napkin. “We’re done for the time being. You won’t hear from me again unless there is a development.” He rose and dusted off his brown corduroy pants.

“Why do I feel as if I’ve just made a deal with the devil?” Griffen asked wryly.

The big man winked at him.

“You’re in the right city for it. But I feel the same way, Griffen McCandles. This
was
unusual. But you are an unusual dragon.”

The George stepped out of the brightly lit pergola onto the dark pavement. Griffen blinked. In between one step and another, the shape-shifter seemed to vanish.

“My!” said the voice of Dorothy Gale in his memory. “People come and go so quickly around here!”