Robert Asprin's Dragons Run (2 page)

The
whispers bubbled up as if from the very soil of Odd Fellow’s Rest Cemetery long before the dilapidated Camry passed it. Reginaud St. Cyr Duvallier sat on the stone bench outside his family’s mausoleum with his well-shod feet crossed in front of him on the wispy grass and drew a long, satisfying drag from his cigar. Cuban. He’d had plenty of cases of his favorite smokes put away in dry, cool storage long before the Bay of Pigs debacle. Had enough to last a century and then some. Some of his admirers made sure he had fresh ones these days, too, smuggled in past the Coast Guard disguised as cases of legal rum. He enjoyed the taste of the smoke on his tongue. No other tobacco in the world had the flavor, the sweetness, or the rich aroma of Cuban. It was almost as good as the taste of power. Not quite, but he liked to say so to seem humble. People liked it when you sounded humble.

“He’s in town, Mr. Duvallier,” a bloodless voice hissed in his ear. “Landed and on his way in a car.”

“Glad to hear it, Pierre,” Reginaud said, tapping off a half-inch cylinder of thick ash. It joined the dust of ages on the ground by his feet. “I hate to be disappointed. No one wants me to be disappointed, would they?”

“Nossir!” the whispers erupted again. “Never, sir! Not in a million years!”

No, they wouldn’t,
Reginaud mused.
They wouldn’t be caught
dead
disappointing him.
He chuckled at his own little joke, and the whisperers joined in.
The boy, though.
The boy ought to have come and paid his respects. The older one would make certain he did. There was too much for both of them to lose. He might have to send a few little reminders. He hadn’t been bothered with the boy before, but his attention was back now. Must be old age catching up with him. He grinned and clenched his cigar in his front teeth. That was another little joke he liked to make to himself.

“Who’s keepin’ tabs on all those other little matters?” he asked aloud.

“I just heard from my third cousin twice removed in Surrey, England,” a chirpy wave of sound informed him. Daphne Ellswood, a niece and always a good friend. Pity about that violent husband of hers, and she still wouldn’t say that her murder was his doing. Reginaud was pretty sure that was the reason she was still around, sixty years on. “He said that Mr. Perricone had a lovely funeral. A glass carriage drawn by black horses with plumes on their heads, and thirty-six cars in the procession. And such a touching graveside service. That vicar had a real pretty voice. He sounded sorrowful that Mr. Perricone had gone to his reward when he was still in the fullness of life.”

“Well, Mr. Perricone had it coming, I daresay,” Reginaud said. “If only he had shown a little humility, he wouldn’t have had to have a funeral so young.” He put his thumbs behind the suspenders holding up his old-fashioned trousers. The thumbs weren’t in such good shape as the suspenders, but he could replace the latter, not the former. His whole body was a study in contradictions—but, then, so was his existence.

Reginaud disliked looking glasses these days. They reminded him that even his formidable intelligence had its blind spots. He’d read the legend of the Lernean Sibyl and thought he had it all worked out when he had the rituals done over him to give him life after death, but even strong magic wasn’t proof against Time itself. His skin had turned leathery, even more than it had been when he’d been out in society and spent his leisure time in the sun. Food didn’t nourish him in the same way that it did before though he could and did enjoy it. He’d once had a potbelly, but his midsection had hollowed out, so he could see his internal organs outlined under his skin. His eyes frightened people. That, he actually enjoyed. Once in a while, he did look in a mirror to see those pits of fire glaring back at him and grinned at the sinister effect. Before, he had plain old light brown eyes, a color his late wife, Arabella, called muddy water. This was an improvement. It got people to agree with him a lot more readily, as if they were afraid something would come out of those eyes. But it was his brain they really had to fear. He hadn’t missed a trick in life and did not mean to now that he didn’t have death constantly preying on his mind.

Some nights, alone in the mausoleum, he wondered whether it had all been worthwhile, going through the transformation. He had had a pretty good life, all told, been respected and rich, had a good wife, and sons and daughters who had grown up and made him proud. But why let go if you didn’t have to? There were plenty more fields to conquer. He hadn’t been president yet, for example. Hadn’t even been governor or mayor.

Pity was, those political dreams had had to take a backseat. His slowly deteriorating appearance even made it difficult to go into town during the day. Reginaud preferred the nighttime anyhow, and he had come to enjoy being the power behind the throne instead of the target sitting in it. The best deals were made after midnight, in the back room of a bar with hot jazz playing and men hunched over a table with everything to lose.

Yessir. That did not and would never change. He could make arrangements. He had a long memory and connections going back over a hundred years. Even he found it a little strange to be dealing with the great-grandsons and -daughters of the men he had grown up with, but he could spot a resemblance a mile off. Landrieus, Carters, and Longs looked and acted the same as their ancestors. And they all wanted the same thing: power. They wanted different facets of it, time and custom allowing, but the most precious was information. Reginaud had access to plenty of that. He doled some out in exchange for favors, money, influence, and more information, which he always managed to turn to his advantage. And people were already starting to ask him about the upcoming elections. So much was at stake. He stood to make a regular little fortune on it and incur favors he could one day call in. Always paid to look to the future.

Reginaud kept tabs on everything. He even had a secretary with a modern computer-thing she lugged out to his mausoleum three times a week to update files with him. The computer had gotten smaller over the years, from the size of a suitcase to no bigger than a hardback book, and a damned sight lighter. The groundskeepers, old black men who had cared for the cemetery for decades, paid no mind to her anymore. She was just one of the regular visitors. But today she was bringing someone else with her. The timing was interesting. Two suitors for his goods. That made him feel very pleased with himself.

He heard a car’s engine and the crackle of gravel under the tires as it made the sharp turn up near the entrance to the graveyard from Canal Street. Not the little, chug-chugging Ford that Miss Nita Callaway drove. Interesting. The visitor wanted to show up in his own vehicle. Appearance mattered to him. Reginaud took a drag on his cigar and leaned back to wait.

As the long, shiny, black stretch limousine pulled up near the entrance, he clenched the remaining three inches of stogie in his front teeth and applauded. “Gotta give the man points for style. Good as a parade.”

A young black man in a captain’s cap and with a bow tie at the neck of his immaculately pressed short-sleeved shirt got out of the driver’s seat and ran around to open the right-hand door at the back of the extended vehicle. Nita swiveled to get her feet on the ground. Always a lady. The young man took her hand and helped her to stand up.

Her light café-au-lait skin made Northerners call her Creole though that name properly belonged to the descendants of the French and Spanish settlers of Louisiana territory. Miss Callaway wore a little white blouse over a knee-length blue skirt, and a cardigan sweater the same shade. Reginaud smiled. She always took the effort to look nice. He had given her a pretty little pearl pin that she wore on her left lapel high enough that to glance at it wasn’t rude. He had plenty of jewelry and other trinkets he could have given her, but she was modest in her wants. Reginaud never pushed her to accept anything that’d make her uncomfortable. It’d be hard to find someone else like her. She was hardworking, honest, and discreet, plus she accepted what he was without comment. Her hair had turned from dark brown to light brown shot with gray over the years, but her face was still unlined. Perhaps she had gone in for a touch of magic herself. He’d gladly pay for it if she wanted it. She was an excellent secretary and a true lady.

The visitor climbed out behind her and brushed himself down, clearly uncomfortable to be standing in a graveyard. He was a white man about fifty years of age, light brown hair graying at the temples. His dark blue suit was nearly as expensive as Reginaud’s but didn’t fit as well. He must have put on, Reginaud estimated, maybe twenty extra pounds since he had bought it. His belly strained against the ostrich-skin belt that held his pants up. So there was vanity in play. That was another piece of information that Reginaud could use in their negotiations. The man glanced at Reginaud, who crinkled his eyes over a friendly smile, then opened them up and let him have it.

At the sight of his sunken, fiery orbs, Mr. Sandusky almost fainted right there among the tombstones.

Had to give him credit, though. After a tottery step or two and a couple of deep breaths, he visibly steeled himself and approached Reginaud with his hand out. What he wanted, he wanted real bad.

“Mr. Duvallier, a pleasure. I’m Albert Sandusky.”

Reginaud grasped the outstretched hand. The younger man’s skin was soft, as if he never did any heavy work. He recoiled at the feel of Reginaud’s fingers.

“Mr. Sandusky, good to make your acquaintance. Have a seat.” Reginaud patted the bench beside him. He waved the stub of his smoke. “Want a cigar?”

Sandusky wavered. He had ruddy, thick lips in a pale face. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he gulped. Couldn’t hide the nervousness. Reginaud was enjoying having the upper hand.

“Er, not at the moment, sir. I was hoping that you would accept my hospitality and join me for lunch in town. Er,” Sandusky eyed him nervously. “You do eat, don’t you?”

“Why, I sure do! Love good food. I’d be most pleased to join you.”

“Would you . . . do you . . . mind coming in my car?”

Reginaud stood up and fastened the center button of his jacket. “Mighty nice of you. It’s been a while since I took a limousine ride, especially one where I was sitting up.”

Sandusky gasped. Chuckling, Reginaud clapped him on the back.

“Just joshing you, son. I like a good joke. Don’t you?”

“Er, yes. Yes, I do. I mean, a joke.”

“That’s fine. Where we goin’?”

“The Court of Two Sisters?”

“You askin’ me or tellin’ me?”

“Er, tellin’—telling.”

“That’s fine. My favorite restaurant. All aboard, then, huh?”

Mr. Sandusky nodded, and the chauffeur leaped to open the rear door.

Reginaud waited as Nita slid into the seat and scooched over to where her secretarying bag was lying on the floor. He followed, looking approvingly at the sleek leather seats gleaming with the polish of the truly expensive. Not a rental, then, but the property of the man himself. That meant real money and pride in his position. Another useful couple of facts. With regret, he discarded what was left of his stogie. He never smoked in an interior room where ladies were present, and a closed car counted, especially to Miss Callaway. Nita would never have said a word, but she’d have thought it at him, and she had some mighty loud thoughts that came out of her eyes. Reginaud held on to the door frame and boosted himself into the interior. Smelled nice in there, too.

Nita flipped open the little computer thing and put it on his lap. The list of messages was a long one. Somehow, she arranged it so the important ones were at the top instead of lined up by date.

“The first three are urgent, Mr. Duvallier,” Nita said. She didn’t point at the messages. That was unladylike. “I’d appreciate it if you’d answer those right away. The first one’s been waiting a solid month. Please stop ignoring it. The next eight are . . . requests. The rest are begging letters and solicitations. Nothing of any importance.”

Reginaud did a quick scan of the names in the last-named category. He was amused to see names of old rivals and associates sprinkled among the strangers. He rightly enjoyed wielding the
DELETE
key.

“Hah!” he said, with a cackle, consigning Laszlo Peary to the outer darkness. An uncomfortable shifting on the expensive leather reminded him they weren’t alone. He glanced up with a wry smile. “Excuse me, Mr. Sandusky. Just one of those little pleasures. Wish I’d had one of those in the old days. Wiping people out with one push of a finger, no bullets needed. Very satisfying.”

For the first time, Sandusky returned the smile. “I quite agree, Mr. Duvallier. May I . . . may I ask you a question?”

“The air’s free, son.”

“Mr. Duvallier, are you open to our proposition?”

Reginaud settled back against the lush upholstery, the laptop warm on his bony knees. “Don’t believe I’ll tell you. Not just yet anyhow. Let’s get us a drink or two and get to know one another. Meantime, I’d like to enjoy the ride.”

Reginaud rested his elbow on the back of the plush seat. He waved away the laptop computer and admired the scenery. New Orleans had changed for the better since his younger days. The automobiles, now, they were so sleek and fast compared with the boxy models he had learned to drive. Sandusky busied himself with the wet bar, serving drinks to his guests. Nita had a very diluted white-wine spritzer. Reginaud admired the rich gold of the cognac in the balloon glass poured for him. Sandusky took a solid belt of bourbon for himself. A black convertible went by, top down in spite of the drizzle. The driver and passengers, both in their twenties, looked carefree and pleased with themselves.

“What do you think, Albert? Can you picture me behind the wheel of a Mercedes E-class? Fine set of wheels.”

“Whatever you say, sir,” Sandusky said, uneasily. Reginaud drank down the first brandy as if it were water. The fire going down his throat felt good, very good. An excellent year. A quality year. He extended the empty glass for a refill. The visitor stared at him, then hastily poured more. “Should you drink it that fast, sir?”