Dragons Wild (13 page)

Harrison’s face fell as the full impact of the information registered.

“Shit, I’m sorry, Griffen. Never occurred to me my computer man would be so blatant. I should have warned him to be more careful.”

Griffen shrugged with a carelessness he didn’t feel.

“What’s done is done,” he said. “What’s interesting is that Stoner said the same thing your man did…that he wasn’t interested in me and there was nothing to worry about.”

The detective’s eyes narrowed.

“He came all the way to New Orleans to tell you that personally?”

“Not only that,” Griffen said, “he had my cell phone number and knew enough to catch me on the Moonwalk at eleven o’clock in the morning. Do I need to tell you that’s not my normal prowl pattern?”

“The bastard was having you watched before he approached you,” Harrison said flatly. “He had a surveillance operation in my city and didn’t even have the courtesy to let us in on it…even after we asked.”

“Not ‘had,’ Harrison. ‘Has.’ He told me flat out that they were going to be keeping tabs on me ‘just out of curiosity.’ Isn’t that cute?”

“‘Cute’ doesn’t start to cover it,” the detective said, sliding out of the booth. “Keep your coffee, Griffen. If anything, I figure I owe you a couple for fingering you. In the meantime, we’ll just see what we can do about this ‘casual’ surveillance team the Feds are running on my turf.”

It was a beautiful evening as they emerged from Irene’s. Griffen had resisted coming out, as he was still uneasy about the idea of Stoner’s men shadowing him, but the others had insisted and, in afterthought, he had to admit that it had been one of the most pleasant evenings in his memories.

Irene’s was a small neighborhood restaurant frequented mostly by locals and a few tourists willing to wander off the beaten track, and it had a family-run feel to it. The decor was nothing to brag about, but the food had been excellent and reasonably priced.

There were only four of them, Griffen, Jerome, Valerie, and Fox Lisa, but the conversation had been easy and as enjoyable as the food. Griffen had been surprised at the range of subjects they had touched on, from books to Broadway theater, to food, to music, to the inevitable gossip of who was doing what to who in the Quarter. By now he was used to Jerome and Fox Lisa holding their own on an amazing number of topics, but Valerie had surprised him by her knowledge and depth of perception. He realized now how seldom he had actually sat down and talked with his own sister.

They lingered over coffee and dessert of bananas Foster, a flaming ice cream concoction that he had never heard of before but had just become one of his favorites. He was informed that it had been invented right here in the Quarter at Brennan’s. Their waiter, overhearing their discussion, commented, “That’s right. They invented it at Brennan’s, and we perfected it here.” That earned him a round of applause from the diners and an extra large tip.

A rare cold front had come through while they were dining, and, while it was still warm by Griffen’s standards, they walked out of the restaurant into a light fog that thickened slowly as they made their way down Chartres Street to Jackson Square. Despite the hour and the chilly damp, the Jackson Square street entertainers were still working. A hammer dulcimer player was working a small audience, flanked by several tables with tarot readers.

“That reminds me, Big Brother,” Valerie said, glancing at the readers, “did you ever find out anything about that tarot card that got slipped under your door back in Detroit?”

Involuntarily, Griffen and Jerome glanced at each other.

“Nothing definite,” Griffen said with forced casualness. “I’m still looking into it.”

Valerie had caught the glance between Griffen and Jerome, and cocked a suspicious eyebrow at her brother. Warnings about female dragons aside, Griffen still agreed with Jerome’s and Mose’s earlier advice. Sometimes ignorance was bliss. It certainly would keep Valerie from rushing toward danger.

“I still can’t believe how good the food was at Irene’s,” Griffen said, trying desperately to change the subject. “A little place like that.”

“You’ve got to get out more, Grifter,” Jerome told him, picking up on the cue. “I shouldn’t have told you about phoning out for food. You’ve been living on ho-hum junk food just like you used to up in Ann Arbor. New Orleans is a prime dining town. It’s almost impossible to get a bad meal unless you’re stupid enough to eat a Lucky Dog. Places that don’t have good food and big helpings don’t last long down here.”

A figure emerged from the fog, shuffling toward them. The reminder of the George still fresh in his mind, Griffen eyed it suspiciously for a moment, then recognized it. It was one of the street people who seemed to exist by begging money from tourists. The hair was so short and the face so wrinkled that, with its body wrapped in a shapeless jacket, for a while he had been unable to tell if it was a man or a woman. He had always brushed off advances in the past and got ready to do it again.

“Is that you, Mr. Jerome?” the figure said. “Praise Jesus. I was hopin’ to see you tonight.”

“How you doing, Babe,” Jerome said, coming to a stop. “You liking this cold weather we’ve got now?”

“Oh, I love it,” the beggar said. “Mr. Jerome, can you help me out a little? I just need another seventy-five cents to get into the shelter tonight.”

Her voice took on a slight whine, and she glanced around as she spoke. The police did not take kindly to beggars who bothered tourists in the Quarter.

“Sure, Babe,” Jerome said, passing her a bill. Griffen caught sight of the corner of the bill, and it was a five. “But you watch out for yourself now. Hear? There are folks out that will take that away from you if you give ’em half a chance.”

“Praise Jesus. Thank you, Mr. Jerome,” the lady said, backing away with a smile. “You have a nice night now. You and all your friends there.”

The fog swallowed her up as though she had never been there.

“Why do you do that, Jerome?” Griffen said.

“Do what?”

“Give money to the street people,” Griffen clarified. “I’ve seen you do it a dozen times.”

Jerome was silent for a few moments.

“Have you ever been hungry a single day of your life, Grifter?” he said finally, in a soft voice.

Griffen hadn’t, but fought off the moment of guilt.

“That isn’t the point,” he said firmly, almost as much to himself as to Jerome. “I mean, I’ve always known you as a savvy guy. Somebody would have to be pretty sharp to put one over on you, and I’d be willing to bet they never caught you with the same scam twice.”

Jerome flashed a smile.

“I like to think that’s true.”

“So how come you’re willing to give away good money just because someone walks up to you on the street and just asks for it?” Griffen pressed. “I mean, I don’t want to sound like a hard case, but somebody down here told me that begging down here is a real racket. That some of these supposed beggars pull down a good buck from sympathetic tourists. I hear some of them have their own cars that they drive down to the Quarter and park on side streets before putting on their homeless act. Aren’t there all sorts of government programs to help the homeless that our taxes are paying for? Why should we reach into our pockets again to pay for their booze or drug habits?”

“Nice to know you don’t want to sound like a hard case, Big Brother,” Valerie said sarcastically.

“Hey. That’s why I’m asking,” Griffen protested. “I know Jerome, and I know he usually has a reason for whatever he does. When I see him do something that doesn’t seem to make sense, I ask him. That’s one of the ways I learn things. Okay?”

They all walked along in silence for a while, and Griffen wondered not only if Jerome was going to ignore the question, but if he had inadvertently put a damper on the mood of the whole evening.

“I’ll tell you, Grifter,” Jerome said at last. “One of the legends…stories they tell in voodoo is how sometimes one of the gods…Changul, I think…takes on the form of a beggar and walks among normal people to test their charity. It’s a way of seeing whether people really feel compassion, or if they just pay lip service to it because the doctrine demands it.”

Griffen didn’t know what he had expected as an answer, but this one caught him by surprise.

“Come to think of it,” he said, “I think there’s something similar in Norse mythology. I think it’s Odin who is supposed to disguise himself as a…”

He came to an abrupt halt.

“Wait a minute, Jerome. Are you saying that you believe in voodoo? That you’re a practitioner?”

“Why?” Jerome said, raising an eyebrow. “Would that be a problem?”

“Well…no…I don’t know,” Griffen managed. “I guess I never gave it much thought. We’ve never talked much about religion. I guess I just never thought of you as a religious person.”

“I’d have to say you’re pretty much right on that one,” Jerome said. “Just keep in mind the difference between religion and spirituality.”

Griffen shook his head.

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to clarify that one a bit, Jerome,” he said. “I’m not sure I’m clear on the difference.”

“That’s two of us,” Valerie chimed in. “What are we talking about here?”

Jerome turned his head.

“You want to take a shot at this, Foxy Lady?” he said. “I’ve never been too good at explaining things.”

“There are a lot of very spiritual people around who are turned off by organized religions,” Lisa said. “They may be in tune with the world and believe deep down in a higher power or plan, but they are repelled by the ritualization that’s superimposed by so-called religions, particularly when the priesthood uses it to dabble in politics or for monetary gain.”

“I think it was John D. MacDonald in one of his Travis McGee novels,” Jerome said. “In it, the main character describes his view of organized religion as being marched in formation to look at a sunset.”

“That’s right,” Fox Lisa said. “For some, religion is going to church once a week and paying five dollars while paying lip service to things they don’t really believe in. For others…and I think both Jerome and I fall into this category…there are certain teachings that, while they may fall under the heading of religion, provide a code or a way of life. It’s not a matter of ‘practicing’ a religion, it’s living it day in and day out.”

“If you open yourself up to it,” Jerome said, “you’ll feel it. You know how, as each new religion gained domination, they would build their new temples on top of the places used by the old religions? That’s because there are certain focal points of energy in the world, and those who are sensitive can sense them. New Orleans in general, and the French Quarter specifically, is one of those kind of places. It practically vibrates with energy, and different people react to it differently. That’s why it’s always been a gathering point for creative people who express themselves with art or music…or theater. It’s also why we have so many people who are strongly religious or spiritual…or both.”

“Is that why everything down here is divided into parishes instead of districts?” Valerie said. “I wondered about that.”

“That’s part of it,” Jerome said, “but that’s only been because Christianity or Catholicism has been the dominant religion here for a long time. Another thing you can look at is Mardi Gras. Around the country, people think of Mardi Gras as the world’s biggest open party that runs for weeks with everyone getting drunk and flashing for beads. They miss completely that it’s a carnival and celebration for the start of Lent. I will guarantee you that on Ash Wednesday, most of the locals you’ve seen partying and working triples manning the bars and restaurants will be crowded into that cathedral right there and several dozen other churches around town for Mass.”

Griffen shook his head again.

“I don’t know, Jerome,” he said. “Like I said, we’ve never really talked about any of this before. You’ve given me a lot to think about. I always figured that if I ignored religion, it would ignore me. Isn’t there something in voodoo that says if you don’t believe in it, it can’t affect you?”

Jerome laughed.

“Actually, what they say is that if you don’t believe in it, you can’t summon the powers even with rituals or charms. Then again there are others who will tell you that just because you don’t believe in the gods doesn’t mean the gods don’t believe in you. I told you this is a focal point. Well, things that can’t be explained by science have a way of reaching out and tapping you on the shoulder down here. Wait until the first time you run into a ghost.”

Griffen and Valerie looked at each other, then looked at Jerome.

“Com’on, Jerome,” Griffen said. “Ghosts? Like white sheets and chains?”

“More like disembodied spirits,” Jerome said. “We’ve got a lot of them down here. Especially in the Quarter. Haven’t you seen those Haunted History Tours that are out on the street every night?”

“Of course,” Griffen said. “They’re hard to miss. But I always thought it was pure tourist hokum. Do you really believe in ghosts?”

“Look at it this way, Grifter,” Jerome said. “Every religion throughout time in all parts of the world have different burial customs. One thing they all have in common, though, is the basic purpose of the ritual. That is to lay the spirit to rest. As in if you
don’t
lay the spirit to rest, it will potentially hang around and cause you grief. That’s a lot of people believing essentially the same thing that can’t be explained by science. To me, that goes way beyond superstition. Think about it.”

Griffen did. For a long time after the evening was over.

Griffen spotted Jerome’s Jeep Cherokee parked on the street as he walked down Rampart. Without breaking stride, he strode up to the vehicle as his friend rolled the window down.

“Is he still in there?”

“Still there,” Jerome said. “Sitting at the back table. Tall, skinny dude with a fedora on.”

Griffen glanced at the two silent men in the backseat. They gazed back at him without expression.

“What’s with the extra talent?” he said. “I thought we agreed I would handle this personal and quiet.”

“Never said I agreed,” Jerome said. “For the record, I still think this is a bad idea. I brought along a little backup in case you’re wrong. The man usually carries, and he’s probably got some friends in there.”

“Suit yourself.” Griffen shrugged. “Just let me try it my way first.”

He turned and stared at the bar and grill. Anywhere else, it would be described as seedy and run-down. Here at the edge of the Quarter, it was about average. Taking a deep breath and blowing it out, he headed for the door.

The brightness of the afternoon sun outside barely penetrated the dimly lit interior. There were about a half dozen people, all men, scattered around the room and sitting at the bar. A small television set high on the wall behind the bar was tuned to ESPN, but no one seemed to be paying it any attention.

While nobody stopped talking or looked around, Griffen was sure that everyone in the bar was aware of his entrance. If nothing else, he was the only white person in the place.

The man he was looking for was easy to spot. Sitting alone at a back table reading a newspaper. As Jerome had said, he was a good six and a half feet tall, skeletally thin, and sported a black fedora. There was a squat butt of a cigar smoldering in an ashtray on the table, along with a half-empty cup of coffee.

The man looked up dead-eyed as Griffen approached.

“Little Joe?” Griffen said, coming to a stop, carefully keeping his hands in view.

The man took a big drag on his cigar before answering.

“I know yah, white boy?”

“My name is Griffen McCandles,” Griffen said. “I run a couple card games around town. Something has come to my attention, and I thought it would be a good idea if we talked about it. May I sit down?”

Little Joe shrugged and gestured to the chair across from him. Griffen took the indicated seat, painfully aware that it put his back to the door and the rest of the room. Keeping his concerns from his face, he took a deep breath and began.

“About a week ago, your little brother, Willie, sat in on one of my games. He had a bad night, and dropped about four hundred dollars.”

“I heard ’bout that.” Little Joe nodded.

“It happens,” Griffen said. “Some nights a man wins, some nights he loses. The problem is, I’ve been told that you’ve been talking around, telling people that Willie got taken in a crooked game. I thought I’d take the time to meet you face-to-face and ask if it’s true?”

Little Joe took another drag on the cigar.

“Which? If I been talkin ’round, or if the game was crooked?”

“I guess if you’ve been talking around,” Griffen said. “I already know the game wasn’t crooked. More important, if it’s true, I’d like to know what makes you think the game was crooked. As far as I can tell, you’ve never sat in on one of my games.”

“All I knows is what Willie told me,” Little Joe said.

“Uh-huh.” Griffen grimaced. “Tell me, Little Joe, I’ve heard you’re a pretty sharp card player yourself. Have you ever noticed that if someone wins, they’re a great card player. But if they lose, then the game’s crooked or someone was cheating.”

Little Joe flashed a quick grin.

“Yeah, you right. Had to fight my way out of the room a couple times when the losers thought my luck was a lil’ too solid.”

“Well, the fact of the matter,” Griffen said, “is that Willie isn’t that good a card player. He had no business being in that game…way out of league, betting wild against a table of better players. I’m pretty sure you already knew that. You’re a better card player than Willie is.”

“And how do you know that?”

“I try to keep track of who the better players in town are,” Griffen said. “Besides, it’s obvious just from sitting and talking with you. You give away less in normal conversation than Willie does when he’s playing cards.”

“So why’d you let him play?” Little Joe said.

“I suspected he was a weak player, but I wasn’t sure until I actually saw him play,” Griffen said. “One of our regulars brought him in and vouched for him, so there wasn’t much I could do.”

“So where does that leave us?” Little Joe said.

“It leaves us with a problem,” Griffen said. “I’d like to convince you that it was an honest game so you’ll quit saying that I run a crooked operation. Right now, though, it’s just my word against your brother’s.”

Little Joe took another drag on his cigar and leaned back.

“I’ve heard about you, Griffen,” he said. “Lots of folks say that you’re not someone to get on the wrong side of. That you’ve got some serious muscle covering you, and that you handle yourself pretty good all by your lonesome. What surprises me, and I been listenin’ real close, is that it don’t sound like you’re telling me to shut my mouth or it’ll get shut for me.”

“As I said, I’d like to convince you,” Griffen said with a smile. “Threatening you would only make it look like I was trying to pull a cover-up.”

“So, what do you have in mind?” Little Joe said, genuinely curious. “Somehow, I don’t think your plan is to just give Willie his money back.”

“As a matter of fact, for a while I considered doing exactly that,” Griffen said. “Four hundred just isn’t that much money, and if it could kill a bad rumor, it could be worth it.”

“But yah changed your mind?” Little Joe smirked.

“Correct.” Griffen smiled. “Giving the money back would be as much as admitting that we cheated him out of it. I’d be out the money and still have it being talked around that I run a crooked operation. There’s a different solution I’ve come up with.”

He patted the side of his jacket.

“I’ve got Willie’s four hundred right here,” he said. “What I propose is that you and I play for it. We both know you’re a better card player than Willie. I figure if I can prove to you that I’m a better card player than you are, it will convince you that Willie lost the money honestly.”

Little Joe eyed him narrowly.

“You’re carrying four hundred dollars in cash? Alone? In a place like this? What makes you think I won’t just take it away from you without bothering to play for it?”

“That wouldn’t prove much of anything, would it?” Griffen said. “Except maybe that you’re tougher than I am. If I read you right, you’d rather take it away from me with cards. Besides, I never said I was alone.”

Little Joe’s eyes darted around the room, then he raised an eyebrow.

“Waiting outside,” Griffen said. “Just in case I read you wrong.”

Little Joe nodded slowly.

“I don’t have no four hundred dollars on me,” he said. “If I did, I wouldn’t risk it all in a game against a player I don’t know.”

“How much do you have?”

“Lil’ over a hundred.”

“Fine.” Griffen nodded. “You put up a hundred and I’ll do the same. If you can take my hundred before I take your hundred, I’ll pass you the other three hundred as a bonus.”

Moving slowly, he pulled a new deck of cards out of his pocket and tossed it on the table.

“You seem real confident ’bout this,” Little Joe said, not reaching for the cards. “It occurs to me you’re asking me to risk a hundred of my own dollars using your deck.”

“I don’t think there’s enough light in here to see the marking if it was a rigged deck,” Griffen said drily. “If it will make you feel better, though, we can see if the bartender has a deck, or we can wait while you send someone out to buy a new deck from a place of your choice. It shouldn’t make that much difference, though. I’m going to insist that you do all the dealing. We’ll just take turns calling what the game is.”

Little Joe frowned.

“You still seem awfully sure.”

“I think I’m a better card player than you,” Griffen said with a shrug. “You don’t give away much, but it’s enough for me to beat you.”

“Then you probably know I’m still thinking it might be a better move for me to just take the money.” Little Joe smiled.

Several of the others around the bar turned around meaningfully. Though no one actually reached for anything, Griffen could clearly see bulges under coats and shirts. A trained gambler, he knew not to bet that the bulges were cell phones, not guns. Of course, there was what Little Joe had said about his reputation to handle himself.

Griffen sighed, then reached over and took Little Joe’s cigar from the ashtray. He blew on the glowing end until it was red hot, not flame, just stoking the embers. Then keeping eye contact with his opponent, he slowly ground it out in his own palm.

“I think you’d be wiser to play cards,” he said.

It took Griffen less than an hour to win Little Joe’s hundred.

The two men shook hands when they parted company.