Dragons Wild (6 page)

The French Quarter was an unending sideshow of tastelessness. It was steamy by day and seamy at night.

Griffen fell in love with it immediately.

The place was incredible enough to pull him somewhat out of his brooding and self-doubts. Failure to change into a dragon, not to mention his troubles coming to grips with the whole situation, faded to the back of his mind as he reveled in his new surroundings. Six blocks wide by roughly thirteen blocks long, it was a world unto itself.

To some, particularly the tourists, it was a Disneyland for adults. Narrow streets lined with old buildings, overhung with flower-bedecked balconies; half-hidden courtyards with picture-book gardens and fountains; antique shops and boutiques mixed with T-shirt shops and adult specialty stores; every corner turned brought new sights and contradictions.

Some tourist towns advertised their scenic nature. When one actually visited them, however, it would be readily apparent that unless one found the exact spot the publicity photo was taken from and hunkered down at precisely the right angle, the scenic wonders would only be visible from between the hotels and office buildings.

Such was not the case in the Quarter. As one walked the streets, the eye and mind were captured again and again by small wonders; the “gaslight” street lamps, the hidden courtyards with flower beds and fountains, the old buildings with their cracked plaster and ferns growing out of the walls, and, of course, the Mississippi River.

While he experienced it, he couldn’t prevent a vague feeling of regret. If Griffen had managed to visit New Orleans while he was still in college, he might have been able to enjoy it more. Now, with worries pressed down upon him, he felt more overwhelmed than anything. There was so much in the Quarter to be overwhelmed by.

Then there was the music. It was next to impossible to escape the music in the Quarter even if one wanted to. In addition to the expected blues and Dixieland, there were Cajun and zydeco fiddles and accordions, Chicago blues, piano bars, Irish folk music, rock clubs, and even country/western hangouts. The jukeboxes in the various clubs featured anything from Glenn Miller to Billy Holiday to Janis Joplin to Frank Sinatra to Dr. Hook and the Medicine Show to The Stones, etc., etc. The list was seemingly endless. Even the street musicians were good, supplying hammer dulcimers, Appalachian groups complete with cloggers, jazz flute or violin, and one guy who would play classical music on an array of water filled brandy glasses.

Food was something Griffen had never really concentrated on. Growing up, his diet had consisted mostly of institutional food and restaurant fare, the latter being mostly Chinese or German. It seemed that in New Orleans, food was almost a religion. At the very least, it was a major pastime right along with drinking and partying. There were almost as many restaurants in the Quarter as there were bars…which was to say a lot. Along with the upscale Creole and Cajun local food, there were an assortment of other ethnic dining opportunities present, including Chinese, Japanese, Siamese, Tai, Italian, Mexican, and Greek.

Nor were the low-end diners neglected, as there were delis, gyros shops, and the traditional KFC/Pizza Hut fast food assortments. What was more, to Griffen’s delight, many places delivered directly to your door and would also provide groceries, cigarettes, a newspaper, and a pint of liquor if you added it to your order. All in all, it was a marvelous place to sleep late, order a brunch delivered while letting the world come slowly into focus, and not have to face the world until you were good and ready. When you threw in the twenty-four hour bars, it was small wonder that the Quarter was such a favorite vacation spot for tourists.

Of course, there were other aspects of the Quarter Griffen had a bit more difficulty adjusting to.

For one thing, there was the custom of “hoo-rawing” people on the street. This consisted of hailing to someone a half block away or on a balcony, then continuing the conversation at the top of your lungs until at least pleasantries were concluded, and often until the latest gossip had been exchanged. As someone who was accustomed to conversing in normal speaking tones, Griffen found this practice vaguely unnerving.

A bit more ominous was the vague feeling of danger that settled over the streets after the sun went down.

Since his normal activities while in school had included countless late-night poker games, Griffen was used to watching his back when he walked alone on the off chance that one of the other players decided to try to recover his losses in ways that did not involve skill with cards.

In the Quarter, however, with its round-the-clock bars and steady flow of drunken tourists, it was apparent to the most casual eye that there was a thriving cottage industry of muggers, shakedown artists, and hustlers, ever ready to separate the unwary from the contents of their wallets, purses, and/or pockets. While the main drag of Bourbon Street was well lit and closely policed, a mere block off that thoroughfare and one was on their own. People tended to watch the other pedestrians as they walked, and were quick to change sides of the street or to duck into an open bar if they didn’t like what they saw coming toward them.

Griffen was particularly distressed by the terrain in this claustrophobic community. The campus and small college town that had been his old stomping grounds were honeycombed with alleys, doorways, and shortcuts that one could duck into or through at the least sign of trouble. In the Quarter, by contrast, all the side streets were narrow and one-way with parking allowed only on one side. What was worse, all the buildings were built flush with the street offering no cover at all. Openings into courtyards or passages between apartment buildings all had locked gates topped by daunting coils of barbed or razor wire to discourage casual entry. Overall, during his late-night prowls, it gave Griffen the same feeling of security as a rabbit would feel on a cut-over field with hawks circling. He made a mental note that, if the feeling persisted, he would have to talk to Jerome about the wisdom of carrying a firearm.

He kept thinking, what if something serious came at him. There was nowhere to hide from someone truly pursuing him. Even the bars that one could duck into had open fronts and many windows. The constant patrol by local police gave some solace, but not enough. If something went wrong, someone really out for a dragon, all a policemen might do was fill out the paperwork afterward.

Still, all this was not enough to detract from Griffen’s enjoyment of the Quarter. By the end of a week he had a good feel for the layout of the streets, and he had even found a bar to frequent that was more local service industry than tourist. It was a little Irish pub (that rarely if ever played Irish music) two blocks off Bourbon. It had two coin-operated pool tables that were surprisingly well maintained and had a good selection of Irish whiskey including Griffen’s personal favorite, Tullamore Dew. More important, it seemed to be a regular hangout from an interesting assortment of attractive young ladies in their twenties and thirties who did not seem at all adverse to striking up a conversation with a newcomer that went beyond “May I take your order?”

He was sitting at the bar there one night, idly watching a closely contested pool match, when his cell phone went off. He glanced at the caller ID, more for show than anything else as there were only two people who currently had his number, then flipped it open.

“Hey, Jerome. What’s up?”

“You got anything planned for tomorrow? During the day?”

“Nothing special. Why?”

“I’ll swing by in the morning around noon and pick you up.”

“Okay. What’s the deal?”

“Figure it’s time to take you shopping.”

“So what’s wrong with the way I dress?”

Griffen was mock protesting as Jerome led the way down the stairs from his second-floor apartment in the slave quarters. In the back of his mind, however, he had a horrifying image of Jerome outfitting him in some flashy pimp outfits.

“Blue jeans and T-shirts may be fine for a college boy who’s hustling card games,” Jerome said. “For what you’re going to be doing down here, though, your wardrobe definitely needs an upgrading.”

They reached ground level, but instead of heading off across the courtyard, Jerome stopped in front of Valerie’s door and rapped lightly on the frame. Almost at once the door opened and Griffen’s sister stuck her head out.

“Hi, guys!” she said. “Hang on, I’ll be with you in just a couple more minutes.”

“How come we’re taking Val along?” Griffen asked after she disappeared.

“Couple reasons,” Jerome said. “First of all, I thought she might enjoy doing a little shopping herself. Second, women usually have a better eye for clothes than men, so she can help us out.”

Jerome glanced at Griffen and gave him a quick wink.

“Third, having her along will keep you from worrying that I’m going to dress you up like a pimp.”

Griffen flushed slightly, then laughed.

“Okay. You caught me on that one,” he said. “Seriously, though, what kind of clothes are we looking for?”

“In case you haven’t noticed, you can tell a lot about people by how they dress…especially in the Quarter,” Jerome said, leaning against the wall. “Mostly, we’ll be working on what we don’t want you to look like. Like I said, the way you’ve been dressing, you look like some college kid in from LSU to whoop it up on Bourbon Street. That’s not good.”

“Of course, there are some other looks to steer clear of. Dark slacks and a white tuxedo shirt marks you as service industry…either a waiter or a high-end bartender. Loose, baggy pants and comfortable shoes will have people thinking you’re a cook. If you wear a suit or a sports coat, you’ll either be some kind of a businessman or a conventioneer…which is the same thing but on a tighter time table.”

Jerome shot another sideways glance at Griffen.

“Of course, the best dressers…the ones who pay the closest attention to fabric and cut…are the gay guys. Lord knows we have enough of those in the Quarter. By and large pretty good people, but you probably don’t want to be mistaken for one.”

“So what kind of look are we trying for?” Griffen said, starting to get interested in the proceedings.

Jerome shook his head.

“That’s the problem,” he said. “I don’t rightly know. There aren’t many guidelines for how you should dress. We don’t want you to look preppie, but you can’t look like you’re shopping cut-rate either. I guess that’s what this whole expedition is going to be about…figuring out what kind of image you should have and how to express it in clothes.”

That was the start of one of the strangest afternoons of Griffen’s life. While he had occasionally shopped for a shirt or a new jacket, it was nothing like when Jerome and Valerie led him on a frenzied safari through the New Orleans clothes jungle.

There were three big shopping centers within an easy walk of the Quarter: the upscale Orleans Plaza perched across from the casino on the edge of the Quarter, the Riverwalk with its strolling jazz bands and magnificent view of the Mississippi, and the Orleans Center near the Superdome. All three had to be cruised and perused before his guides and coaches were satisfied.

Griffen was quickly numbed by the parade and swirl of names and brands as Jerome and Valerie swept him from one changing room to another. J. Riggings, Banana Republic, Tommy Hilfiger, Rockport, all danced by him in a dizzying array, occasionally punctuated by Jerome saying, “We’ll take these two…he’ll wear this one.”

When Griffer tried to comment on the extent of their shopping venture, Jerome just laughed.

“This is nothing, Grifter,” he said. “Be thankful you missed being here for carnival, when shopping really gets crazy…especially the women and their ball gowns. Just think of this as practice.”

As their trek progressed, Griffen’s current outfit metamorphosed noticeably. Toward the end, he could not help but notice that the sales personnel were getting much more attentive and deferential toward him. Of course, that might have been affected by the growing number of shopping bags they were accumulating as they went.

Griffen himself was becoming more and more enamored of his new ensemble. A pair of comfortable walking shoes, a must in the Quarter, had replaced his old, battered running shoes. His blue jeans had given ground to a pair of lightweight wool slacks, and instead of a T-shirt, he was now wearing a raw silk shirt with a slight drape to the sleeves. It was still a casual outfit, but Griffen felt noticeably classier just wearing it. He mentioned this to his guides, and they both smiled at him.

“You’re looking really good, Big Brother,” Valerie said. “We should do this more often.”

“You’re getting there, Grifter,” Jerome confirmed. “Get used to wearing these clothes, and in a few days we’ll go see Mose. In the meantime, wear that outfit into that little Irish bar you’ve been hanging out at and see if the ladies don’t sit up and take notice.”

“You know where I’ve been hanging?” Griffen said, a little taken aback.

“I like to keep track of things,” Jerome said. “You’ll see. The Quarter’s a whispering gallery. Not hard to keep track of who’s who and what’s going on.”

Whether it was his new clothes, or simply that he had been frequenting the same local bar for over a week, Griffen noticed that it was easier to start conversations than it had been when he first arrived. More and more often, people would recognize him and wave hello when he came in, or wander over with a new tidbit of gossip, or pick up the threads of an earlier conversation they had had with him.

He was pleasantly surprised at how well-read the various people he talked to were. Oh, there was the customary sports talk that went on in any bar, and a certain amount of cross talk that went on about movies and television shows, but there were also conversations about books people were reading or passing back and forth. He had envisioned himself coming to an intellectual wasteland, and was delighted to be proved wrong.

One conversation he had was particularly memorable if for nothing else than what it lead to.

It was with a lanky young man a few years older than Griffen with shoulder-length dark hair and wire-frame glasses who went by the unlikely nickname of Bone.

It started simply enough, with someone making a comment on the movie that was being shown on one of the bar televisions. Someone came up with the inevitable comparison of the movie to the book it was based on, and the conversation was on. Other books-to-movies were recalled and compared, everyone having their own opinion as to the relative merits of each. By the time it died down, it was clear that Bone and Griffen were the two most knowledgeable on movies, though often their opinions differed widely. Still, they each respected the other’s expertise and were delighted to find a fellow aficionado to interact with.

Each bought the other a drink or two, and the conversation drifted into their own backgrounds. Griffen had mentioned that he was new in town, but Bone, waved it off.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “Most people who live and work in the Quarter are from somewhere else. I came down here from San Francisco, myself. Damn few of the current locals were born and raised here.”

He paused to take a long swallow of his rum and Coke.

“What you don’t realize until you’ve been down here for a while,” Bone continued, “is what a small community the Quarter really is. We have droves of tourists that are in and out of here every week wandering through the bars and shops, but they’re just window dressing. In short order, you’ll realize that you know damn near everyone who works in the Quarter by sight, if not by name. Every flower peddler, strip bar shill, carriage driver, street entertainer, and Lucky Dog vendor…you name it, we all know each other and wave ‘hello’ when we pass on the street.”

“I’ve noticed a bit of that already,” Griffen said.

“You don’t know the half of it,” Bone said. “Let me tell you, I had only been down here for about three months, and one night at about one in the morning, I was cutting up Orleans about a half block short of Bourbon. These three big, football-jock types stopped me and asked how to find Cafe Du Monde. That was no big deal, and I told them, ‘Straight ahead to the corner, then turn left, then right at the next corner and cross Jackson Square. It’s right there. You can’t miss it.’”

He paused and grinned at the memory.

“The thing is, in the time it took me to say that, two of the biggest, ugliest shills from in front of the strip joints came up out of the dark behind them, looked at me
over their heads
, and asked, ‘These guys botherin’ you?’ The jocks were freaking a bit, but I just said that I was giving them directions to Cafe Du Monde. The shills nodded and faded back again and everything was mellow. The point is, though, that all they saw was someone from the Quarter getting braced by three big dudes and they were right there to lend a hand. That’s the kind of place the Quarter is. We all know each other. We may not all
like
each other, but we know each other…and we form the circle with the horns out.”

“Well,” Griffen said. “It’s always nice to know someone has your back in a fight.”

Inside, though, he wondered how far that would extend. A part was wondering about whether the support structure of the area would be enough to protect Valerie if something, or someone, hurt him. Deeper, more buried, Griffen felt the need to unburden his troubles on someone who didn’t know enough to judge. Still, if he shared all to someone like Bone, or even part, of what had changed his life lately, it wouldn’t be long before everyone knew. Trust and privacy weren’t the same, especially in the Quarter.

“Oh, it goes way beyond that,” Bone said. “If a suit came in asking about you, it wouldn’t matter if you were hanging out here five or six nights a week or even if you were shooting pool on the back table. No one would know anything or admit to ever having heard your name. This has been a pirate community for over two hundred years and the people who are drawn to it aren’t real big on authority. Almost everyone has something in their background they would just as soon not have catch up with them, whether it’s an ex after back alimony, a parole officer, or the IRS.”

Griffen thought about it, and began to realize why Jerome had said the Quarter would be a good place for him to hide out.

“Another thing, people down here look out for each other. There’s always someone to help you carry your stuff if you have to move, or if you don’t have a place to move to, there’s always someone who will let you crash on their sofa until you raise the money for a new place.”

Griffen shook his head.

“Sounds almost too good to be true.”

Bone stared at him, then set down his drink.

“For a minute there,” he said softly, “it almost sounded like you just called me a liar.”

“Whoa there, Bone,” Griffen said, holding up a restraining hand. “If that’s how it sounded, I apologize. All I meant to say was that what you’re describing is a lot different from where I just came from.”

“And where is that, if you don’t mind my asking?” Bone said, slightly mollified.

“Up north,” Griffen said. “Michigan to be exact. Little college town named Ann Arbor. Home of the University of Michigan Wolverines…the team that can’t win a Rose Bowl.”

“Michigan? No kidding?” Bone said, all traces of his earlier annoyance vanishing. “Com’on. There’s someone I want you to meet.”

Grabbing up his drink, Bone led the way to the other end of the bar where an older man with his long hair in a ponytail sat chatting with a young redheaded woman.

“Excuse me, Maestro,” Bone said. “I just found another Michigander. Thought you’d like to meet him.”

The man turned and ran a curious glance over Griffen. At first Griffen figured him for his midforties, then noted the wrinkles around his eyes and added another decade to his estimate.

“Griffen, this is Maestro,” Bone said. “He’s from your neck of the woods, except he moved down here about fifteen years ago. Maestro, this is Griffen…late of Ann Arbor.”

For a moment, Maestro’s features froze and his eyes swept Griffen from head to foot. Then he smiled and extended his hand.

“How’s the team this year?” he said as they shook hands.

“Too early to tell,” Griffen said. “Ask me again in August.”

As he spoke, he wondered about the subtle reaction his name had gotten from Maestro. The answer was quick in coming.

“The name’s ‘Griffen,’ right?” Maestro said, still smiling. “Do you by any chance know a guy named ‘Mose’?”

Griffen hesitated. Jerome had warned him not to let anyone know where he was living, but nothing had been said about keeping his purpose in town a secret. Still, he wasn’t wild about his name being recognized already. If Maestro were a threat…or an assassin, but no. Bone had known him, that made him a local, with all the many levels that “local” implied in these parts.

“Actually, we haven’t met yet,” he said cautiously. “But he’s one of the main reasons I’m down here. If everything works out right, I’ll be working with him.”

“I thought the name sounded familiar.” Maestro nodded. “Bone, can I talk with you for a second?”

“Sure,” Bone said. “Back in a second, Grif.”

The two men moved to the wall, where Maestro spoke to Bone in quiet undertones. Griffen was sure he was the subject of conversation, but had no idea as to what was being said. He hadn’t often been cut out of a conversation like that. Like he was an outsider who had no business being there. Though at least part of that was true. He was just starting to build up a bit of indignation, and paranoia, when a voice distracted his thoughts.

“So, new in town?”

It was the little redhead that Maestro had been speaking with. She was about Griffen’s age with medium-length auburn hair that she had back in a hair clip.

“I thought I had seen you in here a couple times this last week. I’m Lisa…well, Fox Lisa. There are so many of us named Lisa in the Quarter we need nicknames so people know which Lisa they’re talking about…like guys named Joe or Robert.”

He had noticed her before, but only in the passing awareness any man has for an attractive woman in the room. This was the first time he had seen her up close, much less spoken with her, and the effect was startling.

She had a slender build and a heart-shaped face with clear blue eyes that sparkled when she smiled, as if she were harboring an unspoken joke. She also had a nose piercing and several visible tattoos.

Griffen knew he was in trouble. She was just the kind of woman he was drawn to. She also looked like five kinds of bad news, including the fact that, if she wanted to, she could probably wrap him around her little finger. He decided to set things straight before his fantasies went any further.

“Griffen,” he said, shaking her hand. “Have you known Maestro long?”

Meaning: Are you with Maestro?

“Oh, I run into him here and there. We’re just bar buddies.”

Meaning: No, we’re not attached.

He waited a moment for her to elaborate or clarify. Instead, she took a sip of her drink and smiled at him.

Big, BIG trouble.

Griffen chided himself, remembering that he was already plunging into a brand-new situation, one potentially fraught with unknown dangers. This really wasn’t the time for him to get involved with a new flame, however tempting.

“I heard you talking with Bone,” Lisa said, stepping into the silence. “It sounds like you’re as big a movie buff as he is.”

“It’s an old passion of mine,” he said with a shrug. “Things are always clearer and more easily resolved in movies. I guess the romantic in me is drawn to that.”

“Well, I happen to have one of the biggest collections of videos and DVDs in the Quarter.” Lisa smiled. “And my apartment’s only a block and a half from here. Maybe we could watch a movie together.”

Griffen felt his resolve weaken.

“That would be pleasant,” he said. “When did you have in mind?”

“Actually,” she said, wetting her lips with the tip of her tongue, “I was thinking about right now.”

For a moment Griffen was taken aback, then he remembered that this was the Quarter, where people would go to a party or head for a different bar at two o’clock in the morning. Then he realized that Lisa was inviting him back to her apartment.

Looking into her bright eyes, his resolve crumbled and he smiled.

“As I said, that sounds pleasant.”

They never did get around to watching a movie.