Dragons Luck

“I have to tell him. He’s my brother, and the last thing he needs after he starts to get everything under control is me surprising him with this.”

“Exactly; right now he’s struggling. He has just started to gain proper confidence, and already burdens are being heaped onto him. This could be the very thing that overwhelms him completely,” Mai said.

“If I don’t tell him, it leaves him in danger. If Nathaniel comes back because of this, Griffen won’t have any time to prepare.”

“Why would Nathaniel come back? Even if he planned this, which I doubt, how could he know? You will worry Griffen for nothing, put his already taxed nerves even more on edge.”

“But...”

Val couldn’t say it. Keeping a secret like that from her brother would be nearly impossible. They were too close, and the strain on her would be great.

“I know it will be hard,” Mai said, and frowned. “But if you tell him, he will want to protect you. He will charge off to find Nathaniel, charge right into Melinda’s territory. This way you protect him, not the other way around.”

Valerie sank into a chair again and stared at Mai. Her mind whirled, but a part of her knew that Mai was exactly right. Between protecting her big brother and being honest with him, protection came first. She nodded.

“It’s for the best,” Mai said, and got up to hug Val again. “Trust me.”

After a moment’s silence, Mai spoke again.

“So, are you going to keep it?”

Val sighed, then shook her head.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I’m still thinking about that one.”

Five

Waiting in front of Tower Records, carrying a copy of the Times-Picayune as he had been instructed, Flynn spent his time surveying the passing crowd. Mostly they were obvious out-of-towners, suited conventioneers, and a smattering of tourists in shorts and T-shirts. Here and there were locals, including service-industry types in their tuxedo shirts and black pants, and costumed street performers, all getting ready to give their best try at moving funds from the pockets of visitors into their own. All in all, it reminded Flynn vaguely of Disneyland only without the rides.

Mostly, he was idly curious if he could spot his hired muscle before they contacted him. In the past, when he had hired rough-off artists, they fell into one of two categories. Either they were well dressed and soft-spoken with dead eyes that looked at you without seeing a person, or obvious muscle flexers, who swaggered with the knowledge that just their appearance was intimidating. For the present job, Flynn was hoping for the cold, calculating type. He had a feeling that swaggering bullyboys wouldn’t get too far with the McCandles lad.

One of the rolling boom boxes was coming slowly up the street, a dark sedan with the sound system cranked up to the point where it assaulted the pedestrians like a strong wind. A strong, noisy wind. Flynn eyed it with distaste. It was playing rap music. Of course. Not for the first time he found himself wondering why those who liked rap music felt obliged to share it with everyone in a four-block radius, while those whose taste ran to classical music were content to listen to it through the earphones of a Walkman or iPod.

To his surprise, the mobile noise pollution pulled over to the curb next to him and stopped. The passenger-side window rolled down, exposing the face of a young black man, late teens or early twenties.

“You Flynn?” The question was half-shouted over the music.

Flynn realized with dismay that this was the contact he was waiting for. For a moment, he was tempted to deny his identity and walk away. Then, with a mental shrug, he decided to go ahead with it. When in Rome.

He nodded his agreement.

“Get in the back and let’s talk.”

Opening the door to the backseat, Flynn wondered how they were supposed to talk over the racket the sound system was making. To his surprise, the driver, a thin black man even younger than the one who had first addressed him, turned the music off without being asked even before they pulled away from the curb.

“Hear tell you’re lookin’ to put the hurt on someone,” the passenger-side rider said.

“There’s someone I want made an example of,” Flynn said, carefully. “Hospitalized or dead. Doesn’t make any difference to me. If things are the same here as other places in the country, hospitalized costs more.”

That was standard for rough-off work. Just hospitalizing someone meant the musclemen had to know what they were doing. It also left the victim alive to identify them and possibly press charges. In short, it usually cost more to have someone’s arm broken than it did to have them killed.

“Either way, it’ll cost,” said the passenger.

“Cash,” added the driver.

“I know,” Flynn said. “I’ve got the money with me.”

There was a moment’s silence.

“ ’Course, we could just stick a gun in your face and take the money,” the passenger said, casually. “Save ourselves a bit of work.”

Flynn heaved a mental sigh and let his glamour flow out.