Dragons Luck

That was enough to bring Griffen fully on guard. Even though no one else seemed to be paying attention. Griffen turned slightly away from the bar, freeing his legs in case he needed to move quickly. He only relaxed slightly as the door opened, and Slim walked in. He didn’t turn back to the bar.

Slim was a tall, thin man whose skin always looked darker because of the pristine white suit he always wore. He was one of the Quarter’s street performers. A living statue, with red, white, and blue stripes on his tie and the band of his tall, white top hat. He was also one of the few humans gifted with the ability to control animals.

As soon as he was in the bar, the dogs pounced. Griffen had experienced similar reactions, and expected Slim to calm them as he tended to. Instead, Slim plopped down onto the barroom floor and spent several minutes scratching and rolling with the excited beasts. The dogs’ owners glanced down to see who was riling up their pets, then went back to their drinks with wry smiles.

The play stopped so abruptly that another lull rolled through the bar. If Griffen hadn’t been watching closely, he would have missed the slight change in Slim’s expression completely. One moment the man had been covered in tail-wagging dogs, the next he was alone. Each canine went back to its owner’s side and lay down, as calm as it had been excited. All from what appeared to Griffen as an instant’s concentration. Slim’s brow barely furrowed.

Slim stood up and brushed off his suit. He nodded to the bartender, who didn’t seem to mind that the dogs had gotten the first greeting. Then he picked up the large, white bucket that he used to collect his tips and headed toward Griffen.

“Can I have some words with you, Mr. Griffen?” Slim said, nodding to one of the tables set a bit apart from the bar.

Griffen had to admit to himself that Slim’s entrance had impressed him. Particularly the subtlety, the complete lack of interest anyone had shown. Griffen’s own animal control was a skill he was still developing. Being a dragon seemed to give him a boost in strength and power, but his control was still shaky. Slim was a natural.

“Sure, Slim.”

Griffen gathered up his drink and went over to the table as Slim reached into his bucket for a few ones to buy his own drink.

“Tell me something, Slim,” the younger man said, as the entertainer joined him. “How come nobody bats an eyelash when you do something like that?”

Slim looked over at one of the sleeping dogs, which twitched lightly in its sleep. It seemed to calm under the man’s attention.

“Well, hell, this here’s the French Quarter. ’Sides, everyone does know ol’ Slim has a way with chillen and animals.”

“Then why don’t you use your talents in your act? Bring a dog or bird or something into the bit, and the tourists will eat it up.”

“Why don’t you do some fire-breathin’ in Jackson Square? Tourists will eat it up.”

Griffen was taken aback by the sudden harshness in the man’s tone. He reminded himself Slim had threatened him before. That he was, in his own way, a dangerous man. Even with his own powers to protect him, Griffen felt somewhat vulnerable.

“Some things ain’t given to us to make the tourists laugh. Or to fill the pockets, ya hear?” Slim went on.

“Sorry, Slim, I didn’t mean any offense,” Griffen said.

“Well . . . no, guess you didn’t, Mr. Griffen. Sorry, it’s a sore spot. Not everyone thinks the same way ’mongst folks like me. I remember this here fine gal in New York did just that. Lovely girl, worked with pigeons, but didn’t hold that ’gainst her none. ’Course she also had squirrels. Picked pockets and the like. Gots into all sorts of trouble . . .”

Griffen let him trail off. It was the first time Slim had really shared anything personal with him. Slim seemed to shake himself, coming back from whatever memory he had drifted into.

“Anyways, touchy subject. Specially since it always comes up at the big meets. ’Spose I been bracin’ myself for when the fightin’ starts, ya know?”

“You mean at the conclave?” Griffen asked.

“Yep. Damn near forgots what I was lookin’ for you for. Got some stuff for you.”

Slim reached into his bucket again and pulled out a black folder. Griffen took it from him and looked inside. The contents looked no different than what one might receive at any convention: a map of the Quarter, a hotel map with meeting rooms marked off, a list of helpful phone numbers.

“I been helpin’ Rose out. Doin’ the stuff that it’s helpful to be fully corporeal for. All the attendees gets a folder like this. We’ll work up an itinerary as the guest list gets finalized.”

“I didn’t know you were attending, much less helping to organize things,” Griffen said.

“Well now, the other animal-control people is attendin’ this year. Since this is my home, falls to me to help things go smooth. ’Course, I sure hope I don’t end up stuck bein’ the main spokesman. We is too damned independent. I don’t want to be the one holdin’ the bag.”

“Can’t say I blame you,” said Griffen.