Dragons Luck

Harrison waved at Padre as Griffen settled into the seat across from him. The young dragon certainly didn’t need to use his enhanced powers of observation to realize that Harrison was more than slightly tight.

“So, what can I do for you?” Harrison said, his words a little slurred. “The only time I see or hear from you is when you want a favor. Nobody wants to drink with a cop except other cops.”

“Are you okay, Detective?” Griffen said, genuinely concerned. “You seem a little out of it. Is anything wrong?”

“Wrong?” Harrison said, louder than was necessary. “How could anything be wrong? I’m a cop with the NOPD. We’ve got the world by the short and curlies. Ask anyone. Better yet, read the newspaper. Everybody loves us.”

Padre brought over the round of drinks. As he set Griffen’s Irish in front of him, he caught his gaze again and widened his eyes slightly in mock exasperation. Griffen understood completely and sympathized. Dealing with drunks was an unpleasant but nightly occurrence for anyone working in the Quarter. Dealing with a drunken cop in your bar, however, was a no-win scenario for any bartender.

“I was just curious,” Griffen said, pointedly ignoring the detective’s condition. “We’ve got the Halloween weekend rolling up on us. Is that a problem for you and yours? Do you have to lay on extra help or what?”

Harrison made a rude noise, blowing a short raspberry through his lips.

“Hell. It’s no big problem,” he said. “It’s like any other weekend. Just a bit more crowded, and the crazies are wearing costumes is all. Tourists getting drunk and messing with each other and the locals, same as always.”

“Well, they do keep the Quarter green,” Griffen said, trying to make light of the situation. “Tourism is one of our biggest industries down here.”

“Tourists,” Harrison said, like the word tasted bad. “Why do they call it tourist season if we can’t shoot ’em?”

“Oh, come on,” Griffen said. “They aren’t all that bad. In fact, most of them are pretty decent and well behaved.”

“Niggers, fags, and dope addicts! That’s all the French Quarter is!”

The intrusion on their discussion came from a suit at the far end of the bar. The speaker was obviously drunk and loudly lecturing his companions, who were trying vainly to quiet him down. They were obviously conventioneers, still wearing their name badges on their lapels.

Most of the late-night crowd, heavily local, pointedly ignored him. They had all heard it before.

Harrison, however, leaned out into the aisle and stared at the offending party, blinking his eyes as he tried to focus.

“Right on cue,” he said. “I may have to bend that boy a little.”

“No big deal,” Griffen said, hastily. “Padre’s got it under control.”

There was an unspoken rule in the Quarter: Let the bartender handle any altercations unless he or she specifically called for help. Even as Griffen tried to calm Harrison down, Padre came down the bar toward the trio, leaned close, and said something softly to them. Even though he couldn’t hear the words, Griffen had heard the routine often enough to know it by heart.

“Excuse me, gentlemen. I’m afraid you’ll either have to lower your voices, or I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

“Don’t worry, Mr. McCandles,” Harrison said, regaining his upright posture. “If it comes down to it, you won’t have to testify. That would be a hoot, wouldn’t it? A cop calling a professional gambler as a character witness.”

Griffen started to protest, but the situation erupted again.

“Don’t tell me to quiet down!” the drunk was declaring, shaking off the restraining hands of his friends. “And if you lay a hand on me, I’ll sue your ass and this bar for everything they got! You want me out of here? You’re gonna have to call a cop!”

Harrison was out of the booth and walking up to the man before Griffen could say anything more.

“You want a cop, mister?” he said flashing his badge. “You got one. Let’s step outside.”

The drunk gaped at the detective.

“Bullshit! You don’t look like no cop I’ve ever seen!” He turned his attention to Padre again. “Who’s this? Your boyfriend?”

Moving fast for his bulk, Harrison took the drunk backward off his bar stool and onto the floor. He had a fist cocked and ready to go, then he hesitated and took a deep breath.

Still gripping the drunk with one hand, the detective hauled him erect and set him on his feet.

“We want our visitors to have a good time when they’re down here,” he hissed, “so we’ll just call this a misunderstanding.”

He glanced at the man’s two companions.

“Take him back to the hotel and don’t let me see him on the streets until he’s slept it off.”

He shoved the drunk into the arms of his friends, who gathered him in and hustled him out the door.