Dragons Wild

“Keep talking,” Harrison said.

“Well, I’ve picked up a rumor that I’ve been targeted by someone in Homeland Security. A guy by the name of Stoner. Word is that he’s looking for me and might use his federal clout to have law enforcement across the country help him find out where I am and what I’m doing.”

The detective leaned back and cocked his head.

“Exactly what have you done to earn that kind of heat?”

“I really don’t know, sir,” Griffen said as sincerely as he could manage. “I just graduated from college about a month ago. Other than running a few card games while I was in school to pick up some pocket money, and this thing I am doing now with Mose, I can’t think of a single thing that would warrant that kind of attention. That’s part of what makes me nervous.”

Not as nervous as the George made him, but at least it was clear that Stoner and George were unconnected. Their styles seemed far too different.

“Again,” Griffen continued, “I’ve never experienced it, but I’ve heard that once the Feds get a bee in their bonnet about someone, it’s hard to get them to let go. One version I’ve heard is that Stoner might try to say I should be watched for suspected terrorist involvement.”

“Terrorist?” Harrison snorted. “Yeah. Suddenly since 9/11 every penny-ante pissant they want to mess with gets the terrorist label slapped on. But a terrorist poker game. I’ll admit, that’s a new one.”

He stared at Griffen for a long minute, then got to his feet.

“All right, McCandles,” he said. “I’ll keep an ear open. Just don’t get in the habit of asking for favors. Got it?”

“Got it,” Griffen said. “Thanks, Detective.”

“Don’t mention it,” Harrison grunted. “Please!”

“You did what?”

“I asked him for a favor,” Griffen said into his cell phone.

“Detective Harrison? Harry the cop?” Jerome’s voice came back to him over the phone. “I should have warned you about him, Grifter. If there are three cops in the entire city of New Orleans who hate our operation and having to lay off it, they’d all be him. Finding a way to bust us up would make his entire incarnation.”

“I don’t know,” Griffen said casually, smiling as he did it. “He seemed reasonable enough to me.”

“Detective Harrison? Are we talking about the same guy? Big white biker-type dude? Looks like a circus bear gone bad?”

“That’s him.”

“Maybe you’d better tell me about this conversation from the top.”

Griffen complied, starting with Harrison sitting down at his booth and ending with his request about Stoner.

When he was finished, there was a long moment’s silence.

“That might do it,” Jerome said at last. “If there’s anything Harrison hates more than our protected gambling operation, it’s having Feds come traipsing around what he considers to be his private turf. Particularly if they don’t bother to check in first.”

“Yeah, and somehow I didn’t think our first meeting was the right time to ask his thoughts on the possibility of a professional killer named George being on my trail.”

“Yeah, why don’t you wait till the second date for that sort of thing, Grifter. Or, ya know, maybe never would be a better idea.”

“Probably right. So, you think he’ll do it?” Griffen said.

“Fifty-fifty chance,” Jerome said. “If nothing else, it might give him something to focus on except us for a while. All in all, I don’t see a downside to this.”

“Just thought you should know,” Griffen said.

“Yeah. Grifter? Remember when we were talking about luck and instinct?”

“Yeah?”

“I’d say you’re giving them both a real workout.”

Twenty

Griffen was shooting pool at the Irish pub as he waited for Fox Lisa to get off work. He had never been much of a pool shooter in college, but had started taking the game up since arriving in New Orleans. Much of the social life in the Quarter revolved around the clubs, and one of the main pastimes and subjects of conversation was pool.

In the time he had been shooting, he had noticed a marked improvement in his game, which in turn encouraged him to practice more. He had even been asked to join one of the pool-league teams, but had refused because his schedule was so uncertain. The house shooters remained friendly, however, and were more than happy to show him some drills or to advise him on the ins and outs of position play and spin.

He was just lining up what he hoped would be an easy combination shot, when a minor stir rippled through the bar, and he glanced up to check the reason.

Gris-gris had just walked in alone, and was scanning the place. When he saw Griffen, he held his hands up in a “no hassle” gesture and walked over to him.

Since everyone knew there was bad blood between the two of them, half the bar was watching closely. Some craned their necks to see better, while a few others left their seats to drift a little closer to the action.

Gris-gris stopped a few paces from where Griffen stood.

“Mr. McCandles,” he said.

“Gris-gris.” Griffen nodded back. “And it’s ‘Griffen’ or ‘Grif’ to my friends.”

Gris-gris’s face split with a wide grin.