Dragons Wild

“The bastard was having you watched before he approached you,” Harrison said flatly. “He had a surveillance operation in my city and didn’t even have the courtesy to let us in on it…even after we asked.”

“Not ‘had,’ Harrison. ‘Has.’ He told me flat out that they were going to be keeping tabs on me ‘just out of curiosity.’ Isn’t that cute?”

“‘Cute’ doesn’t start to cover it,” the detective said, sliding out of the booth. “Keep your coffee, Griffen. If anything, I figure I owe you a couple for fingering you. In the meantime, we’ll just see what we can do about this ‘casual’ surveillance team the Feds are running on my turf.”

Twenty-four

It was a beautiful evening as they emerged from Irene’s. Griffen had resisted coming out, as he was still uneasy about the idea of Stoner’s men shadowing him, but the others had insisted and, in afterthought, he had to admit that it had been one of the most pleasant evenings in his memories.

Irene’s was a small neighborhood restaurant frequented mostly by locals and a few tourists willing to wander off the beaten track, and it had a family-run feel to it. The decor was nothing to brag about, but the food had been excellent and reasonably priced.

There were only four of them, Griffen, Jerome, Valerie, and Fox Lisa, but the conversation had been easy and as enjoyable as the food. Griffen had been surprised at the range of subjects they had touched on, from books to Broadway theater, to food, to music, to the inevitable gossip of who was doing what to who in the Quarter. By now he was used to Jerome and Fox Lisa holding their own on an amazing number of topics, but Valerie had surprised him by her knowledge and depth of perception. He realized now how seldom he had actually sat down and talked with his own sister.

They lingered over coffee and dessert of bananas Foster, a flaming ice cream concoction that he had never heard of before but had just become one of his favorites. He was informed that it had been invented right here in the Quarter at Brennan’s. Their waiter, overhearing their discussion, commented, “That’s right. They invented it at Brennan’s, and we perfected it here.” That earned him a round of applause from the diners and an extra large tip.

A rare cold front had come through while they were dining, and, while it was still warm by Griffen’s standards, they walked out of the restaurant into a light fog that thickened slowly as they made their way down Chartres Street to Jackson Square. Despite the hour and the chilly damp, the Jackson Square street entertainers were still working. A hammer dulcimer player was working a small audience, flanked by several tables with tarot readers.

“That reminds me, Big Brother,” Valerie said, glancing at the readers, “did you ever find out anything about that tarot card that got slipped under your door back in Detroit?”

Involuntarily, Griffen and Jerome glanced at each other.

“Nothing definite,” Griffen said with forced casualness. “I’m still looking into it.”

Valerie had caught the glance between Griffen and Jerome, and cocked a suspicious eyebrow at her brother. Warnings about female dragons aside, Griffen still agreed with Jerome’s and Mose’s earlier advice. Sometimes ignorance was bliss. It certainly would keep Valerie from rushing toward danger.

“I still can’t believe how good the food was at Irene’s,” Griffen said, trying desperately to change the subject. “A little place like that.”

“You’ve got to get out more, Grifter,” Jerome told him, picking up on the cue. “I shouldn’t have told you about phoning out for food. You’ve been living on ho-hum junk food just like you used to up in Ann Arbor. New Orleans is a prime dining town. It’s almost impossible to get a bad meal unless you’re stupid enough to eat a Lucky Dog. Places that don’t have good food and big helpings don’t last long down here.”

A figure emerged from the fog, shuffling toward them. The reminder of the George still fresh in his mind, Griffen eyed it suspiciously for a moment, then recognized it. It was one of the street people who seemed to exist by begging money from tourists. The hair was so short and the face so wrinkled that, with its body wrapped in a shapeless jacket, for a while he had been unable to tell if it was a man or a woman. He had always brushed off advances in the past and got ready to do it again.

“Is that you, Mr. Jerome?” the figure said. “Praise Jesus. I was hopin’ to see you tonight.”

“How you doing, Babe,” Jerome said, coming to a stop. “You liking this cold weather we’ve got now?”

“Oh, I love it,” the beggar said. “Mr. Jerome, can you help me out a little? I just need another seventy-five cents to get into the shelter tonight.”

Her voice took on a slight whine, and she glanced around as she spoke. The police did not take kindly to beggars who bothered tourists in the Quarter.