Dragons Wild

“Older guy? White hair and mutton chops?” Griffen said. “Yeah, I remember him. I didn’t even know he was sick.”

There was a short snort of a laugh at the other end.

“Not sick. Lead poisoning,” Mose said.

“Excuse me?”

“New Orleans plague,” Mose said. “Went and got himself shot last night.”

Griffen was stu

“Sorry, Mose,” he said. “That freaked me out for a second. Remember, I’m just a kid from the Midwest who’s led a sheltered life. This is the first time someone I’ve known has been shot.”

Griffen turned from the river and started to walk away, heading toward Cafe Du Monde and Jackson Square. He held the phone to his ear as Mose talked.

“I hate to say it, but start getting used to it,” Mose said. “It’s not all that uncommon in New Orleans these days. Just be thankful you live in the Quarter.”

“What happened?”

“Jerome will fill you in on the details,” Mose said. “Talk to him while you’re picking out a suit. Like it or not, you should be at that funeral. He was one of ours, and folks will expect you to be there. It’s one of the downsides of heading up a crew down here.”

“Sure, I’ll talk to Jerome, but can’t you tell me a little more?”

Griffen felt a featherlight tug at his pocket. Instinctively, his free hand went to his pocket and he twisted to look behind him. He hadn’t had his pocket picked yet in his time in New Orleans, but his mind flashed the suspicion that he had just had that new experience.

If he hadn’t been distracted by the phone, he would have been more aware of the stairs in front of him.

He never caught the barest glimpse of his assailant. Body twisted and off balance, a hard shove threw him forward. He barely registered that the shove had been two handed, one just above his hips, the other between his shoulder blades, guaranteeing he wouldn’t recover. Then he was in the air.

The stairs leading from the Moonwalk down to Decatur Street are a flight of curved, amphitheater like steps. Made out of concrete.

His first impact was on his side, but the force of the hard steps into his ribs jerked his body, and his head hit a moment later. The cell phone dropped from a hand that shot out to try and stop his fall, but he was already rolling. Nails scraped on concrete, and felt as if they would tear. Three more steps went by, each a sharp pain as his body twisted.

Griffen lay stu

“Griffen! Griffen what’s happening!?”

Mose’s voice called from the fallen phone, snagging his attention and jerking him back into focus. He pulled himself up, intending to stand but groaning and sitting down as pain shot through his ribs and side. He scrabbled for the phone and put it to his ear.

“I’m here,” Griffen said.

“God, lad, where’d you go?!”

A few people were rushing toward him, not many. More kept walking, not seeing him. Wouldn’t be the first drunk to fall, even in daylight. He waved off those who approached.

“I fell, down the stairs.”

“Griffen, the thickest skin in the world won’t save you from a broken neck.”

“Now he tells me. Mose, I was pushed.”

“By who?”

“I don’t…wait.”

Griffen reached into the pocket. He realized, the tug he had felt had not been where he kept his wallet. Hand shaking slightly, he pulled out a long card that had been slipped in before his fall. The Knight of Swords.

“It seems,” Griffen said, fear momentarily numbing his pain, “that the George has taken things up a notch.”

Thirty-two

“I’m telling you, Jerome, I’m even less thrilled about going to a funeral now.”

“Hey, at least it’s not yours,” Jerome said

“Yet,” Griffen said, neither one of them had much humor in his voice.

They had gotten together as pla

Of course, Griffen’s mood wasn’t improved by the ache in his ribs. Mose had checked him out, and declared nothing broken. They still protested every time he lifted his right arm too high. He winced as he tried on a somber jacket.

“Sure I can’t help you with that?” Jerome said.

“Yes.”

Griffen waved him off stubbornly and shrugged the jacket on. They were more or less alone, having told the salesperson they didn’t need assistance. Griffen wanted freedom to talk.

“You can help me understand about Reggie. How he died and why you and Mose seem to be treating this as business as usual.”

“Can’t really treat it as anything else. It’s the drug gangs,” Jerome said. “Most murders are within family or friends when someone gets drunk or mad and goes for a gun or a knife. The so-called ‘killer’ is usually still sitting there when the cops come. It’s the drug gangs that are pushing the murder rate so high in this town.”

“Wait a minute,” Griffen said. “Are you saying that Reggie was part of a drug gang?”

“No. Nothing like that,” Jerome said with a half laugh. “He sold a little pot and coke on the side is all. Dude was just stopping by his supplier to replenish his stock and got caught in the cross fire is all.”

“That’s all?” Griffen said, a vague note of hysteria creeping into his voice. “You make it sound like it’s an everyday occurrence.”

“It is.” Jerome shrugged. “There are a couple areas of town that are combat zones for all intents and purposes. That’s where most of the nondomestic killings happen. The gangs have been fighting it out for who supplies what sections of town, and when the shooting starts, they don’t care much who’s in the way.”

“Why doesn’t somebody do something about it?”

“Like what?” Jerome said. “As long as there are folks taking drugs for kicks or to try to make themselves feel better about their lives, there are going to be people making money off selling the shit to them. When there’s a lot of money involved, they’re going to fight over who gets how much. You kill off or lock up one bunch, and someone else will be there to step into the vacuum.”

“It just doesn’t seem right, is all,” Griffen said, almost to himself.

“Right or not, that’s the way things are,” Jerome said firmly. “Welcome to the real world, Young Dragon. You can’t save everyone, especially not from themselves. The most we can do is try to take care of our own…and in this case that means showing up at the funeral to pay our respects.”

“Well, at least from what I hear your funerals down here are livelier than in other cities.” Griffen sighed.

“Don’t believe all the hype, Grifter,” Jerome said. “Not all funerals down here are jazz funerals with second lines. Most of them are as sad and depressing as funerals anywhere.”

The funeral had been as low-key and sad as Jerome had predicted. There were no colorful brass bands or people dancing with parasols and handkerchiefs on the way back from the cemetery. Just long-faced people who spoke in low tones and cried from time to time.

The crowd was mostly black, but there was a fair spattering of whites and Latinos in the gathering. Griffen supposed that they were people from the hotel where Reggie had worked, but never got a chance to converse with any of them to confirm or deny his assumption.

He had tried to hang back in the group, but Mose had taken him by the arm and brought him forward to meet Reggie’s family. They all seemed to know who he was, and were genuinely pleased to meet him in person, effusive in their gratitude for his attendance.