Dragons Luck

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.

Harrison watched them go, still breathing hard, then walked unsteadily to the door and stood staring after them. A few beats later, he stepped out onto the street and strode off in the direction the men had taken.

“What in the world was eating Harrison?” Griffen said, when the bartender came to the booth to clear away the empty beer bottles.

“He’s been suspended,” Padre said. “Got a reprimand for roughing up a couple frat boys.”

“What?”

“Yeah. They were slapping one of the kids that tap-dance for tips around. Calling him names and asking if he gave blow jobs. Harrison stepped in and put a stop to it. Next thing you know one of their daddies is suing the city and the police department for undue force.” Padre gave a sigh. “Harrison ended up holding the bag on the whole thing. It hasn’t improved his opinion of tourists, to say the least.”

Griffen reflected on the situation as Padre moved off. He knew from his own experience that tourists could be a pain. Most of them were okay, but there were some that seemed bound and determined to start trouble. He was just glad that it was the police’s job to ride herd on them.

Then it occurred to him that in a few weeks, he would be trying to perform the same function for the conclave. He stopped being glad.

It also occurred to him that Harrison was not a good person to talk to about the conclave that was hitting town.

Eight

The shooter had been sitting in a window seat in Harry’s Corner for nearly two hours, quietly nursing one beer after another as he watched the street outside. In actuality, he was watching the gateway to the apartment complex that was kitty-corner to the corner bar.

He was from out of town, Biloxi specifically, but had visited New Orleans and the Quarter often enough to have a fair grasp of its layout. He was a little surprised, however, that he had been brought in for this job instead of whoever it was that hired him using local talent. Still, the money was good, and it looked like an easy, fast in-and-out job.

Suddenly, he came out of his reverie. The target was just emerging from the complex gateway. As the shooter watched, the target—just a kid, really—checked to be sure the gate had locked behind him, then set off down the sidewalk with a long-legged, rapid stride, passing right by the bar where the shooter was watching, but on the other side of the street.

Trying to keep his movements unhurried, the shooter gathered up the paper shopping bag from the floor next to his feet and left, leaving a half-full beer behind him. The bartender and the other customers barely registered his departure.

He held the distance he was following his prey at about half a block as the youth headed off across Jackson Square. Now that he was moving, the shooter’s normal patience fell into place. He would keep following the target until they reached a deserted stretch of street, then he would make his move. All he needed was a space where there were no pedestrians within twenty or thirty feet… and no cops, of course. At that distance, at night, witnesses were notoriously unreliable, if they decided to involve themselves at all. Within fifteen or twenty minutes, he could be back in his car and on his way to the expressway. Another half hour, and he would be out of the state.

He could follow all night, waiting for his opportunity, or, if it was necessary, make his move along this very stretch as the youth returned to his apartment. He hoped for a better setup, but this would do in a pinch.

He was pleasantly surprised when, after the target had crossed the Square, the youth turned left toward the river rather than turning right toward Bourbon Street and the profusion of bars and nightclubs. Maybe the kid was out to take a walk along the river. If so, the job could be over much quicker than he had anticipated.

Picking up his stride slightly to narrow the gap, the shooter hefted the bag he was carrying. Inside it was his favorite weapon, a double-barreled shotgun cut down until it was barely ten inches long overall. No way to check ballistics on a shotgun, and he rarely needed to use the second barrel.

The target crossed the street, heading for the river. The shooter hesitated for a moment, making a quick sweep visually to see if there were any police cars in the immediate area, then followed. As he started up the inclined driveway, he was suddenly aware of footsteps approaching him from behind. Before he could turn, he felt something hard being pressed against his side.

“Just keep walkin’, mister,” came a voice from behind him. “Hang a left up here into the parkin’ lot.”

The shooter was struck by the irony of the situation. Here he was about to do a job on someone, and it seemed he was getting mugged.

“This is far enough,” came the voice again. “Put the bag down, then step away from it and turn around. Keep your hands where we can see them.”

It seemed whoever he was dealing with was versed in police procedure. Probably from the other side. It also occurred to him that he was now in the exact situation he had been pla

He followed the instructions and turned slowly. There were two of them, both young and male. Both black. One of them was openly holding a nine-millimeter semiautomatic pistol.

“If this is about money,” the shooter said, calmly, “I can—”

“Shut up!” said the pistol holder. “Check the bag.”

His partner picked up the paper bag, hefted it, and looked inside.

“Shotgun,” he said. “Cut-down.”

“Uh-huh,” the pistol man said, not taking his eyes off the shooter. “You working alone or with a partner?”

“Alone,” the shooter said, then immediately wondered if he should have lied.

“Well,” said the pistol man, “it seems we have us a bit of a problem… or, at least, you do.”

“What’s going on here? Patches? Is that you?”

The target, no longer headed for the river, was walking up to the group.

“Oh… Hi, Mr. Griffen,” said the pistol man, suddenly looking a bit embarrassed.

“Hi yourself, Patches,” the target said mockingly. “Mind telling me what you’re doing here?”

“Well, I… we… we spotted this guy following you and thought we’d check him out,” the young gunman said. “He’s got a shotgun in that bag there.”

“I know he was following me,” the target said. “That’s why I was leading him up to the Moonwalk. The question is, what are you doing here? This isn’t your normal neighborhood.”

“Well… Okay. We were watching out for you.”

“Any particular reason?” the target pressed.

“We heard that someone had a contract out on you,” the gunman said. “My brother, TeeBo, said we should keep an eye on you and step in if anything went down.”

“He couldn’t just give me a call and warn me?”

“We weren’t sure if it was true or not,” the youth named Patches said. “Besides, this way, if we did you a favor, he thought maybe you’d think you owed us a favor sometime.”

The whole scene had a vaguely surreal feel for the shooter. Not only had he walked into some kind of a trap—or double trap—it seemed the others had all but forgotten about him as they continued their conversation.

“Well, you tell TeeBo that I appreciate the gesture, but I don’t think I want to owe him a favor over this.” The target was smiling. “Sometime, maybe. But not now and not over this. Put the gun away and give him back his bag.”