Dragons Luck

“Pretty much. Bigwigs aren’t showin’. Likes the… well, like the dragons. Oh, somethin’ different. First year the fey kids are gettin’ in.”

Griffen blinked.

“The what?!” he asked.

“Yeah, they been tryin’ for a long time to get a spot in the meets. Call ’em changelings. Supposed to be what the fey leave behind when they snatch a human kid. Bunch of bull ya ask me, but the kids gots some power.”

“Then why haven’t they been included before?”

“Mostly ’cause they are weird. Even by our standards. Even push Quarter standards, you listen to some of the rumors. Only reason they get a shot this year is because the conclave is here. Never met one myself, of course, but that’s what I hear.”

Slim finished his drink and stood abruptly, straightening his suit again.

“That’s all I got for now. I’ll call you sometime to talk ’bout the itinerary.”

“You sure about that list?” Griffen pressed.

“Pretty sure. But remember, always a surprise or two.” Slim walked toward the door and had it halfway open when he stopped, looking down at his empty hand. He had left his bucket back at the table. Before he even turned, one of the three dogs stood up and was dragging it to him in its teeth. He scritched the dog affectionately and winked to Griffen before leaving.

If anyone found it odd, no one commented. Or even looked up from their conversations. Which left Griffen stuck on one very important question.

What could be too odd for the French Quarter?

Seven

Griffen really didn’t want to talk to Detective Harrison. If nothing else, he wasn’t sure what to say to the man.

“By the way, Detective, there will be a bunch of weird, supernatural types hitting town over the Halloween weekend. You might want to keep an eye out for them, but don’t lean on them too hard.”

That would raise some questions Griffen would just as soon have left unasked.

Still, the vice detective had done him some favors in the past, mostly because he hated feds operating on his turf even more than he hated protected gambling operations. Knowing there was potential trouble coming down the pipeline and not alerting the policeman would be a poor way to pay him back.

Griffen decided against calling Harrison on his cell phone for fear it would make the whole thing too official for comfort. Instead, he would try to meet with the detective casually, making it appear to be a chance run-in.

To that end, he put the word out through his various watchers in the Quarter to alert him when Harrison was spotted in the area but not actively working.

He thought this would buy him a bit of time to figure out what he was going to say, but the call came back almost immediately, letting him know that Harrison was eating at Yo Mama’s.

Sometimes he wished his network of watchers was a little less efficient.

Padre, one of his favorite bartenders, was behind the bar when he rolled in. Catching his glance, the man jerked his head slightly toward one of the back booths, then rolled his eyes in mock exasperation. Not knowing quite what to make of the signal that had been passed to him, Griffen made his way toward the indicated booth. It didn’t take him long to figure out what Padre had been trying to tell him.

Harrison, as always looking more like an overweight biker than a cop, was sprawled loosely in the last booth, a half-full bottle of beer in front of him.

“Well, look who’s here,” the detective drawled. “My friend the Grifter… or should I say Mr. McCandles. Pull in, son. Let me buy you a round or two.”

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 go