Robert Asprin's Dragons Run (30 page)

Duvallier
pushed Griffen’s note toward him across the table.

“It’s a mighty polite letter,” he said, enjoying the dismayed look on the young dragon’s face. “You just forgot one little thing: I didn’t have no way to get back in touch with you to give you an appointment.”

“What?” Malcolm asked. He snatched up the slip of paper. His eyebrows rose as he read the brief message.

Duvallier clamped his cigar in his mouth. He was not allowed to smoke a stogie in Antoine’s private dining room, not that he would with Miss Callaway looking on. The order for a dozen oysters had already been put in the moment he walked in the door, and shrimp étouffée for the two of them was waiting until he decided whether he needed a second dozen oysters or not. But business first.

“He ain’t in the book, and seein’ as how he was the one who was askin’ me for a favor, I didn’t see no reason to go lookin’ for him.”

“Griffen, this is unacceptable!” Malcolm said. “In such a delicate matter!”

The younger McCandles glowered.

“Don’t be so hard on the boy,” Duvallier said, grinning at them. “I bet you weren’t so perfect back when you were a tadpole. But how’d you expect me to reply to you, son? Telepathy?”

“You could have sent one of your ghosts,” Griffen said, his face expressionless.

That Griffen probably was nearly as good a poker player as he thought he was. The boy was trying to keep his temper, but he wasn’t going to roll over and play dead just because he was at a disadvantage. Duvallier could feel the fear radiating off the youngster. Brave. That was admirable, though fruitless. He relaxed in his chair. He preferred it when they fought back.

“Now, that’s not nice. Makin’ my friends and acquaintances do the work when you were the one who was careless like that? I didn’t say I couldn’t find you. I just said I couldn’t be bothered to find you.”

Griffen had to be pretty embarrassed, but he continued to cover it well. Malcolm had expressions, just not too many of them. Just then, his long face showed carefully modeled contrition.

“I apologize for my nephew,” Malcolm said smoothly. “He is unaccustomed to undertaking high-level negotiations.”

“Not necessary here, son. Politics is pretty low-down stuff.”

Malcolm, as Duvallier knew he would, assumed a position that looked like authority, resting his elbows on the table and tenting his fingers. Appearances weren’t everything, as Duvallier could have told him, but he let him talk.

“Mr. Duvallier . . .” he began.

“Reginaud, Malcolm! Last warning.”

“Reginaud, then. Have you given any more thought to my proposal? The group that I represent has a good deal at stake in the Dunbar candidacy. We would be grateful for your assistance. We are fast reaching the point at which Penny Dunbar can or cannot remain a viable contender for the office of governor.”

“Running out of money, ain’t she?”

“I won’t ask how you know that.”

“Everybody does, son,” Duvallier said, enjoying the moment. He didn’t have to refer to the notes that Miss Callaway had in her laptop thing, though she had it open and facing him for his use. “When you are runnin’ somewhere between eighth and seventeenth in a race with nineteen contestants, you have to stand out in one way or another. This state has how many representatives? And how many state senators? And how many of them are tryin’ to better themselves by goin’ for higher office? Well, that’s not her best suit. She stands on law and order, but who don’t? Even the politicians who are takin’ money under the table—and I know she is, too—stand for law and order. So that leaves makin’ headlines in some way. She hasn’t broken no big scandals about any of her fellow candidates on television or in the papers—just the opposite. Congressman Benson’s been trying to drum up dirt about Penny, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” Griffen said.

“He tries hard, but, trouble is, he has no bait on his hook. That girl annoys a lot of people, but it ain’t nothin’ out of the ordinary. And the last thing she might do: appealing to other people’s greed and good citizenship at the same time by hostin’ an event for charity.”

Malcolm paused. Duvallier jumped on the hesitation.

“So that’s what she’s up to. What kind of grand gala is she trying to run?”

“I bet you know that, too,” Griffen said. He glanced at his uncle. Malcolm paused, then nodded. “I’ve spent the last several days trying to line up a pool hall. I know they’re not all busy between now and October, but for some reason they just can’t find a date for a charity tournament. A bunch of pros I’ve asked to participate say the same thing. They can’t make it no matter when it is. I think you’ve been talking to them all.”

The boy had perspicacity. If he had had the chance to take him under his wing, Duvallier could have made a great man out of Griffen. Too bad about the dragon blood.

“I got friends,” Duvallier admitted, with creditable modesty. “I made some phone calls. Maybe I suggested they had better things to do with their time on those days.”

“Why prevent such an event?” Malcolm asked. “If indeed it only prolongs the inevitable, what harm does it do? You said if she survived to the jungle primary, you would back her.”

“She’s finished. She just don’t say so yet, but she will.”

“I doubt that very much,” Malcolm said. “So much is at stake—why not let her try her best?”

“What’s her best if we haven’t seen it yet? She hasn’t got the credibility to go on. You could tell her that for me.”

“I won’t,” Griffen said, maybe a little more forcefully than necessary. “You can try and throw her off her game all you want. She will finish this primary. Maybe she will even become governor.”

“She can try,” Duvallier said, putting his cigar in his mouth and clamping it with his teeth. “She is mighty welcome to try. Well, gentlemen, it’s a shame we didn’t get nowhere today. It was nice to see you.” He picked up the menu to the right of his plate and read down the list of the day’s specials.

“What will it take for you to back off your contract on Penny’s life?” Griffen asked.

Duvallier raised his eyebrows. So he dared to mention the elephant in the room. Good boy. He glanced up. The fear was still there, deep inside that façade, but the youngster was bolstering it with courage. He spoke around his cigar.

“Make me an offer. I’m still open to negotiation.”

Griffen extended his hands, palm up, across the table, his face open with appeal.

“We’ll have the event, with or without your interference. Name an amount. If we raise more than that for her campaign, you let her live. After that, winning the election is up to the voters.”

“And if you don’t?”

“I’ll fight you for her,” Griffen said simply.

“You don’t even like the gal,” Duvallier said with a shrewd smile. “I got a better idea. I don’t like to step into the ring. That don’t make for a very fair fight. You sound like a knight in shining armor. You meet my champion. You beat him, you win. Miss Penny can go on and do whatever she wants. Meantime, I might stir the pot a few more times. I’m havin’ fun watchin’ all of you jump.”

Griffen leaped to his feet. The smooth negotiator was gone. Steam shot out of his mouth and nose.

“Fine,” he said. “Send whatever you want. I’ll take him on.”

Duvallier laughed up at him.

“Spoken like a true hero,” he said, enjoying the fury on Griffen’s face. “But, son, remember the definition of a hero is pretty often a dead soldier.”

•   •   •

“That
was unprofessional, Griffen,” Malcolm said, as they walked out of the restaurant onto the sidewalk under the colonnade that fronted the building.

His uncle could not chide him any more severely than he was chastising himself. Griffen kept the words of the houngan in his mind. Duvallier had time on his side, and he knew it. Who knew what kind of monster Duvallier was going to call up out of the blackness of hell to face him? He had just agreed to fight for Penny’s life. Duvallier was right that he didn’t even like Penny, but Griffen had promised Rose to look out for her. He could get killed keeping a gubernatorial candidate in the Louisiana race. Maybe he was too stupid to live. He thought that he was good at observing human nature and making use of it, but Duvallier just ran rings around him. He wanted to kick himself. The zombie had drawn him out and made him lose his temper as if he were a toddler late for his nap.

“I know,” he said.

“It was childish.”

“I know!”

“You were vulnerable. You let him get under your skin.”

“I know!” Griffen exclaimed. “I want to kick myself!”

“Don’t,” Malcolm said. The slightly amused tone in the elder McCandles’s voice made him turn to face his uncle. “Your father would have been very proud of you.”

Griffen was taken so far aback he stopped walking.

“He would?”

“Eminently. He always championed the underdog. It was one of his least dragonish characteristics. I rather hoped you wouldn’t inherit it, but as you have, I am happy to make use of it. I want to put you by Miss Dunbar’s side until Duvallier repeals his fiat.”

“What?” Griffen asked. “No!”

“Did you mean any of the heroic bravado that you spouted at our leathery host?”

Griffen had to think about it. As much as he did dislike Penny’s behavior, he was outraged that Duvallier could be so cavalier regarding whether she lived or died. And he had promised Rose.

“Yes, I did,” he said.

“You really have changed, Griffen,” Malcolm said. He let out a weary sigh. “We must continue as if we believe Miss Dunbar will proceed all the way to the primary, at the very least. What have you got on a venue for the fund-raiser?”

Griffen pulled out his small notebook and flipped it open to the well-thumbed pages of notes regarding the proposed tournament. He didn’t want Malcolm to see how many entries were crossed out. He kept the notebook cupped in his fingers as they walked.

“Well, I’ve been to a bunch of places and talked to the owners,” he said. “Every one of them wants a fortune for the day’s rental, which we don’t have. If we can raise the deposit, I have three pool halls that will let us make up the remainder out of sign-up fees. All three have dates open within the next couple of weeks. That was the range Horsie wanted in order to make strategic buys from the media outlets with the proceeds.” He described the three prospects, from the worst to the best; perhaps not coincidentally, the fees rose with the desirability of the venue.

Malcolm looked disapproving. “Those are most assuredly not ideal. What about catering?”

“Each of these places has its own kitchen,” Griffen said. “I have menus at home I can show you.”

“Pool-hall food? That will hardly do, Griffen. We’ll have to pay a caterer. What about the one you use for your games? That food was more than palatable.”

“We’ll have to pay another fee to bring in outside food. All of them were firm on that.”

“Can’t you do anything right?” Malcolm asked, sourly.

Griffen felt his temper rise, but he didn’t let any of it show on his face. “You want me to look after Penny and set up this tournament, on top of my business? If you aren’t satisfied, I’d be happy to step back and let you handle it.”

“Hey, Grifter!” A slim, energetic figure dashed out of the sun and swung around one of the verdigris-stained posts of Antoine’s balcony like a teenager. Despite the warm sun, he wore a jacket.

“Hey, Gris-gris, looking good!” Griffen greeted him with a slap on the back. Under the coat, the other dealer was still painfully thin. “Uncle Malcolm, you remember Gris-gris? Val’s boyfriend?”

Malcolm was by no means as pleased to see him as Griffen was, but he grudgingly summoned up a gracious smile.

“Glad to see you up and about, sir.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Gris-gris said with a lightning flash of his teeth. He turned to Griffen. “Hey, man, got you a place for your tournament.”

“You did?” Griffen asked.

Malcolm looked appalled. His expression turned dismissive.

“I am sure we don’t need the place that you have found, my good sir. Thank you for your efforts. I know that Ms. Dunbar will appreciate all the effort—”

Griffen turned to his uncle and fixed him with the same cold glare Malcolm used to use on him when he came home late.

“Uncle Malcolm, remember our first conversation when you arrived here?” Griffen said, letting his voice rise peevishly at the end of the sentence.

Malcolm let his dudgeon deflate. “I do. Well, Mr. Gris-gris?”

“No mister needed,” Gris-gris said majestically. “You can call me Your Grand Excellency. Lookie here.” He whipped a sheaf of flyers from the pocket of his jacket. Pictured on the front of the thickest one was a handsome building of mid-nineteenth-century vintage with ornamented doors and grand pillars surrounding the entrance.

“This is the Fairmont Hotel, up on Baronne. You seen it, Grifter? Well, the special-events coordinator happens to be one Ms. Opal Ferris. Back in the day, she used to be my fifth-grade teacher. They have next two Fridays and Saturdays open for four-hour stretches in the afternoon or evening in either the Crescent City Ballroom or the Astoria Ballroom, your choice depending on the day. The hotel’ll donate the space, but you have to pay for food and personnel, plus gratuities. Be generous, or Ms. Opal will have my balls on a skewer.”

Malcolm was astonished and impressed. “This is marvelous, Gris-gris. This will be an excellent choice. Er, will you want your name listed in the program flyer?”

It was a concession, and all three men knew it.

“No, thanks,” Gris-gris said, showing his teeth in a fierce smile. “Not too good for my rep to be involved with a politician. Call me an anonymous contributor. Yeah, I like that.”

“We will,” Malcolm said.

Gris-gris pulled out a shiny new cell phone and looked at the digital readout on the face. “Got to go. Got a game revving up in an hour. See you around, Griffen.”

Griffen grasped the other dealer’s hand firmly.

“Thanks, Gris-gris.”

The smaller man grinned. “One miracle down, next to go.”

He shot away down Saint Louis as if he had been launched from a gun.