Robert Asprin - Dragons Wild

Griffen shook his head again.

“I don’t know, Jerome,” he said. “Like I said, we’ve never really talked about any of this before. You’ve given me a lot to think about. I always figured that if I ignored religion, it would ignore me. Isn’t there something in voodoo that says if you don’t believe in it, it can’t affect you?”

Jerome laughed.

“Actually, what they say is that if you don’t believe in it, you can’t summon the powers even with rituals or charms. Then again there are others who will tell you that just because you don’t believe in the gods doesn’t mean the gods don’t believe in you. I told you this is a focal point. Well, things that can’t be explained by science have a way of reaching out and tapping you on the shoulder down here. Wait until the first time you run into a ghost.”

Griffen and Valerie looked at each other, then looked at Jerome.

“Com’on, Jerome,” Griffen said. “Ghosts? Like white sheets and chains?”

“More like disembodied spirits,” Jerome said. “We’ve got a lot of them down here. Especially in the Quarter. Haven’t you seen those Haunted History Tours that are out on the street every night?”

“Of course,” Griffen said. “They’re hard to miss. But I always thought it was pure tourist hokum. Do you really believe in ghosts?”

“Look at it this way, Grifter,” Jerome said. “Every religion throughout time in all parts of the world have different burial customs. One thing they all have in common, though, is the basic purpose of the ritual. That is to lay the spirit to rest. As in if you don’t lay the spirit to rest, it will potentially hang around and cause you grief. That’s a lot of people believing essentially the same thing that can’t be explained by science. To me, that goes way beyond superstition. Think about it.”

Griffen did. For a long time after the evening was over.

Griffen spotted Jerome’s Jeep Cherokee parked on the street as he walked down Rampart. Without breaking stride, he strode up to the vehicle as his friend rolled the window down.

“Is he still in there?”

“Still there,” Jerome said. “Sitting at the back table. Tall, skinny dude with a fedora on.”

Griffen glanced at the two silent men in the backseat. They gazed back at him without expression.

“What’s with the extra talent?” he said. “I thought we agreed I would handle this personal and quiet.”

“Never said I agreed,” Jerome said. “For the record, I still think this is a bad idea. I brought along a little backup in case you’re wrong. The man usually carries, and he’s probably got some friends in there.”

“Suit yourself.” Griffen shrugged. “Just let me try it my way first.”

He turned and stared at the bar and grill. Anywhere else, it would be described as seedy and run-down. Here at the edge of the Quarter, it was about average. Taking a deep breath and blowing it out, he headed for the door.

The brightness of the afternoon sun outside barely penetrated the dimly lit interior. There were about a half dozen people, all men, scattered around the room and sitting at the bar. A small television set high on the wall behind the bar was tuned to ESPN, but no one seemed to be paying it any attention.

While nobody stopped talking or looked around, Griffen was sure that everyone in the bar was aware of his entrance. If nothing else, he was the only white person in the place.

The man he was looking for was easy to spot. Sitting alone at a back table reading a newspaper. As Jerome had said, he was a good six and a half feet tall, skeletally thin, and sported a black fedora. There was a squat butt of a cigar smoldering in an ashtray on the table, along with a half-empty cup of coffee.

The man looked up dead-eyed as Griffen approached.

“Little Joe?” Griffen said, coming to a stop, carefully keeping his hands in view.

The man took a big drag on his cigar before answering.

“I know yah, white boy?”

“My name is Griffen McCandles,” Griffen said. “I run a couple card games around town. Something has come to my attention, and I thought it would be a good idea if we talked about it. May I sit down?”

Little Joe shrugged and gestured to the chair across from him. Griffen took the indicated seat, painfully aware that it put his back to the door and the rest of the room. Keeping his concerns from his face, he took a deep breath and began.

“About a week ago, your little brother, Willie, sat in on one of my games. He had a bad night, and dropped about four hundred dollars.”

“I heard ’bout that.” Little Joe nodded.

“It happens,” Griffen said. “Some nights a man wins, some nights he loses. The problem is, I’ve been told that you’ve been talking around, telling people that Willie got taken in a crooked game. I thought I’d take the time to meet you face-to-face and ask if it’s true?”

Little Joe took another drag on the cigar.

“Which? If I been talkin ’round, or if the game was crooked?”

“I guess if you’ve been talking around,” Griffen said. “I already know the game wasn’t crooked. More important, if it’s true, I’d like to know what makes you think the game was crooked. As far as I can tell, you’ve never sat in on one of my games.”

“All I knows is what Willie told me,” Little Joe said.

“Uh-huh.” Griffen grimaced. “Tell me, Little Joe, I’ve heard you’re a pretty sharp card player yourself. Have you ever noticed that if someone wins, they’re a great card player. But if they lose, then the game’s crooked or someone was cheating.”

Little Joe flashed a quick grin.

“Yeah, you right. Had to fight my way out of the room a couple times when the losers thought my luck was a lil’ too solid.”

“Well, the fact of the matter,” Griffen said, “is that Willie isn’t that good a card player. He had no business being in that game…way out of league, betting wild against a table of better players. I’m pretty sure you already knew that. You’re a better card player than Willie is.”

“And how do you know that?”

“I try to keep track of who the better players in town are,” Griffen said. “Besides, it’s obvious just from sitting and talking with you. You give away less in normal conversation than Willie does when he’s playing cards.”

“So why’d you let him play?” Little Joe said.

“I suspected he was a weak player, but I wasn’t sure until I actually saw him play,” Griffen said. “One of our regulars brought him in and vouched for him, so there wasn’t much I could do.”

“So where does that leave us?” Little Joe said.

“It leaves us with a problem,” Griffen said. “I’d like to convince you that it was an honest game so you’ll quit saying that I run a crooked operation. Right now, though, it’s just my word against your brother’s.”

Little Joe took another drag on his cigar and leaned back.

“I’ve heard about you, Griffen,” he said. “Lots of folks say that you’re not someone to get on the wrong side of. That you’ve got some serious muscle covering you, and that you handle yourself pretty good all by your lonesome. What surprises me, and I been listenin’ real close, is that it don’t sound like you’re telling me to shut my mouth or it’ll get shut for me.”

“As I said, I’d like to convince you,” Griffen said with a smile. “Threatening you would only make it look like I was trying to pull a cover-up.”

“So, what do you have in mind?” Little Joe said, genuinely curious. “Somehow, I don’t think your plan is to just give Willie his money back.”

“As a matter of fact, for a while I considered doing exactly that,” Griffen said. “Four hundred just isn’t that much money, and if it could kill a bad rumor, it could be worth it.”