Robert Asprin - Dragons Wild

“Took ’em down to the station on Royal and let them talk to the chief. He had them get this guy Stoner on the horn so he could confirm their story. Stoner admitted that he had an operation in place down here, but refused to tell the chief any more about it claiming it involved national security.”

The detective broke off and laughed.

“I wish you could have seen it,” he said with a grin. “If there’s anything the chief hates more than Feds on his turf, it’s being told that it’s none of his business.”

“He told Stoner in no uncertain terms to get his team the hell out of town, and that if he ever ran an operation down here again without going through proper channels, the chief would personally see to it that any agents he caught would do time as well as getting their pictures plastered all over the Times-Picayune .”

“What did Stoner say?”

“He didn’t like it, no. Not one bit, but there was nothing he could do but agree. With the chief in the mood he was, if Stoner had tried to bluster his way out of it, the chief would follow through, startin’ with the three already in custody. Of course, he had to get in one good lick before he hung up.”

“What was that?”

“He said something to the effect that the chief had better hope that Homeland Security never got the chance to return the courtesy that the NOPD had shown them.”

Griffen scowled and shook his head.

“That doesn’t sound good,” he said.

“Just a little face-saving bluster,” the detective said dismissively. “There isn’t much he can do against the whole city…or the police force, for that matter. If he tries, he’s in for a surprise. The chief had him on the speaker phone and taped the whole conversation.”

Griffen sighed and shook his head again.

“What is it?” Harrison said.

“I don’t know,” Griffen said. “I mean, I’ve heard about how local cops don’t like the Feds coming into their territory, but it all seems…I don’t know, a little petty is all.”

“You’ve never had to deal with them like we have,” the detective said with a snort. “Come in throwing their weight around and treating us like dirt. They act like the whole force is incompetent, on the take, or both.”

It occurred to Griffen that he had met Harrison when the detective was growling at him about having to put up with protected gambling operations, but it didn’t seem like a good time to point that out.

“Well, enjoy your steak,” Harrison said, sliding out of the booth. “I’ve got to run. The boys are getting together for a little celebration, and I told them I’d stop by. We owe you one or two for this one, McCandles.”

Griffen sat staring for a long time after the detective had left. He was still staring when Padre came up to the booth.

“So, do you want that steak now?” the bartender said.

“I’ll take a rain check on that,” Griffen said. “Sit down for a second, Padre. What all did Harrison tell you?”

“Enough that I could tell they caught the ones shadowing you and that they were Feds,” Padre said. “He seemed really happy about it.”

“Yeah,” Griffen said, making a face. “Tell me, is it just me or does all this seem a little too easy to be true?”

“It’s not just you,” the bartender said. “Remember what I said about the possibility of an infiltrator? It could be that whoever’s running this show is pulling a little misdirection. Let you catch the obvious tails so you relax and don’t look around internally.”

“I remember, and I’m keeping an eye out,” Griffen said. “Of course, it doesn’t really matter.”

“It doesn’t?” Padre said.

“No, it doesn’t,” Griffen said. “We really aren’t doing anything that merits federal attention. The only reason I said anything to Harrison was to switch his focus from our operation to the Feds, and that seems to have worked out just fine.”

Nighttime Bourbon Street was the usual kaleidoscope of color and sound. Even on a slow weekday night it swirled with energy unmatched by the “hot spots” in most cities even at their most celebrative. Some of it was because there was so much packed into a small area. A lot of it was both due to the no traffic, pedestrian nature of the street after seven o’clock, and the go-cup ordinances that allowed the revelers to wander from club to club with their drinks in hand. Most of it, however, was because of the mood. People came to Bourbon Street to have fun. To see and be seen and party like there was no tomorrow. If, at times, the gaiety was a little forced or strained, well, they were there to enjoy themselves and were bound and determined to do just that.

Tonight, Valerie was on a mission, and had convinced Griffen to escort her as “a change of pace from the rut he was getting into.” He had gone along with it partly because he agreed that he needed to do something different, and partly because he enjoyed the music clubs.

That was Valerie’s mission. She had met a musician, sort of helped him haul stuff into his new apartment, and he had invited her to come hear his band play. The trouble was, she couldn’t remember which club he was playing in, the name of the band, or even his name for that matter. Then, too, there was the minor detail that there were two to three dozen clubs along an eight-block stretch of Bourbon Street that had live music.

By Griffen’s calculations, there was no way they could stop and have one drink at every club without running out of energy, money, or both. Not drinking really wasn’t an option. With the overhead, mostly rent, the Bourbon clubs paid out every month, they couldn’t afford to have people taking up the limited seating and floor space without their contributing to the coffers. There was a one-drink minimum at most places, and even a Coke would cost you six dollars.

He pointed this out to Valerie, but she waved him off. To start with, what she did remember was that the musician in question played with a “cover band.” That is, a band that mostly played popular rock and rhythm and blues music made popular by name bands. That meant they could bypass the clubs that played Dixieland, Chicago blues, Cajun, or folk music. That substantially reduced the number of clubs, but it still left a lot. Griffen, however, had long since learned to recognize when his sister was set on an idea and didn’t bother trying to argue. Instead, he just drifted along with her, enjoying the night and the company.

“I still can’t believe we’re doing this when you can’t even remember the guy’s name,” he said as they paused at a cross street that let the cabs cross Bourbon.

“You know how it is, Big Brother,” Valerie said with a shrug. “He mentioned his name when we first met, but I didn’t really make a mental note of it. After we spent some time together, I was embarrassed to ask him to repeat it. That’s kind of why I’m trying to find him again. I want to see if the first impression holds up. If it does, I can catch his name when you introduce yourself.”

“Is that why you wanted me to come along?” Griffen laughed. “Not that I mind, but…”

A soft shove in his back sent him staggering forward a step. Catching his balance, he turned quickly, expecting to find a clumsy drunk or a bad pickpocket.

Instead, he found himself looking at the horse of a mounted policeman, which was looking back at him with soft brown eyes.

Startled, Griffen took another step backward.

The horse followed, ignoring its rider’s attempts to rein it in.

Valerie, of course, was laughing hysterically.

Griffen looked sternly at the horse.

“No!” he said firmly. “I can’t even have a cat at my apartment. There’s no way they’d let me keep a horse.”