Robert Asprin - Dragons Wild

The horse looked hurt and shook its head.

“I think you broke its heart, man.”

Griffen looked around.

Standing a few feet away was a street entertainer, a mime by the look of him. He was tall and skeletally thin, wearing an all-white outfit crowned by a top hat decorated with red, white, and blue stripes.

“Hey, Slim,” Valerie said, stepping forward. “How’s the crowd tonight?”

“So-so, Ms. Valerie,” Slim said. “There are a lot of ’em, but they ain’t parting with their money. Guess they think ‘tipping’ is a city in China.”

“You two know each other?” Griffen said, still tracking the horse, which was now being turned away by the officer on its back.

“We’ve met,” Valerie said with a smile.

Griffen wondered about that smile but decided not to ask.

“You must be Griffen McCandles,” Slim said, holding out his hand. “I’ve been hearing things about you.”

Griffen shook the offered hand.

“I hope that none of it is that I’m a horse thief,” he said.

“Oh, the beast just took a shine to you, is all.” Slim laughed. “It happens sometimes.”

“We’re out to do a little club crawling, Slim,” Valerie said. “Want to tag along?”

“It’s tempting,” Slim said. “But I got rent due soon. I’d better keep working the crowd.”

With that he waved and wandered off down the street.

Griffen didn’t take too much note of his passing. Instead, he was thinking about the horse.

Something hit him a sharp blow high on his back, staggering him a few steps. Catching his balance, he turned quickly, but there was no one behind him close enough to have hit him. Scanning the crowd, he realized his back was wet.

“Here it is, Big Brother,” Valerie said holding up a large plastic go-cup. “I think someone threw it at you from one of the balconies.”

Griffen shifted his gaze and studied the crowds on the balconies that bracketed the street. They seemed to all be tourists, with no familiar faces visible.

He realized he smelled of beer. He also considered how it might have been if the go-cup held something other than beer.

“Ya gotta love this town, even if it does get a bit crazy from time to time,” Valerie said, waving at the crowds.

Griffen found himself wondering if it had been the George counting coup on him, or if it had really just been a drunken tourist blowing off steam.

He was starting to see what Mose meant when he said the George’s stylish approach could make his victim jittery, jumping at shadows.

They never did find Valerie’s musician.

Griffen was sitting on the Moonwalk, the half-mile-long pedestrian walkway that wound along the Mississippi River from the cathedral to the Aquarium of the Americas, watching the sun rise over the Mississippi. Because of the bend in the river that gives the crescent city its name, in the Quarter, one could experience the unusual phenomena of watching the sun rise over the “West Bank.” Though the locals had long since taken it for granted, Griffen was still new enough to the area to find the paradox amusing and often prolonged his night an extra hour or two just to witness it.

Also, he was idly watching the activity of the wharf rats along the edge of the pier. Maybe he was just starting to notice things more, but he didn’t recall them being this active when the sun was up.

“Seems like every time I see you, you be stirrin’ up the wildlife.”

Griffen looked around and found the lanky black street entertainer standing behind him in full costume.

“Hey, Slim,” he said. “Are you up early or late?”

“Early,” the man said. “Competition’s getting pretty heavy for street space since they started regulatin’ where we can entertain.”

There was an ongoing fight in the Quarter between the street entertainers, particularly the tarot readers, and the painters, as to who did and didn’t have the right to set up shop on Jackson Square.

“Is it just me,” Griffen said, “or are the rats along the wharf more active than normal?”

Slim peered dramatically at the foraging rodents. “Naw.” he said firmly. “They be just trying to grab some food before the heat of the day sets in. Don’t take it personally. I was just pullin’ your chain a little. Well, hang loose, Grifter. I gots to be gettin’ to work.”

“Watch yourself, Slim,” Griffen said, waving good-bye.

Turning his attention to the rats again, Griffen found himself frowning. Until the street entertainer made his comment, it had never occurred to him that his presence might be affecting the local wildlife.

Staring hard at them, he tried to will them to go away. They steadfastly ignored him. Glancing around, he tried again.

His cell phone rang, starting him out of his exercise. Glanced at the caller ID, he flipped it open.

“Hey, Mose,” he said. “What’s up?”

“Didn’t think you was going to be awake, Grifter,” came the old man’s voice. “I was going to leave a message on your voice mail, but this is even better. When y’all went shoppin’ a while back, did you happen to pick up a suit?”

“No, we didn’t. I’ve got my sports coat and slacks that I used to use for interviews and theater dates, but never figured I’d need a full suit,” Griffen said. “Why? What’s up?”

“Well, try to pick one up today or tomorrow.”

Griffen frowned slightly.

“Okay. Any particular reason?”

“We got us a funeral to attend,” Mose said. “A suit isn’t really necessary, but it’s a nice gesture.”

“Whoa. Hold on a minute, Mose,” Griffen said. “Sorry, but I don’t do funerals. Weddings either, for that matter.”

There was a moment’s pause before the answer came.

“I can understand that, Griffen. Nobody really likes to go to funerals. Still, I think you should go to this one. It’s one of our people.”

Griffen was now very attentive.

“Who? I mean, what happened?”

“Do you remember Reggie? Works as a spotter for us at one of the hotels in the CBD?” Mose said.

“Older guy? White hair and mutton chops?” Griffen said. “Yeah, I remember him. I didn’t even know he was sick.”

There was a short snort of a laugh at the other end.

“Not sick. Lead poisoning,” Mose said.

“Excuse me?”

“New Orleans plague,” Mose said. “Went and got himself shot last night.”

Griffen was stunned. He looked out over the river again, the scene now having taken on a slightly surreal aspect to it. Then he remembered he was on the phone.

“Sorry, Mose,” he said. “That freaked me out for a second. Remember, I’m just a kid from the Midwest who’s led a sheltered life. This is the first time someone I’ve known has been shot.”

Griffen turned from the river and started to walk away, heading toward Cafe Du Monde and Jackson Square. He held the phone to his ear as Mose talked.

“I hate to say it, but start getting used to it,” Mose said. “It’s not all that uncommon in New Orleans these days. Just be thankful you live in the Quarter.”

“What happened?”

“Jerome will fill you in on the details,” Mose said. “Talk to him while you’re picking out a suit. Like it or not, you should be at that funeral. He was one of ours, and folks will expect you to be there. It’s one of the downsides of heading up a crew down here.”

“Sure, I’ll talk to Jerome, but can’t you tell me a little more?”

Griffen felt a featherlight tug at his pocket. Instinctively, his free hand went to his pocket and he twisted to look behind him. He hadn’t had his pocket picked yet in his time in New Orleans, but his mind flashed the suspicion that he had just had that new experience.