Robert Asprin - Dragons deal

"None taken," Griffen said, embarrassed. He was suddenly aware how many people were looking at him. A few were strangers in the French Quarter, but most of them were people he knew. Many looked sorry for him. "Mai . . . ?"

"What?" Mai exploded, turning to him. Her eyes were all but glowing green. Val had grown five inches taller in the last few minutes. Fox Lisa's complexion just about matched her hair.

"We've got to go," Griffen said, firmly. "Come on."

Fox Lisa looked annoyed but triumphant.

"They're kicking her out?" she asked.

"You, too," Griffen said, taking no prisoners. "And us, Val," he added.

At once, Val subsided. She looked shocked.

"I've never been kicked out of a bar in my entire life!" she said. "This is your fault, Griffen!"

"Yeah, it is," Griffen said. He shot a grim glance at Maestro, who had the grace to look abashed at the results of his mischief-making. Griffen plucked bills out of his wallet and put them on the counter. "Come on." He took Val's arm. She started to yank it away, then let him hold on to her as he marched her firmly out onto Burgundy Street at the corner of Toulouse. The two other women, still arguing, followed in their wake.

As soon as they were outside, Fox Lisa poked him in the chest with her forefinger.

"This isn't over," she said. "You're gonna have to figure out what your priorities are, Griffen McCandles." She marched away up Toulouse. Griffen watched her disappear into the evening crowd, feeling dismayed.

"She's right," Mai said. "And who is really important to you." She sashayed off in the opposite direction. Griffen and Val found themselves standing alone in front of the Irish pub's door.

"Can I walk you home?" Griffen asked Val.

"No, thanks," Val said tersely. Her eyes were still shining. "Gris-gris said he and his cousins would be hanging out in the bar at the restaurant. I think I'll join them. No offense, but I don't want to be with you at the moment."

Griffen slunk toward home by himself, wishing his dragon skills ran toward letting him turn invisible. His big opportunity didn't seem so wonderful anymore, and he hadn't even agreed to it yet. He'd been all set to spend the evening barhopping with one or more of the ladies. Now the best prospect seemed to be microwave popcorn and a couple of DVDs. He had just rented the classic Frankenstein and the original The Mummy . Taking himself out of the here and now felt like a good idea. At least the people in the movies knew they were creating monsters.

As he turned into Royal Street, a couple of shadows detached themselves from a group near the door of a bar and followed him at a distance of approximately thirty feet. Griffen didn't even notice them.

LateSaturday night, two o'clock Sunday morning, really, was an excellent time for a young man to be out and about in the French Quarter. He had a pocketful of money. The hours he had just spent at the poker table in the Marriott on Canal Street had been more than profitable. The bars were still open, and playing live music good enough to shake one's soul and loud enough to be heard all the way over on Royal. And his girlfriend had left a message on his cell phone to tell him she forgave him being a jerk, and to come over as soon as he was free--whenever that was. She didn't care how late. He grinned at the vagaries of good fortune. What a great word that was, he thought, taking a deep breath of the warm, moist air. Louis Armstrong was right. What a wonderful world it was, too.

He heard a faint click of footsteps on the brick street, maybe ten or twelve yards behind him. He could hardly believe it. There were a couple of guys following him, probably hoping to get ahold of the money he was carrying. Obviously they didn't know who he was. He glanced back, and they sidestepped into a doorway. He shook his head and grinned. Amateurs. They were going to get a surprise, one they did not and could not possibly expect. He flexed his fingers, letting the tips of claws emerge just a tiny bit. He kept walking, heading for a corner he knew was dark at this hour. He undid his black bow tie and stuffed it into the pocket of his black, light wool pants. No sense in letting it get messed up. His white shirt was probably going to suffer, though.

Jesse Lee had been downright trepidatious at first to work for Griffen McCandles, though all his instincts told him that he was taking advantage of a great opportunity. He had started dealing poker and blackjack at the big casino when he was eighteen but was approached by the elders of the Eastern dragons to shoot cards at private card games around New Orleans almost three years ago. He prided himself on being the fastest and most nimble card handler in the city, probably the whole state of Louisiana. He had tried to get them to start calling him "Jet" Lee, in tribute to the movie star, but it just had not caught on.

He did tricks before and after games to amuse the paying players, which earned him sizable tips, like the wad that made his wallet bulge, but during the game he was irreproachably precise and neat. The elders as well as his clientele had told him that his skills were appreciated. Still, when Griffen McCandles came to the city a few months before, he had felt irresistibly drawn to the younger man. In spite of warnings from his then-current employers, he had quit working for them and gone to deal for McCandles. He'd shown respect to the elders but had been firm that that was his choice. The Eastern dragons had let him go, but with a warning. Griffen and Jerome knew his situation and never put him into a venue where one of the Eastern dragons' games was going on at the same time as his. Griffen cared about what happened to his people. That pleased Jesse. It was so uncharacteristic of a senior dragon of his rank. Jesse wanted to enjoy the novelty before Griffen came into his full powers and started acting just like the rest of them.

He cut through Pirate's Alley and went into Jackson Square. The high building around him felt protective, though the wide public area was deserted except for a man in ragged blue jeans and a woven poncho singing to himself on the grass square bordered by the flagstone sidewalks that ran along the four sides. Jesse angled around the central garden, past the iron fence where in daytime artists hung their paintings and drawings for sale. He flattened himself against the far side and glanced back around the bushes at the thugs. Their faces were in shadow. Their bodies were both thick--not fat, but strong. Their legs looked short, but only until he realized that bulk made them look broad in proportion to their length. They looked like hired musclemen, not muggers. Jesse's heart pounded. Who had he pissed off? He didn't owe anyone money. He hadn't insulted anyone that he could remember. It couldn't possibly be one of the players wanting to recoup on the evening's losses; the other players would be the ones to go after, not him!

Jesse stopped briefly, pretending to look into a window of the one of the closed shops. The two behind him moved toward him purposefully, not minding now that he was watching them. He grinned to himself. Weren't they going to get a surprise?

He had taken martial-arts training since he was young. The discipline had no name; humans had fragmented the original into several traditions. They weren't capable of understanding the whole. He had other advantages owing to his heritage, including impenetrable skin. It might hurt to get stabbed, but knives and bullets could not kill him. Discovering that would disorient his would-be attackers long enough for him to use disabling moves on them. He hoped he would not have to kill.

He eased in the direction of Chartres, the northwest exit of the square, keeping close to the wrought-iron fence. The others sped up their pursuit. They were coming for him openly now. Jesse was alarmed by how confident they seemed. One of them wound something around his right hand. That meant they were there to teach him some kind of lesson. But who sent them? As far as he could remember, he had been open and aboveboard with everyone. He had informed the elders to their faces that he was changing jobs. His girlfriend had not been attached to anyone else when he started seeing her. Even his taxes were up-to-date, though the details of his profession were a little in the gray scale as far as the government went. His conscience was clear. His breathing sped up. The moist air was an impediment to getting enough oxygen. Why should he be afraid of two human muggers?