Robert Asprin: Dragons deal

In the wide doorway, a broad silhouette stood between him and the outside. Griffen recognized the shape of a man who might have been mistaken for a big-boned, muscular, and somewhat overweight biker. His heart sank as the figure swaggered toward him.

"You thinking of running a krewe, on top of everything?" Detective Harrison asked, his broad face skeptical.

Matters were still not perfect between Griffen and Harrison, not since the masquerade ball at the end of the conclave in October. The New Orleans detective had learned about Griffen's secret in the course of his investigation of a crime. They'd gotten along so well before that. Griffen had thought they had formed a cooperative bond that would do them both good, but he had left out one little detail--that he was a dragon. He had believed that he could keep the truth about his heritage hidden, but it had all come out in a completely disastrous way.

Most humans were going to be freaked out about learning that heretofore mythical creatures existed, let alone lived anonymously side by side with them. Especially when someone trusted you, and you didn't let the person in on the little secret, "Oh, by the way, I'm a hereditary dragon, and so is my sister. There's a bunch of us around town. We're generally not a problem, but you have to look out for the vampires, werewolves, fairies, shape-shifters, selkies, and others who are here, too." To the man who is trying to enforce law and order with no more than his wits, some martial-arts training, and standard police-issue weaponry, the world is going to seem like a much scarier place. Griffen had pulled the figurative rug out from under him and rendered him less effective at his job. Harrison was finding it hard to forgive the omission. Griffen did not blame him; he blamed himself. He had been avoiding Harrison until he could figure out a way to make it up to him. Simple explanations were out of the question. A full disclosure, over a really good meal and drinks, with time for as lengthy a Q&A session as Harrison chose, plus the acknowledgment that Griffen owed him a favor, a big one, might do the trick, but Griffen had not yet felt ready to do it.

"Uh," Griffen said, lamely. "I've been asked to be king."

"Good idea," Harrison said, with a nod. "Make you fit in better, especially if you are reviving a dormant krewe. Tradition means a lot around here. We've got more of it than you folks from up North."

"I'm considering it," Griffen said, determined to be honest with Harrison. "I'm not sure I have the manpower to cover the responsibilities I would have. I was spread too thin . . ." He had started to mention the convention. Harrison stiffened, but Griffen didn't have a choice except to continue in that painful vein, "over Halloween, and I don't want to screw up something as important as Mardi Gras."

"Good that you're taking the time to think something through," Harrison said grimly. "You got all the permits?"

"Yes, sir," Etienne said.

"You have a theme worked up yet?" Harrison scanned the room, taking in the half-finished floats with an experienced eye.

"It's a secret, Detective," the werewolf said, with a grin that was almost a leer. "But you invited to the tableau ball. C'mon around and see."

Harrison echoed the grin, which looked no less feral than Etienne's. "I'll do that, if only to look at this guy in his king costume."

Griffen was alarmed. "Uh, no. I'm not even sure I'm going to do it."

Harrison's face changed from grim to shrewd skepticism. "Oh, you'll do it, McCandles. I know you--or I thought I did."

He turned and marched out into the sun. Griffen couldn't help but gawk after him. I deserved that, he thought. That's a bridge I have to rebuild, and soon.

Adeck of red-backed Bicycle cards flicked neatly out into a double fan. Each half arched like stretching cats, then flew at one another until they formed a single neat rectangular cube. The white French cuffs surrounding the spare wrists of the man folding the cards in and out between one another were bedecked with warm gold cuff links, each containing a single green, cabochon-cut stone. To the casual onlooker, they looked like smooth pieces of glass or perhaps plastic, almost translucent. To anyone who knew their stones, they were flawless Imperial jade, worth more per carat than diamonds. The suit was equally expensive and understated: pure, fine wool in a cool gray just a shade under charcoal, a cut between Armani and Bond Street, but clearly bespoke tailoring. The man wearing it, Jordan Ma, had a narrow face, an inverted triangle with broad temples, a straight nose, sharply etched cheekbones, long brown eyes with epicanthic folds that helped conceal his expressions--if he wore any--and thin lips outlined at the corners with tiny, deep-cut parentheses. He dealt cards to the three people sitting at the table with him.

Rebecca Tan, the youngest of the three, picked up her cards as they came to her. Her face was small and round, with black eyes, a flattened bridge to her broad nose, and an exaggerated cupid's bow to her mouth. Her chin-length hair was brown and frizzy, an obvious affectation since she could easily have taken control of it. She favored scarlet silk dresses, tailored devastatingly tightly around her slender, small-breasted figure, but the style was a dare, not an invitation, and not a dare that invited casual onlookers. She did not look dangerous, but Jordan knew her to be an evilly dirty fighter both at and away from the poker table. She was not his protegee, but that of the man to her left. She looked to Winston Long occasionally for approval. If Long showed it, it was in some subtle fashion that Jordan missed.

Long was old, very old. He allowed fellow poker players to play around with his name during a game. He had been called Cigarette, Silly Millimeter, and the one that he rather liked, Pack. It never occurred to the Westerners with whom he played that his family name meant "dragon." His face was smooth except for the fine wrinkles around his mouth and eyes. His suit was smooth black with a patina of green and looked as if he had been wearing it for fifty years. Jordan was too young to know for certain, but Long used it often. He raised his cards, perused them briefly without rearranging them, and set them facedown on the tabletop.

The fourth Jordan knew the least. Peter Sing had been wished upon Jordan by those who were senior to him. He wore his long black hair gelled up on one side as if a sudden windstorm had come along and blown it upward. Jordan was not an obsessive person, but the impulse to hold Peter down and smooth out his cockscomb threatened to overwhelm him. Peter gave him a cheeky grin, as if he knew exactly what Jordan was thinking. Peter was ambitious. Not a bad trait to possess, but he was impulsive. He had, against the orders of the elders, entered the World Poker Roundup in Las Vegas seven times, only once with his own face, and had made the feature table six times and the final table once, though he had lost to a combination of bad luck and impetuousness to the reigning king of televised poker, who had eleven of the diamond-encrusted belt buckles to his credit. The elders were furious that he had risked revealing himself on national television, but Peter wanted one of those belt buckles so badly that Jordan was certain he would try again. He deplored having to deal with Peter on such an important assignment.

Jordan set the remaining cards down firmly and picked up his own hand. King high, queen, nine, three, two. An average to poor hand, but no one would ever know it from his face. He nodded to Rebecca, sitting immediately to his left, to begin the betting. She slid a coin into the center of the table to augment the ante. The other players followed her lead, called her minimum bet.