Robert Asprin: Dragons deal

No food or drink was present to distract the players from their game. The light was good, neither too strong nor too faint, coming from shaded table lamps and brass standing lamps rearranged by Jordan so that no shadows would fall on the players' faces. Any small tells that they had would be in full view of the others. If a hotel employee had entered the room at that moment, he or she would have thought nothing special of the tableau: four people gathered for a casual game of poker. Perhaps they were in New Orleans for one of the countless conventions that enjoyed the Big Easy as a hospitable venue. Perhaps they were there to see the Saints play the Vikings during the next day's game at the Superdome. The difference was that instead of chips, the four strangers were playing cards for neat stacks of bright, blank-sided disks of pure gold.

The warm gleam of the metal aroused twin feelings of satisfaction and greed in Jordan Ma's soul. He wanted to possess all the coins on the table, as did each of his fellows. The game was "for keeps," as the quaint colloquialism had it. The participants came with their own stakes, and what they lost, they lost. That made play serious. At one time, he mused, they might have been at one another's throat for the treasure; but they had learned over time that though they were solitary creatures, they could cooperate for the common wealth. As now.

Rebecca dropped a card and signed for its replacement. She sorted her hand and pushed two more disks into the pot. Her face betrayed no emotion. Good, Jordan thought. She controls herself well. He could not tell what she was holding by her posture or expression. That was the mark of a good poker player. Long had taught her well.

"Have you made inquiries how to join a game?" Jordan asked.

"I did," Winston said. He discarded all but one card. Jordan dealt him four. Long glanced at them and put them down. Jordan let his eyes flick toward the older man's face. Long caught his glance. He spotted a hint of amusement in the old eyes in their nest of wrinkles as Winston dropped five disks into the pot, one at a time. Their musical clinking sent a pleasant frisson up Jordan's spine. "I asked the pleasant young man at the bell desk how one could find companionable colleagues for an evening of chance. It was necessary to guide him toward specifics. He found it difficult at first to get past the words 'companionable' and 'evening.' I had to assure him I did not want a bed partner."

Peter let out a short bark of laughter. "What do you expect? I am sure that it is by far the more common inquiry." He discarded one, accepted a card, and saw Winston's bet, five disks.

"And once that was straightened out?" Jordan asked, ignoring Peter. He discarded the three and two and dealt himself their replacements. Another king and a seven. One pair. Long had trusted to chance by taking four new cards. The odds were that he had little but an ace high. Rebecca probably had something of low value, since she had asked for a card and only bet two. She would almost certainly drop out. Peter stood the best chance of having a good hand because he had not hesitated to bet. Jordan felt that he might be able to bluff the other out of the round. He tossed five coins into the pot. As he had guessed, Rebecca threw her cards in. Jordan gathered them into the discarded pack. Her face still did not change expression.

"I was directed to a young black man who was, I may say, loitering with intent by the check-in desk," Winston continued. He added three coins to the growing pot. "Quality clothes, though of casual cut. Just the right note to strike, I believe. His name is DeShawn. He called me Mr. Long. He was happy to accommodate me. A few other travelers of the same inclination as mine will meet this evening. I am welcome to join them. The evening would be very informal, but pleasant. Refreshments will be provided. I had but to state my preferences as to drink, comestibles, music, even the type of chair I prefer. Smoking, DeShawn warned me, was permitted, and hoped it would not inconvenience me. I assured him that was not a concern. He did not take notes, but he seemed of quick wit. He suggested that if I find the company congenial, it would be available to me when I chose."

"Very well organized," Peter said, with a small nod. "Detail oriented. Makes for greater satisfaction of the clientele. I am impressed."

"Only if they follow through," Rebecca countered.

"He did not write down anything?" Jordan asked.

"No." Long pushed coins into the center of the table. Five. It was a modest bet, but it committed him to the hand. Jordan took that into account.

The tiny curves at the corners of Jordan's mouth indented. "Good. We can exploit that."

"How long do you think this will take?" Peter asked. He raised to eight.

"To bring down an entire gambling empire?" Winston asked, regarding him with amusement. "Not in a day, young one. Be patient. Our job is to cut away at all the legs that support this organization and make certain it cannot rise again. That will take time. You must be patient."

"I don't want to stay here forever," Peter protested. "It smells of mold. The people move too slowly."

"A river moves slowly, but it is powerful in its depths," Winston said. "Don't forget that. If you are arrogant, you will underestimate those who might have something to teach you."

Bored, Jordan found himself drawing a little circle on the back of his cards with the tip of his forefinger. Winston was right, of course, and Peter was wrong, but if they were going to disagree every day, this assignment would become unbearable.

"At least let us agree we are united in our aim," he said.

"No problem," said Rebecca. "It is very simple. I have also made a connection to be admitted to a game. A man in a bar who wanted to pick me up also turned me over to a nicely dressed white male whom he claimed as a friend. Only," she added, letting her smile spread slowly over her face like melting butter on a hotcake, "this friend's name is Griffen."

"So you have met him," Jordan said, his eyes widening a fraction of a millimeter. "What is he like?"

"He does not move like a dragon when he is among others," Rebecca said, thoughtfully. "But when he forgets to think about being human, you can see it. Anyone could."

"He doesn't hide his heritage, then," Jordan said. "That is good. At least he is proud. That will make him a worthy adversary. The elders did not think it would be easy. But rewarding. Call." He regarded his twin kings once, then tossed eight disks into the pot.

Winston studied him for a time. Jordan knew there was nothing to see, but he concentrated on keeping his aura empty of clouds or beams of light. Clarity was all. He waited. Winston smiled for a moment, then placed his cards facedown on the table.

Peter put five disks more into the pot. Jordan matched him. He waited. Peter put three more in, but the growing shadow of doubt in his aura told Jordan he was flagging. Jordan added three. With a curl of his lip, Peter flicked his cards in. Jordan did not smile as he raked the pot toward him and stacked his winnings at his left hand. The tall pile of coins pleased him. Peter narrowed his eyes at him.

"You must watch your moods," Jordan told him. "If I can see it, even a human with a spot of intuition will see it, too, let alone a fellow dragon."

"And what about Mai?" Winston Long's dark eyes glowed.

"That bitch!" Rebecca snarled.

"She is unimportant," Jordan said, gathering up the cards. "We disregard her unless she interferes with us. She had her chance to bring down McCandles. The elders no longer trust her to try. That is left to us now." He separated the cards and shuffled them.

Ofall the places that Griffen had come to love over the last several months in New Orleans, nothing had come to feel like home as much as the Irish pub in the French Quarter two streets off Bourbon. Strangers usually passed it by most of the time. It wasn't fancy. It didn't offer strippers or live jazz bands. True, there were two pool tables, occupied most of the time in the evening. The walls were full of interesting junk. None of that looked like enough of a reason for travelers to spend their scanty vacation time hanging out with the locals when they could drink an overly sweet Hurricane from a plastic glass and wander down Bourbon Street dipping in and out of the music clubs or huddle in the dark watching women in sequin bras and G-strings making love to a brass pole. The music was out there when Griffen wanted to go listen, of course, a string of Christmas lights that hung from the wineglass rack over the bar substituted just fine for all the neon, and with two lovers, he had no need for the live nude shows. What made the Irish pub his favorite spot was the company. Anyone who came in for a drink and stayed became part of the conversation. The subject matter ranged from how the Saints were doing that season to monetary policy in Elizabethan England to what to do with a brother-in-law who had overstayed his welcome to the latest electronic gizmo and whether or not it would change the world. He and another regular named Bone were the reigning experts on all movie trivia. All of his friends knew that if they wanted to find him, chances were they could locate him there.