When the last of the plastic pails was upside down over a drain in the floor, Griffen wiped his hands on a paper towel.
"I've got to get back," he told Lucinda.
"Well, thank you for your help," she said.
"It was an experience," he admitted. His arms felt soggy and pruny up to the elbows. Paste had congealed under his fingernails, and he could feel a blob of it in one of his socks from when it had dripped off a strip someone else had slapped down and fallen into his shoe. "See you at the next meeting."
"Griffen?" Lucinda asked, as he turned away.
"Yes?"
"Didn't it feel good to make something?"
Griffen stopped and turned back to the partially completed float. It didn't look like much yet, but he could actually sense that piece of the snapdragon he had helped build. He had done that. He would know it forever. Suddenly, the small inconveniences were worth it. Even the squishy sock didn't bother him as much.
"Yes," he said, with a grin. "Thanks."
"My pleasure," Lucinda said.
Seventeen
Griffen was horrified to find that he was right to be concerned about Tee-Bo's reaction to the news of Jimmy McGill.
A singer that Griffen and Fox Lisa both enjoyed had advertised a Solstice Celebration concert at a jazz club just off Bourbon Street near the river. She sat on a stool under a single spotlight, holding her microphone in both hands. Her warm, smoky voice wrapped her poetry with a kind of palpable love. Griffen sat with his chair braced against the wall in the corner of the pale coral room, with his arm around the petite auburn-headed girl, his eyes closed. Music permeated the air like the cigarette smoke. He breathed it in and felt New Orleans's own magic swelling up in him. No wonder so many dragons lived in the area. He had always loved music, but he got a natural, warm buzz from the soaring, twisting, turning flourishes of the jazz trumpet, clarinet, and trombone. It was a solid, mind-changing high, and it was street-legal. He took a sip of whisky. The warmth just added to the sensation of well-being. He grinned down at Fox Lisa. She lowered her eyelashes at him. They both had the same idea about where to go after the music ended.
The singer ended her set to wild applause. Someone handed her a glass of clear, bubbling liquid. She raised it to the audience. The spotlight blinked out, and the buzz of the crowd filled in the silence.
"Hey, Mr. McCandles," said Patches. Griffen looked up. He was one of Tee-Bo's strong men, a thin, wiry man in a dark green T-shirt stained at the collar. He was missing a canine tooth and an upper bicuspid, both from street fights, but he had won many, many more than he had lost. The other patrons glanced at him nervously. "Can I talk to you for a minute?"
"Sure, Patches," Griffen said.
"Hey, Griffen," Fox Lisa began, concerned.
"Don't worry. Just stay here a moment, will you?"
Fox Lisa glanced toward the bar, where she had left her fanny pack. Griffen knew that inside it was a black-handled revolver. She knew how to use it, and was more than willing to if she thought Griffen was in danger. He shook his head. She sat back in the chair but didn't look happy.
"If you aren't back in five minutes, I'm coming after you."
"No problem," Griffen said.
He followed the enforcer out onto the street. Patches kept walking, around the edge of the building and into a narrow alley. Another of the muscle squad, Tich, was waiting there, his arms crossed. Griffen steeled himself, wondering if he had annoyed the drug dealer without knowing it. But as Griffen reached him, Tich nodded.
"Evening, Mr. McCandles. Tee-bo says hey. He sent somethin' for you."
He tilted his head downward to the side. Griffen realized that the dark lump on the ground was a man. Jimmy McGill slumped against the cracked stucco, his head bowed, chin on chest. His eyes were swollen shut. His left ear was bleeding, as if it had been wrenched partway off his head. Blood trickled from his nose and puffed lips. Griffen drew in a shocked breath. They had worked Jimmy over pretty thoroughly.
"Just wanted you to see the retirement package Tee-Bo gave this guy," Patches said. "He not workin' for Tee-Bo no more, either. He hid out from us for a few days, but we found him. Thought we'd bring him around to you, since he pissed you off, too."
"Tee-bo didn't have to do that," Griffen began. He felt his breath grow hot in his nostrils. He clenched his hands. The skin felt dry and rough. Jimmy had lied to all of them, but he didn't deserve that.
Patches shook his head. "Yeah, he did. Jimmy was in for a beating. Tee-Bo considers his relationship with you to be more important than one lyin', low-down snake. This just a little reminder to anyone else who ain't smart enough to comply with the noncompete agreement."
Griffen worked his jaw. He knew he couldn't let himself overreact. This was street justice. He had achieved a mutual respect with Tee-bo and the other drug dealers in town by being honest with them. Jimmy had defied the rules, and he had paid for it. He wasn't dead. The gangs were trigger-happy. They could have shot Jimmy and left him in a park somewhere for the police to find. Griffen told himself he should be glad of that, but the violence made him angry. Smoke started coming out of his nostrils.
"Hey, hear you're gonna be in the Fafnir parade, Mr. McCandles," Tich said. "My brother, he have a license to drive a tractor. He's free on the twenty-fourth, if your krewe needs someone. I'll get you his phone number."
Griffen stared at him. How could he talk about something as inconsequential as a driving job when a human being was bleeding at their feet?
Patches nudged him. "Got to go. Have a nice night, Mr. McCandles."
Somehow, Griffen summoned up enough humanity to mutter a "Good night." The enforcers slipped away.
"Come on, Jimmy, we'll get you to the emergency room," he said. He reached for the young man's arm and tried to help him up. Jimmy roused a little and glanced up. His eyes widened until the irises were surrounded by bloodshot whites. He shook his hand free of Griffen's grip.
"No! No! Leave me alone!" he cried. He scrambled backward, pulled himself up against the grimy wall, and fled. Griffen watched him go, confused. Then he caught a glimpse of himself in the remains of a dirty window on the blind wall, and realized he had partially transformed. The bottom of his face had pushed forward, and his teeth, partially sharpened, were showing between his lips. Tee-Bo's men hadn't turned a hair. Did they know he was a dragon, or hadn't they seen, or didn't they care? He knew he had become something of a legend in town. Were they that at home with the supernatural in New Orleans?
Griffen made sure to recombobulate himself and become human again before returning to the club. He caught Fox Lisa's anxious gaze when he entered the crowded room. She relaxed, with a worried smile.
"It's all right," he said. "Nothing to get upset about."
But he wasn't telling the truth. The singer returned, and the second set began. Griffen tried to let the music carry him away, but the evening was spoiled for him. All he could see was the fear on Jimmy's face.
Eighteen
The tailor drew the end of the measuring tape up into Griffen's crotch and dragged the other end down toward his instep. Griffen jumped and tried to flick his hand away.
"Hold still!" the man ordered, steadying Griffen on the cloth-covered pedestal before the triple mirrors. He was a burly, middle-aged African-American with a dark, pockmarked complexion and close-cut gray hair. Griffen would never have guessed seeing him on the street that he was a tailor. He looked more like a gym teacher or a trucker. "This isn't personal. I'm not interested in you, all right? I've got a sexy wife and five kids. Hmm. You got long legs. That's good. I got plenty of trousers in your size."