“He must be pretty good to get hired on those terms,” Griffen said.
“They say he’s the best.” Mose nodded.
“So what exactly can he do to me?” Griffen said. “From what you were saying earlier, I should be pretty hard to harm, much less kill.”
“That would be true for any human that didn’t know what they were going up against,” Mose said. “That’s not the case with George.”
Griffen sighed.
“Okay, give me the bad news,” he said. “What am I vulnerable to?”
“Well, I’ve already told you your skin is pretty tough,” Mose said. “We haven’t really tested you out to see how far your blood has pushed it, but any fire or penetration shouldn’t be able to get through.”
“I can’t help but notice the word ‘shouldn’t,’” Griffen said drily.
“There are always exceptions,” Mose said. “While most edges won’t be able to cut you, I’ve heard of some people getting through with weapons with serrated edges.”
“Serrated edges,” Griffen echoed. “Anything else?”
“Just remember what I told you earlier,” Mose said. “Tough skin, like chain mail, only gives you one kind of protection. Even if your skin isn’t penetrated, you can still be hurt. You can suffer broken bones and bruises if you get hit hard enough…like, say, by a car.”
“Then, too,” Jerome put in, “there are things like poisons that could kill you without going through the skin.”
Griffen stood up and walked to the window where he stood for a moment, looking out.
“What you’re saying overall,” he said at last, “is that I’m really not all that invulnerable.”
“Let’s just say it would be best if you didn’t count on it too much,” Jerome said. “’Course, it’s always best to stay alert and watch out for whatever might be coming at you.”
“Let’s back up a bit here,” Mose said, holding up a hand. “While it may be best to consider and plan for the worst, there are some other possibilities here. The most obvious one I pointed out earlier, that it was just someone running a bluff on you up in Detroit to get you running.”
“There’s one problem with that, Mose,” Griffen said, returning to his seat. “That only works if I recognized the threat, which I didn’t.”
“But you ran,” Jerome pointed out.
“Only because my uncle Malcolm told me to,” Griffen said.
“In a phone call that came in conveniently just after the card got slid under your door,” Jerome said.
“As to your not recognizing the threat,” Mose said, “it could also be a way to make any dragon you tried to hook up with think twice before taking you in. I already told you that dragons can be a sneaky bunch.”
Griffen started to speak again, but Mose held up his hand.
“Le’me try a different slant on this,” he said. “Let’s assume for a moment that this is for real, and that the George is really after you. That doesn’t necessarily mean that he’s out to kill you.”
“But you said he was a hit man,” Griffen protested.
“I also said he was an enforcer,” Mose said. “See how this sounds. Malcolm told you that you were a bit of a wild card as far as the established dragons were concerned. What if one or more of them decided to hire the George to test you. To put some pressure on you to see what kind of power you have and whether or not you’re a threat to them.”
“So if I understand you right,” Griffen said, “if he tries to kill me and I’m weak, he’ll kill me. If he’s testing me and I’m strong enough to stave him off, it will alert the other dragons that I’m strong enough to be a threat to them.”
“Well, I wouldn’t have put it quite that way, but yes,” Mose said.
“Somehow I don’t find that reassuring,” Griffen said with a grimace.
“Cheer up, Grifter,” Jerome said. “Mose has already pointed out there’s a good chance this is just some elaborate kind of bluff. Even if the George is after you, remember where you are. Right now, he has no way of knowing you’re in New Orleans. Even if he finds you here, what with everybody in the Quarter knowin’ each other, he’ll stick out like a sore thumb.”
Everybody in the Quarter knows each other, Griffen thought to himself. Except for the couple of million tourists who roam the Quarter every year. Any of whom could be a killer in disguise. Great. Just great.
Sixteen
Griffen and Jerome were sitting at one of the small tables in the Irish pub waiting to meet with Gris-gris. It was early afternoon, so the place was nearly empty except for them, the bartender, a few people at the bar, and two guys shooting pool on the back table.
Meeting at a public place had been Gris-gris’s idea, though he had approved their choice of the Irish pub. Despite Mose’s statement that these matters were not handled by rough stuff, apparently Gris-gris was sufficiently worried that he wanted other people around.
The meeting itself was Griffen’s idea, just as he had proposed to handle the matter himself. Mose had agreed on the condition that Jerome went along. Everything had progressed smoothly, and now there was nothing to do but wait.
The waiting made Griffen edgy.
With nothing else to do, his mind was free to mull over anything he might have overlooked and everything that could go wrong. Try as he might, though, he couldn’t think of anything more to do now to improve the situation.
He had even thought to give the bartender forewarning. All it took was a quiet explanation that he was going to be meeting with someone and that it might get a little noisy. The bartender agreed to stay out of it, on the proviso that if it got rough they would take it outside and that Griffen would make good any damages.
The customers were all regulars and wouldn’t need any instructions to keep their distance. It was the Quarter.
Still nervous, Griffen played with his cup of coffee. He had considered having a shot of Irish whiskey, but decided he needed a clear head more than steady nerves.
“So, Jerome,” he said at last, just to break the silence, “what do you think of my plan?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Jerome said, watching the door.
“Excuse me?”
“I said it doesn’t matter what I think,” Jerome said. “You and Mose came up with this idea, and now it’s in motion. I’m just here to back you. If it works, it works. If not, we take it from there.”
“I’d still like to know what your opinion is,” Griffen said.
Jerome looked at him levelly, then returned his attention to the door.
“Well, I’ll admit I’m curious as to why you wanted to handle this yourself,” he said. “Would have thought you had more than enough on your plate right now. For that matter, would have thought you’d want to wait a bit and get a feel for things before you plunged in.”
“It seemed like the only logical way to play it,” Griffen said. “Gris-gris trying to pull out just when I’m coming in is too much of a coincidence. I think his problem is with me…and if it is, I’ve got to square things away with him myself. Hiding behind Mose won’t cut it.”
“Well, however it goes, it’s going down,” Jerome said. “Here they come.”
Griffen forced himself to take a slow sip of his coffee as the door opened.
The first one to come in was a huge chocolate-colored black man. Easily six foot six or seven, he had a thick massive body that made Griffen think of Fat Albert in the old cartoon show. He recognized him as the one they call Jumbo who works as a shill and bouncer at one of the strip joints on Bourbon Street. Rumor was that he also picked up a bit of extra money as a strong-arm man and debt collector. Despite his size, he was supposed to be very fast.
Pausing just inside the door, Jumbo swept the place with a slow, steady stare. When his eyes met Griffen’s, they paused and he gave a small nod of recognition. Meaning: We know each other, but I’m working. It’s just a job, nothing personal. Griffen nodded back.