“Hey, Slim,” he said. “Are you up early or late?”
“Early,” the man said. “Competition’s getting pretty heavy for street space since they started regulatin’ where we can entertain.”
There was an ongoing fight in the Quarter between the street entertainers, particularly the tarot readers, and the painters, as to who did and didn’t have the right to set up shop on Jackson Square.
“Is it just me,” Griffen said, “or are the rats along the wharf more active than normal?”
Slim peered dramatically at the foraging rodents. “Naw.” he said firmly. “They be just trying to grab some food before the heat of the day sets in. Don’t take it personally. I was just pullin’ your chain a little. Well, hang loose, Grifter. I gots to be gettin’ to work.”
“Watch yourself, Slim,” Griffen said, waving good-bye.
Turning his attention to the rats again, Griffen found himself frowning. Until the street entertainer made his comment, it had never occurred to him that his presence might be affecting the local wildlife.
Staring hard at them, he tried to will them to go away. They steadfastly ignored him. Glancing around, he tried again.
His cell phone rang, starting him out of his exercise. Glanced at the caller ID, he flipped it open.
“Hey, Mose,” he said. “What’s up?”
“Didn’t think you was going to be awake, Grifter,” came the old man’s voice. “I was going to leave a message on your voice mail, but this is even better. When y’all went shoppin’ a while back, did you happen to pick up a suit?”
“No, we didn’t. I’ve got my sports coat and slacks that I used to use for interviews and theater dates, but never figured I’d need a full suit,” Griffen said. “Why? What’s up?”
“Well, try to pick one up today or tomorrow.”
Griffen frowned slightly.
“Okay. Any particular reason?”
“We got us a funeral to attend,” Mose said. “A suit isn’t really necessary, but it’s a nice gesture.”
“Whoa. Hold on a minute, Mose,” Griffen said. “Sorry, but I don’t do funerals. Weddings either, for that matter.”
There was a moment’s pause before the answer came.
“I can understand that, Griffen. Nobody really likes to go to funerals. Still, I think you should go to this one. It’s one of our people.”
Griffen was now very attentive.
“Who? I mean, what happened?”
“Do you remember Reggie? Works as a spotter for us at one of the hotels in the CBD?” Mose said.
“Older guy? White hair and mutton chops?” Griffen said. “Yeah, I remember him. I didn’t even know he was sick.”
There was a short snort of a laugh at the other end.
“Not sick. Lead poisoning,” Mose said.
“Excuse me?”
“New Orleans plague,” Mose said. “Went and got himself shot last night.”
Griffen was stunned. He looked out over the river again, the scene now having taken on a slightly surreal aspect to it. Then he remembered he was on the phone.
“Sorry, Mose,” he said. “That freaked me out for a second. Remember, I’m just a kid from the Midwest who’s led a sheltered life. This is the first time someone I’ve known has been shot.”
Griffen turned from the river and started to walk away, heading toward Cafe Du Monde and Jackson Square. He held the phone to his ear as Mose talked.
“I hate to say it, but start getting used to it,” Mose said. “It’s not all that uncommon in New Orleans these days. Just be thankful you live in the Quarter.”
“What happened?”
“Jerome will fill you in on the details,” Mose said. “Talk to him while you’re picking out a suit. Like it or not, you should be at that funeral. He was one of ours, and folks will expect you to be there. It’s one of the downsides of heading up a crew down here.”
“Sure, I’ll talk to Jerome, but can’t you tell me a little more?”
Griffen felt a featherlight tug at his pocket. Instinctively, his free hand went to his pocket and he twisted to look behind him. He hadn’t had his pocket picked yet in his time in New Orleans, but his mind flashed the suspicion that he had just had that new experience.
If he hadn’t been distracted by the phone, he would have been more aware of the stairs in front of him.
He never caught the barest glimpse of his assailant. Body twisted and off balance, a hard shove threw him forward. He barely registered that the shove had been two handed, one just above his hips, the other between his shoulder blades, guaranteeing he wouldn’t recover. Then he was in the air.
The stairs leading from the Moonwalk down to Decatur Street are a flight of curved, amphitheater like steps. Made out of concrete.
His first impact was on his side, but the force of the hard steps into his ribs jerked his body, and his head hit a moment later. The cell phone dropped from a hand that shot out to try and stop his fall, but he was already rolling. Nails scraped on concrete, and felt as if they would tear. Three more steps went by, each a sharp pain as his body twisted.
Griffen lay stunned. Blood pounded in his ears. Dazed, his eyes caught upon his hand, gripping the step above him. His nails were long, almost claws, and had dug the smallest of grooves into the concrete. They slowly receded back to normal.
“Griffen! Griffen what’s happening!?”
Mose’s voice called from the fallen phone, snagging his attention and jerking him back into focus. He pulled himself up, intending to stand but groaning and sitting down as pain shot through his ribs and side. He scrabbled for the phone and put it to his ear.
“I’m here,” Griffen said.
“God, lad, where’d you go?!”
A few people were rushing toward him, not many. More kept walking, not seeing him. Wouldn’t be the first drunk to fall, even in daylight. He waved off those who approached.
“I fell, down the stairs.”
“Griffen, the thickest skin in the world won’t save you from a broken neck.”
“Now he tells me. Mose, I was pushed.”
“By who?”
“I don’t…wait.”
Griffen reached into the pocket. He realized, the tug he had felt had not been where he kept his wallet. Hand shaking slightly, he pulled out a long card that had been slipped in before his fall. The Knight of Swords.
“It seems,” Griffen said, fear momentarily numbing his pain, “that the George has taken things up a notch.”
Thirty-two
“I’m telling you, Jerome, I’m even less thrilled about going to a funeral now.”
“Hey, at least it’s not yours,” Jerome said
“Yet,” Griffen said, neither one of them had much humor in his voice.
They had gotten together as planned to pick out a suit for Griffen. A cheerless chore nowhere near as interesting as their last shopping excursion. His mind kept going back to the fall, and how easily it could have been much, much worse.
Of course, Griffen’s mood wasn’t improved by the ache in his ribs. Mose had checked him out, and declared nothing broken. They still protested every time he lifted his right arm too high. He winced as he tried on a somber jacket.
“Sure I can’t help you with that?” Jerome said.
“Yes.”
Griffen waved him off stubbornly and shrugged the jacket on. They were more or less alone, having told the salesperson they didn’t need assistance. Griffen wanted freedom to talk.
“You can help me understand about Reggie. How he died and why you and Mose seem to be treating this as business as usual.”
“Can’t really treat it as anything else. It’s the drug gangs,” Jerome said. “Most murders are within family or friends when someone gets drunk or mad and goes for a gun or a knife. The so-called ‘killer’ is usually still sitting there when the cops come. It’s the drug gangs that are pushing the murder rate so high in this town.”