“That’s what I heard, too,” Jerome verified. “The thing is, because of the movies and television, you’ve got the big lizard image locked in your mind when you think of dragons. The way I see it, when you’re stressed or get excited, that’s what your subconscious defaults to when it goes to shape-shift. With Valerie, what with her being so athletic and all, she seems content to just get larger.”
“But you’re saying there are others who have this power?” Griffen said.
“If you look around the world, almost every culture has some sort of shape-shifter mythos or legend,” Jerome said. “There are stories about werewolves, weretigers, and were-bears. There’s even an old story about a chimera, which is supposed to be able to take on one of several different animal forms. I’ve never run into one, though.”
Griffen pursed his lips.
“You know, it occurs to me, Jer, that a shape-shifter, especially one of those chimeras, would make a pretty effective George.”
Jerome frowned and cocked his head.
“You know, I never thought of that,” he said. “Of course, it’s only since you hit town that I’ve had to think of the George at all.”
“Go ahead. Rub it in,” Griffen said with a grimace. “It just seems to me…”
The bedroom door opened and Fox Lisa emerged, bleary-eyed and yawning. She was wearing one of Griffen’s shirts with a couple buttons buttoned, giving an alluring view of her cleavage and legs.
“Hey, Jer. How’s it going?” she said in a slurred voice.
“Hey, yourself, foxy lady.” Jerome smiled back. “Sorry. Did we wake you?”
“Not to worry,” Lisa said with a vague wave of her hand. “I can sleep through an air raid. Nothing like a full bladder to get you moving, though. I’ll just wander into the sandbox and go back to bed.”
She headed into the bathroom with short, unsteady steps, shutting the door behind her.
“Sandbox?” Griffen said.
“Yeah,” Jerome said with a grin. “I don’t know who started it or where it came from, but it’s doing the rounds. I think it’s kinda classy.”
The toilet flushed, and Lisa reappeared.
“I’ll go back to bed now and get out of your hair,” she announced, groggily. “I’ll even shut the door so you and Young Dragon can talk in private.”
The two men looked at each other.
“Wait a minute,” Jerome said. “What did you call him?”
“Hmm? Oh. Young Dragon. Some of the crew have taken to calling him that, and I guess I sort of picked it up.”
“Who’s calling him that?” Jerome pressed. “How did that name get picked?”
Fox Lisa paused in the door of the bedroom and squinched her features into a grimace.
“Oh, com’on, Jerome,” she said. “I know I’m not in the inner circle of things, but it doesn’t take much to figure out there’s something going on down here. To quote what’s his name…Morgan Freeman…in
With that she disappeared into the bedroom, shutting the door behind her as promised.
Griffen looked a question at Jerome.
“Uh-huh,” Jerome confirmed. “Definitely dragon blood there. Probably not as much as me, but it’s there. Somehow, though, no one’s gotten around to mentioning it to her. Remember what I said about female dragons?”
There are certain moments in a person’s existence when they realize they have made a mistake and could very well die in the next few seconds.
Griffen had experienced one such moment back in Michigan when he had accepted a challenge to road race with an acquaintance of his in the dead of winter. As they piled into a curve, his car had suddenly lost traction and began to slide sideways toward a thin line of trees with an iced-over river just beyond. Rather than feeling petrified with terror or shouting like people do in the comedy movies, a sudden calm descended over him. He knew he had lost control of the situation, but there was nothing for him to do but watch as the events transpired. In that particular instance, his wheels had suddenly found traction on a patch of gravel and with a surge of power the event was past.
Stepping into the bar’s dimly lit interior and seeing the scene awaiting him, he felt that same calm as he realized that again he had lost control of a situation and could very well die for his mistake.
It had started innocently enough. He had been shooting pool with Maestro at the Irish pub when a small black kid came through the door and looked around. Griffen assumed that it was one of the tap-dancing panhandlers that worked the Quarter and figured the bartender would handle it.
Before the bartender could move, however, the kid made a beeline for Griffen.
“You Mr. Griffen?”
“On my better days,” Griffen said with a smile.
“Huh?” the kid blinked.
“Never mind.” Griffen sighed. “Yes, I’m Grif…Mr. Griffen.”
“Little Joe sent me to find you,” the kid said. “He needs to see you and said to tell you it’s important.”
“When and where?” Griffen said.
“He said the same place you two talked last time…right now.”
Griffen started to reply, but the kid spun on his heel and pushed his way back out into the sunlight without another word, his mission accomplished.
“Sorry, Maestro,” Griffen said, leaning his cue against the wall. “It seems something has come up.”
“You want company?” Maestro said, looking up from his shot.
“Naw. Where I’m going, they aren’t wild about strangers.”
“Suit yourself,” Maestro said and turned his concentration back to the pool table.
The bar was only three or four blocks away, and as Griffen strolled the distance, he wondered idly what Little Joe could want.
Maybe he was being called to demonstrate his poker skills again. Then again, it just might be that Little Joe wanted to introduce him to someone.
As Griffen’s notoriety had grown, he had noticed that more and more people stopped him on the street to introduce him to their friends or family or whoever it was that they were dating. There seemed to be a certain status attached to just knowing him these days.
What was more, he made a point of going out of his way to greet people, rather than staying in one place and making them come to him. As a young white man taking charge of a predominately black group, he wanted to make the impression that he viewed himself as the first among equals rather than a boss man who expected others to run and fetch at his command.
When they had first talked, Griffen had leaned on Little Joe pretty heavy. He didn’t think it would hurt their relationship if he unbent and responded to the summons as a demonstration of friendship and respect.
Two steps into the bar, however, he realized that he had misjudged the situation badly.
Little Joe was at his normal table all right. But sitting with him were two other young black men. They were both decked out in the “home boy” look that movies and television had made popular, with oversized shirts and shorts and bandannas wrapped around their heads. In short, they had “dope dealer” written all over them. But these were the real thing, not some Hollywood pretty boys. Confusing them with their wannabe suburban imitators would be the same as confusing a timber wolf and a toy poodle.
Griffen did not think they were here to play cards. Not unless the games they were used to sitting in on included having automatic pistols sitting on the table next to their hands.
Then, too, there was the table full of look-alikes in the corner, with an additional three sets of eyes boring
