Yap yap without end. Jerome’s eyes were shiny with mirth, and his smirk was broad and annoying.
“What’s so funny?” Griffen said.
“Just thinking that maybe Mose needs to start giving out report cards to his student, Young Dragon,” Jerome said.
“Oh, shut up.”
“And the parrot says, ‘Mine, too, must be the salt water.’”
Jerome’s smirk broadened, and Griffen glared. Those who knew the abominable and obscure joke Jerome was referencing glared as well. A balled up napkin hit him from parts unknown. The little dog kept yapping.
“I didn’t even try anything to set them off,” Griffen said sourly as his drink arrived.
“Ah, but did you try and quiet them?”
“Didn’t occur to me. That racket hit, mainly what I thought of was that it was time for a drink.”
“We need to work on your reflexes more.”
Which was the perfect time for the fight to break out.
Scuffles in the Irish pub were damned rare, and even more uncommon were serious ones. Whatever had triggered this one had started at the back of the pool tables. A shout, the sound of flesh hitting flesh, the screech of chairs as those around responded and rose from their seats. By the time the bartender was out from behind the bar and headed toward the trouble, a man, easily six-five, was pulling a pool cue back. It was clear that he intended to strike his much smaller opponent, and equally clear that the other wouldn’t be able to do anything to stop it.
The big man started to swing. Those closest started to move forward, knowing they would be too late. Griffen and Jerome were on their feet, too far back to do any good, but moving forward like everyone else. And before the man could get any momentum, his arm stopped with such a painful jerk that the entire room heard his shoulder pop.
The room seemed to stop as one, taking in the scene. The big man, turned around, fist raised to strike whoever had grabbed his cue. The sight before him stunned and stopped him just as quickly as it had done everyone else. Holding on to the end of his cue, in a jaw that would have done a horse credit, was the Great Dane. Its tail was wagging.
Later reports, unconfirmed, claimed the dog waggled his eyebrows.
What came next was one of the reasons Griffen enjoyed this pub so much, and why it had so few incidents like this. Both parties in the fight were not locals, but everyone who had rushed forward was. Together, under the guidance of the bartender, the two were pushed outside where they couldn’t damage the bar. The big man in particular got a lot of attention. Outside, shouting erupted as he tried to pick the fight back up, but the momentum of the anger had been broken. It was clear the smaller man wanted no part in more, and the larger was persuaded to head off before police patrolled by and got involved.
Slowly people began to filter back in. Of course, they were talking about the events. Drinks were picked back up, and several people patted the Great Dane, who seemed content to curl up in one corner and receive adoration. Griffen was one of the first back to his seat, and Jerome wasn’t far behind. The little dog sat back in his seat, and began barking. Griffen looked hard at the dog, and it rolled over sticking all four legs in the air and going quiet.
“Not too shabby, Grifter,” Jerome said.
“Thanks.”
“But don’t get cocky. Dogs is easy. They want to make people happy.”
“Thanks for the pep talk. Sheesh.”
The room went quiet again as the smaller man from the fight walked tentatively back into the bar. Usually, if anything like this happened, all parties were eighty-sixed, or banned, for the night. Repeat offenders, or those who pissed off the bartender too much, were banned forever. The bartender, and most of the bar, gave the man a hard stare. Finally, shyly, he spoke.
“Uh…sorry for the trouble. I’ll leave if you want. Only…” he said.
“What?” The bartender said.
“Before I go, could I buy that dog a drink?”
It was unanimously decided that the rule about eighty-sixing could be waved. Just this once.
“Gots to admit, the man has style,” Jerome said with a grin.
Griffen didn’t say anything, staring into the “water back” for his drink.
“What is it, Grifter?” Jerome said. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Well, another one.”
Still silent, Griffen slid his glass of water over to his friend. There was a slice of lime floating in it that hadn’t been there when they had followed the fight. More to the point, it was impaled by a plastic toothpick in the shape of a sword. Needless to say, the Irish pub never used plastic swords with their garnish.
Griffen had found that adjusting to his new life had been surprisingly natural. Both his status as a young dragon, and his reeducation and relocation into the French Quarter. All right, his stomach tied up in knots if he thought too hard about having an assassin after him. Or about the possibility of failing those who were coming to depend on him. Still, that later fear started to fade a little more with each incident.
He wasn’t the only one surprised for that matter. Though they kept it largely to themselves, those he encountered, including Jerome and Mose, were continually impressed by the obvious transformations he was experiencing, and dealing with in stride. However, some surprises hit him harder than others, and with the surplus of distractions around him, he had a tendency to forget that his life wasn’t the only one in upheaval.
He was in the Irish pub, playing pool on the back tables. His opponent, Padre, had proved to possess years of serious experience, as well as a knowledge of position play and strategy that kept him well in the lead. Griffen had no problems asking for tips and pointers, nor Padre giving them. Losing gracefully at pool did nothing to hurt his local status. Though every once in a while Gris-gris would look up from the bar and indulge himself in some gentle ribbing. After writing his name on the chalkboard for next game.
Griffen had just tried for a hard slice, and scratched, when he heard the corner doors swing open noisily. One thing he especially liked about the pub: no one left or entered without being heard. The creaky doors on both streets made sure of it. This time, the doors were unnecessary, as the laughter that filtered in identified the newcomer right away.
Griffen had never heard his sister Valerie laugh quite like that before she had met Gris-gris, but now he heard it more and more often, and liked it. It was a throaty, merry laugh full of enjoyment and contentment. Only, Gris-gris was still at the bar, and Valerie was not walking in alone.
Griffen hid his surprise and slowly straightened from the table to look over her companion.
The first thing he noticed was how the man moved. Well no, to be honest the first thing he noticed was that he was a man, and had his hand around Valerie’s waist. The second thing he noticed was how he moved, with a graceful, relaxed stride very similar to Valerie’s own. He was a few inches taller then her, with dark hair styled and combed back.
His clothes, which Griffen found himself noticing more and more in the Quarter, were well tailored to his body. Dark pants and a richly colored shirt with one button too many un-buttoned. If the body language had been any different, one might have thought he was gay, he had that excellent sense of style and materials, but there was no mistaking his preferences as he held the door for Valerie and helped her inside.
With a wave to his sister, Griffen set aside his pool cue and took a step forward. He didn’t have time for another step; she had crossed the distance with a fast, light step and scooped him up into a crushing bear hug. He caught a glance of his pool partner as he was swept up, but Padre was already smiling and sitting back with his drink, the game on hold. The man who had come in with Valerie followed in her wake, standing to the side with a slightly amused expression at her exuberant greeting.
“Val! Air would be nice,” Griffen said and pushed on her shoulders.
She laughed, not the same laugh she had used before, and set him back on his feet.
“You are such a wimp sometimes, Big Brother.”
