Free Robert Asprin's Dragons Run by Jody Lynn Nye

and would look out for them, as he knew they would look out for him. The food was decent, the beer fresh, and the bartender knew everyone’s favorite drink without having to ask.
    Griffen took a seat at the rear of the bar, the “family” side, beside one of the pillars decorated with little white Christmas lights. Malcolm slid in beside him.
    “This is a nice, quiet neighborhood,” Malcolm said. “Where is your office?”
    “I don’t have one,” Griffen said. He raised a finger, and the bartender poured him a Diet Coke. “What will you have?”
    “Black coffee, thank you. I don’t usually drink that much or that early in the day, but it seemed imprudent to refuse Mr. . . . our recent host.”
    Griffen understood from Malcolm’s reticence that Duvallier’s name was not to be spoken aloud. Griffen knew very well how easy it was for a stray word to be overheard.
    He waited until the barman set a white mug before him, filled it with steaming, sable liquid, and turned away to give them their privacy.
    “You run a tab?” Malcolm asked.
    “I’m in here all the time,” Griffen said.
    “And you pay it off regularly?”
    “Why do you ask?” Griffen inquired, keeping his face blank.
    Malcolm nodded. “I see. None of my business, though you undoubtedly do keep up with your bill, judging by the bartender’s demeanor. He showed no signs of impatience with you.”
    “Few people get impatient in New Orleans,” Griffen said. “Life moves at its own pace here.”
    “So I see. It will take me some getting used to. But I am interrupting your day. You have responsibilities, and I have this excellent coffee. Chicory, isn’t it? Proceed with your duties.”
    “Excuse me a minute.” Griffen turned his back on his uncle. He took his cell phone from his pocket and hit the speed-dial number for Jerome.
    “Hey, Grifter!” his lieutenant’s soft voice murmured in his ear. “Where are you?”
    “The pub,” Griffen said. “How’s it going?”
    “Everything’s fine, man. You sound like you need to detox.”
    “Later.”
    “Uh-huh. What do I need to know?”
    Griffen glanced over his shoulder at Malcolm, who was pointedly not listening.
    “Uh, I’d rather tell you when I see you.”
    “Uh-huh, company?”
    “Yes,” Griffen said. “My uncle’s in town.”
    “I get it. No problem. Be there later.”
    The mellow clack of pool balls broke over the murmur of afternoon conversation. Griffen looked up to see who was playing.
    At the farther of the two tables in the Pub, his girlfriend Fox Lisa waved an eager hand at him. Griffen wasn’t surprised that he hadn’t seen the little redhead over the heads of his barmates. She was worth noticing. Her long hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she wore a skintight green T-shirt with a plunging neckline that showed off her generous bustline, and tight, faded jeans. Her companion, though, would have been difficult to miss anywhere. Her hair was red, too, but a pale strawberry blond that was struck gold by the Christmas lights. Freckles dusted her skin but only served to adorn it. Her figure was what the magazines called willowy, as if a strong wind would make her bend. Her mouth was wide, made for smiling—or kissing. Her pale blue eyes, though, had steel in them. She had on wide-legged, pale beige trousers and a soft top, an outfit more suitable for a fancy nightclub than a corner bar. She put down her pool cue and headed toward him. With a start, Griffen recognized her.
    He stood up.
    “Uncle Malcolm, isn’t that . . . ?”
    Malcolm looked astonished. “Indeed it is.”
    Fox Lisa scooted around her friend and reached up to give Griffen a hearty kiss. “Well, hey, there,” she said. “I wondered when you were going to get here! I want you to meet my friend!”
    “Penelope Dunbar. Call me Penny.”
    “Penny’s running for governor,” Fox Lisa said. “She belongs to my shooting club. She’s been looking for campaign workers. I’m running St. Bernard