the Big Easy. Just watch your back, okay?”
George found himself looking up and down the street again as he signed off. Lizzy! This just kept getting better.
Ten
Flynn was tired of waiting.
He had given the McCandles boy his hotel and room number on the back of his business card when they first met, but the youth had yet to contact him. After several days of hanging around the hotel, Flynn said to hell with it and went out searching.
Having studied George’s report, he felt that Griffen should not be too difficult to locate. First of all, he knew the apartment complex where the young dragon and his sister lived. Flynn decided against approaching him there, however. First, it would alert McCandles as to how much information Flynn already had on him. Second, he wanted to hold off meeting the sister until he had a better fix on Griffen himself.
That left the young McCandles’s usual haunts.
When he ate out, it was often at either the Café Du Monde or at Yo Mama’s Bar and Grill on St. Peter Street. His favorite watering hole was an Irish pub a few blocks off Bourbon Street.
Flynn decided to try the pub first.
It wasn’t hard to find, but it was nearly deserted in the late-afternoon sunshine. The bartender was reading a newspaper, and a couple of middle-aged women were sitting at the bar deep in a quiet conversation.
Remembering that Griffen was mostly a nocturnal person, Flynn decided to try again later.
He killed time over an early dinner at a small restaurant on Decatur Street, then swung by the Café Du Monde, pausing to listen to the music of the street entertainers on Jackson Square. He did enjoy the French Quarter when he visited, though it was a marked change from his normal habits to be able to walk wherever you wanted to go. In Southern California, one drove everywhere, including to fetch the mail or visit your neighbors.
It was full dark when he reached the Irish pub again, and this time his patience was rewarded. Griffen McCandles was sitting at the far side of the bar, apparently engrossed in a small notepad he had on the bar before him. The youth glanced up as Flynn walked in, and smiled in recognition, waving for the man to join him at the bar.
“Mr. Flynn,” he said. “It’s good to see you. I’ve been wanting to ask you about a couple of things.”
“You could have called me,” Flynn said. “And it’s just ‘Flynn.’ Not ‘Mr. Flynn.’ ”
“I would have, but I didn’t know which hotel you were staying in,” Griffen said, signaling the bartender for a round.
Flynn tried not to stare at him.
“It was on the back of the card I gave you when we first met,” he said, trying to keep his voice casual. “The name of my hotel and the room number.”
“Really?” Griffen said. “I didn’t notice. Oh well, we’re here now. May I buy you a drink?”
Flynn had to fight to keep from shaking his head. Of all the reasons he had thought of as to why Griffen hadn’t called, it never occurred to him that Griffen hadn’t bothered to look at his business card. In Flynn’s world of show business and power meetings, communication was as natural as breathing. It seemed that things were run a bit differently here.
“That explains a few things,” he said. “I was starting to feel a bit neglected as a visitor.”
“I’m sorry,” Griffen said, hastily. “I really don’t know what protocol is in these situations. I’m still pretty new to this whole dragon thing.”
“No harm done,” Flynn said casually as he gave the bartender his drink order. “You’ve probably got a lot on your mind.”
“You can say that again.” Griffen grimaced, taking a sip of his drink. “Besides, I didn’t know how sincere you were when you offered to advise me. The big-league dragons I’ve run into so far haven’t been exactly helpful.”
“Who all have you dealt with so far?” Flynn said, though he already knew the answer.
“Well, I’ve had a couple of conversations with Stoner that
George found himself looking up and down the street again as he signed off. Lizzy! This just kept getting better.
Ten
Flynn was tired of waiting.
He had given the McCandles boy his hotel and room number on the back of his business card when they first met, but the youth had yet to contact him. After several days of hanging around the hotel, Flynn said to hell with it and went out searching.
Having studied George’s report, he felt that Griffen should not be too difficult to locate. First of all, he knew the apartment complex where the young dragon and his sister lived. Flynn decided against approaching him there, however. First, it would alert McCandles as to how much information Flynn already had on him. Second, he wanted to hold off meeting the sister until he had a better fix on Griffen himself.
That left the young McCandles’s usual haunts.
When he ate out, it was often at either the Café Du Monde or at Yo Mama’s Bar and Grill on St. Peter Street. His favorite watering hole was an Irish pub a few blocks off Bourbon Street.
Flynn decided to try the pub first.
It wasn’t hard to find, but it was nearly deserted in the late-afternoon sunshine. The bartender was reading a newspaper, and a couple of middle-aged women were sitting at the bar deep in a quiet conversation.
Remembering that Griffen was mostly a nocturnal person, Flynn decided to try again later.
He killed time over an early dinner at a small restaurant on Decatur Street, then swung by the Café Du Monde, pausing to listen to the music of the street entertainers on Jackson Square. He did enjoy the French Quarter when he visited, though it was a marked change from his normal habits to be able to walk wherever you wanted to go. In Southern California, one drove everywhere, including to fetch the mail or visit your neighbors.
It was full dark when he reached the Irish pub again, and this time his patience was rewarded. Griffen McCandles was sitting at the far side of the bar, apparently engrossed in a small notepad he had on the bar before him. The youth glanced up as Flynn walked in, and smiled in recognition, waving for the man to join him at the bar.
“Mr. Flynn,” he said. “It’s good to see you. I’ve been wanting to ask you about a couple of things.”
“You could have called me,” Flynn said. “And it’s just ‘Flynn.’ Not ‘Mr. Flynn.’ ”
“I would have, but I didn’t know which hotel you were staying in,” Griffen said, signaling the bartender for a round.
Flynn tried not to stare at him.
“It was on the back of the card I gave you when we first met,” he said, trying to keep his voice casual. “The name of my hotel and the room number.”
“Really?” Griffen said. “I didn’t notice. Oh well, we’re here now. May I buy you a drink?”
Flynn had to fight to keep from shaking his head. Of all the reasons he had thought of as to why Griffen hadn’t called, it never occurred to him that Griffen hadn’t bothered to look at his business card. In Flynn’s world of show business and power meetings, communication was as natural as breathing. It seemed that things were run a bit differently here.
“That explains a few things,” he said. “I was starting to feel a bit neglected as a visitor.”
“I’m sorry,” Griffen said, hastily. “I really don’t know what protocol is in these situations. I’m still pretty new to this whole dragon thing.”
“No harm done,” Flynn said casually as he gave the bartender his drink order. “You’ve probably got a lot on your mind.”
“You can say that again.” Griffen grimaced, taking a sip of his drink. “Besides, I didn’t know how sincere you were when you offered to advise me. The big-league dragons I’ve run into so far haven’t been exactly helpful.”
“Who all have you dealt with so far?” Flynn said, though he already knew the answer.
“Well, I’ve had a couple of conversations with Stoner that
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