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Authors: Jody Lynn Nye
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now.”
Even with his long legs, Griffen had to scurry to keep up with Malcolm’s retreating back. He caught up with him on the curb, where his uncle was handing the car’s claim slip to the valet.
“I’m sorry for making things worse, Uncle Malcolm.”
The elder McCandles regarded him gravely.
“They went very much the way I feared they would, Griffen. Actually, I appreciated your input. It was helpful.”
Griffen stared at him. “How? I just challenged him to try to kill Penny Dunbar before the primary.”
Malcolm sighed. “I and my associates grossly underestimated the importance of the local angle. Your presence gave me more credibility with Mr. Duvallier than I would have had alone. My associates and I felt that with the growth of the global community, we might be able to exert pressure as interested parties. But, as the late Speaker of the House Tip O’Neill justly said, ‘All politics is local.’ Mr. Duvallier is, perforce, old-school. I would further appreciate it if you remained involved.”
“Sure,” Griffen said, surprised. “As long as it doesn’t interfere with my business. Or finding Val.”
“I had not forgotten your sister. I have various investigators out in the field, following up leads as to her whereabouts. She is not likely to be harmed in her condition.”
“There’s a long way in between not being harmed and able to come and go as she wants,” Griffen said.
“I know that, but we do not know if she was under duress or left of her own volition. Her life is not actively in danger, and Miss Dunbar’s is. So, if you please?”
The valet brought the Toyota to a halt at the curb. Malcolm tipped the young man and received a half salute in return.
Griffen got behind the wheel.
Nine
Griffen felt shaken. He wished he could talk to Rose. He thought of the ghost of the voodoo priestess as his special advisor and sometimes guardian angel there in the French Quarter. She often sensed when he needed her though she seldom if ever appeared when there was anyone else around. He glanced at pedestrians on the sidewalks but saw only tourists going to watch the acrobats performing on the adjoining street that closed for the afternoon. Scarcely any locals, and none of them the distinctive, slender, African-American woman wrapped in colorful skirts and shawls. He sent out a silent plea to her to find him later.
“Where can I drop you?” he asked his uncle.
“Where are you going?” Malcolm inquired politely.
“Back,” Griffen said. “I have to check and see how things are going. I have . . . responsibilities.”
“So I have heard. May I come with you?”
Griffen gawked. He had thought he was done with his uncle Malcolm for the time being. “I don’t think you would find it interesting,” he said politely.
“I admit, I am curious,” Malcolm said. “You went from a fairly unsuccessful college student with a less-than-responsible attitude, to a manager and owner of a going concern, however . . . illicit.”
“It’s a gray area,” Griffen said, uncomfortably.
“Forgive me. It was not an opening to an argument. You have done well, or so I have heard. We need to talk more, and, if you would permit me, it would be a privilege to see how you have changed.” Griffen growled inwardly at the thought of performing for his disapproving elder relative, but part of him suddenly craved showing off.
“All right,” he said. He turned the next corner and headed for the Irish pub.
• • •
Few patrons sat at the scattered tables or hugged the dark-stained wooden bar when they arrived. The hour before dinner was often a good time for a private conversation. The room was dimly lit and just warm enough to be comfortable. The clack of pool balls at one of the two pool tables and the blare of the jukebox across the big, open room made for homey background noise. The Irish pub was Griffen’s favorite spot in the French Quarter. He knew all the locals who frequented it
Even with his long legs, Griffen had to scurry to keep up with Malcolm’s retreating back. He caught up with him on the curb, where his uncle was handing the car’s claim slip to the valet.
“I’m sorry for making things worse, Uncle Malcolm.”
The elder McCandles regarded him gravely.
“They went very much the way I feared they would, Griffen. Actually, I appreciated your input. It was helpful.”
Griffen stared at him. “How? I just challenged him to try to kill Penny Dunbar before the primary.”
Malcolm sighed. “I and my associates grossly underestimated the importance of the local angle. Your presence gave me more credibility with Mr. Duvallier than I would have had alone. My associates and I felt that with the growth of the global community, we might be able to exert pressure as interested parties. But, as the late Speaker of the House Tip O’Neill justly said, ‘All politics is local.’ Mr. Duvallier is, perforce, old-school. I would further appreciate it if you remained involved.”
“Sure,” Griffen said, surprised. “As long as it doesn’t interfere with my business. Or finding Val.”
“I had not forgotten your sister. I have various investigators out in the field, following up leads as to her whereabouts. She is not likely to be harmed in her condition.”
“There’s a long way in between not being harmed and able to come and go as she wants,” Griffen said.
“I know that, but we do not know if she was under duress or left of her own volition. Her life is not actively in danger, and Miss Dunbar’s is. So, if you please?”
The valet brought the Toyota to a halt at the curb. Malcolm tipped the young man and received a half salute in return.
Griffen got behind the wheel.
Nine
Griffen felt shaken. He wished he could talk to Rose. He thought of the ghost of the voodoo priestess as his special advisor and sometimes guardian angel there in the French Quarter. She often sensed when he needed her though she seldom if ever appeared when there was anyone else around. He glanced at pedestrians on the sidewalks but saw only tourists going to watch the acrobats performing on the adjoining street that closed for the afternoon. Scarcely any locals, and none of them the distinctive, slender, African-American woman wrapped in colorful skirts and shawls. He sent out a silent plea to her to find him later.
“Where can I drop you?” he asked his uncle.
“Where are you going?” Malcolm inquired politely.
“Back,” Griffen said. “I have to check and see how things are going. I have . . . responsibilities.”
“So I have heard. May I come with you?”
Griffen gawked. He had thought he was done with his uncle Malcolm for the time being. “I don’t think you would find it interesting,” he said politely.
“I admit, I am curious,” Malcolm said. “You went from a fairly unsuccessful college student with a less-than-responsible attitude, to a manager and owner of a going concern, however . . . illicit.”
“It’s a gray area,” Griffen said, uncomfortably.
“Forgive me. It was not an opening to an argument. You have done well, or so I have heard. We need to talk more, and, if you would permit me, it would be a privilege to see how you have changed.” Griffen growled inwardly at the thought of performing for his disapproving elder relative, but part of him suddenly craved showing off.
“All right,” he said. He turned the next corner and headed for the Irish pub.
• • •
Few patrons sat at the scattered tables or hugged the dark-stained wooden bar when they arrived. The hour before dinner was often a good time for a private conversation. The room was dimly lit and just warm enough to be comfortable. The clack of pool balls at one of the two pool tables and the blare of the jukebox across the big, open room made for homey background noise. The Irish pub was Griffen’s favorite spot in the French Quarter. He knew all the locals who frequented it
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