"Griffen."
"To what do I owe the honor? I don't have time to spare. I have a dinner engagement."
"Yes," Stoner said, his eyes registering no emotion. "Detective Harrison. This won't take long. I told you that if you became involved in my interests, I would warn you."
"What interests are those?" Griffen asked. "Homeland Security?"
"That is my only concern with regard to you, or anyone else in this city," Stoner said.
"I have nothing to do with your business," Griffen said, alarmed. "I'm just trying to keep mine going."
"What about the Mardi Gras situation?"
"That's nothing," Griffen said. "The only thing that makes the krewe different from every other krewe in New Orleans is that all the members are dragons. I have no authority. I'm just the king. They're all hyperorganized, but it's nothing that should interest the government."
"Don't try to pretend you don't know what's going on," Stoner said.
"There's nothing going on," Griffen said, feeling desperate. If Stoner picked him as dangerous, he could end up in a federal penitentiary awaiting a trial that never came, or shipped off somewhere they didn't speak English and had no phones, or just plain killed. "I swear. It's accountants and bartenders playing dress-up for a day."
"Then you will cooperate with me. I represent your nation's government."
"What do you want?"
Stoner turned to face him. His eyes bored into Griffen's like awls. "These accountants and bartenders do want to interfere with my job. My job is to protect the United States from all attacks. These people are a threat to this country." Griffen hesitated. Callum and the others had implied that they had a mission of some kind, but never said what it was. Had Griffen fallen into the hands of terrorists? All of the altruistic talk about charities and generosity to the Mardi Gras crowd suddenly sounded too good to be true. All the enthusiasm he had felt soured in his stomach.
"Of course I will do anything I can to keep the country safe. I won't cooperate with anything that endangers it."
"And you'll report to me if you observe anything?"
"Observe what?" Griffen asked.
Stoner's eyelids lowered a fraction of a millimeter. "That is classified information."
Griffen felt his temper rise. "I don't work for you. I'm not going to spy on these people. It sounds like you have the place wired already."
"Not yet. No," Stoner said. "I don't want you to put a bug in for me." The way he emphasized "bug" suggested he had seen Griffen's little stunt, or knew about it. "This krewe has plans that will interfere with the country's safety. If you get involved in their scheme, I will have to take you down with them."
"I told you, I won't help with anything dangerous or subversive, but that is as far as I will go. I don't want to get on your bad side, Stoner, but I'm not going to do your job."
Stoner just looked at him. "I don't need you to do my job. All I need from you is information if you get it, and for you to stay out of the way if I need to take these people down. Remember what I said."
Then he was walking away. Griffen jumped back. It was like watching a statue come to life. The defiant part of his mind said that Stoner would have made a terrific street performer.
He felt upset and confused. Was there really a plot to overthrow the government hidden among all those blueprints and artists' renderings? Rose wanted him involved in the Krewe of Fafnir. She couldn't be wrong about them. Or was there something else she hadn't told him?
His head spinning, Griffen jogged the half block to the restaurant.
Griffen checked his watch with annoyance. He was a few minutes late. He scanned the room for Harrison.
The burly figure holding up part of the wall opposite the maitre d's desk detached himself and came to meet him. Harrison still wore his weather-beaten leather coat, but underneath it was a nice blue-and-white-striped Oxford-collar shirt--ironed--and a blue tie striped on the diagonal with red--neatly knotted. Griffen tried not to stare outright. Harrison gave him a squint-eyed glare of challenge.
"Thought you were gonna blow me off."
"Not a chance." Griffen grinned. "This is some of the best food in the city. I was going to eat here whether you made it or not." Harrison grunted. The challenge retreated but didn't disappear completely. Griffen smiled at the hostess, a statuesque woman named Nami. She knew him and his sister well. She held up a finger for patience.
"I have your usual table, Mr. Griffen. Just a moment, please."
"Your usual table, huh?" Harrison said.
"We come in here for special occasions," Griffen said.
"The turtle soup is the best thing I have ever eaten. You'll have to try it."
"Can't be as good as my aunt Emily's," Harrison said doubtfully, as Nami picked up two tall, leather-backed menus and led them into the dining room. About thirty tables covered in white tablecloths stood well spaced for privacy but close enough to suggest intimacy. The lighting was mellow, adding to the cosy atmosphere. Somewhere, light jazz music played. It didn't interfere with the quiet hum of conversation. Nami brought them to a table for two by the wall underneath an Art Deco sconce. It was original to the restaurant's decor, as were other pieces of bronze and stained glass.
The restaurant had the potential to intimidate, but the staff, as in so many top New Orleans restaurants, defused the situation and made their guests welcome. The waiter, a middle-aged man with a shaved head and very dark skin, came out to greet them immediately. Edwin was Gris-gris's uncle. He wore the fine-dining server's uniform of a white shirt, a black bow tie, black trousers, and a long, plain, white apron tied at the waist.
"Mr. Griffen! And Detective Harrison. Welcome."
"You know each other?" Griffen asked.
"We've met," Edwin said. It didn't sound as if it had been a happy event, but the waiter was willing to forgive and forget, at least within the confines of the restaurant. "Let me give you a chance to look at the menu, and I'll get you some water and rolls."
Edwin bustled away. Griffen felt nervous again. He didn't know whether to mention Stoner. Harrison hated that the Homeland Security man might be interfering in his city. There was no good reason to raise his blood pressure unless Griffen needed his help. He had yet to figure out what Stoner had been talking about. Still, he had gotten in trouble for holding out on knowing about supernatural elements. He was torn as to what to do. Harrison gave him a curious glance.
"What're you staring at?" he asked.
"Nothing," Griffen said. "Nice tie."
"Sound surprised. You think I don't know how to dress?"
"You look fine, sir," the waiter said, returning. He filled their glasses from a silver pitcher and put a basket covered with a snow-white napkin on the table between them. Fragrant steam rose from it. "Now, what may I get you to drink? We have some good wines, beer on tap, or something from the bar?"
"Coke," Harrison said, grimacing. "I hate insulting the food, but I'm still on duty today. This is my dinner break. Those slugs in IA would be happy to Breathalyze me to find out I'm drinking. Hope I get something to eat before I have to pull another body off the street."
"Diet Coke," Griffen said. It was a sacrifice on his part, too. The wine cellar was as excellent as the food. Even the modestly priced bottles were good. They also kept his favorite Irish whisky, Tullamore Dew, at the bar.
The waiter disappeared. Griffen leaned in a few inches and dropped his voice to an undertone.
"How's the investigation going?"
Harrison shook his head. He took a roll out of the basket and pulled a piece from it. He buttered the piece and ate it. "No progress. The girlfriend was flattened. They were gonna get married. Can you do something for her, Griffen?"
"Sure, we can. We already are. Were there any witnesses?"
"You know I can't talk about an ongoing investigation. But there were people within twenty feet, didn't see a thing. So," he said loudly, with a glance at the diners at the surrounding tables, "I can't answer your question about witnesses." He opened his menu.