“It’s for the best,” Mai said, and got up to hug Val again. “Trust me.”

After a moment’s silence, Mai spoke again.

“So, are you going to keep it?”

Val sighed, then shook her head.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I’m still thinking about that one.”

Five

Waiting in front of Tower Records, carrying a copy of the Times-Picayune as he had been instructed, Flynn spent his time surveying the passing crowd. Mostly they were obvious out-of-towners, suited conventioneers, and a smattering of tourists in shorts and T-shirts. Here and there were locals, including service-industry types in their tuxedo shirts and black pants, and costumed street performers, all getting ready to give their best try at moving funds from the pockets of visitors into their own. All in all, it reminded Flynn vaguely of Disneyland only without the rides.

Mostly, he was idly curious if he could spot his hired muscle before they contacted him. In the past, when he had hired rough-off artists, they fell into one of two categories. Either they were well dressed and soft-spoken with dead eyes that looked at you without seeing a person, or obvious muscle flexers, who swaggered with the knowledge that just their appearance was intimidating. For the present job, Flynn was hoping for the cold, calculating type. He had a feeling that swaggering bullyboys wouldn’t get too far with the McCandles lad.

One of the rolling boom boxes was coming slowly up the street, a dark sedan with the sound system cranked up to the point where it assaulted the pedestrians like a strong wind. A strong, noisy wind. Flynn eyed it with distaste. It was playing rap music. Of course. Not for the first time he found himself wondering why those who liked rap music felt obliged to share it with everyone in a four-block radius, while those whose taste ran to classical music were content to listen to it through the earphones of a Walkman or iPod.

To his surprise, the mobile noise pollution pulled over to the curb next to him and stopped. The passenger-side window rolled down, exposing the face of a young black man, late teens or early twenties.

“You Flynn?” The question was half-shouted over the music.

Flynn realized with dismay that this was the contact he was waiting for. For a moment, he was tempted to deny his identity and walk away. Then, with a mental shrug, he decided to go ahead with it. When in Rome.

He nodded his agreement.

“Get in the back and let’s talk.”

Opening the door to the backseat, Flynn wondered how they were supposed to talk over the racket the sound system was making. To his surprise, the driver, a thin black man even younger than the one who had first addressed him, turned the music off without being asked even before they pulled away from the curb.

“Hear tell you’re lookin’ to put the hurt on someone,” the passenger-side rider said.

“There’s someone I want made an example of,” Flynn said, carefully. “Hospitalized or dead. Doesn’t make any difference to me. If things are the same here as other places in the country, hospitalized costs more.”

That was standard for rough-off work. Just hospitalizing someone meant the musclemen had to know what they were doing. It also left the victim alive to identify them and possibly press charges. In short, it usually cost more to have someone’s arm broken than it did to have them killed.

“Either way, it’ll cost,” said the passenger.

“Cash,” added the driver.

“I know,” Flynn said. “I’ve got the money with me.”

There was a moment’s silence.

“ ’Course, we could just stick a gun in your face and take the money,” the passenger said, casually. “Save ourselves a bit of work.”

Flynn heaved a mental sigh and let his glamour flow out.

“Just to keep things simple, let’s pretend we’ve all done things like this before,” he said with a smile. “Now I do a lot of work away from my home base. Over the years, I’ve developed a method for finding… shall we say, special help when I’m in a strange town. Back home, part of what I do is to provide certain of my clients with various types of illegal substances. If I need help, what I do is call home to my regular supplier. He in turn contacts one of the handlers in the area I’m in and arranges a meet, which is why we’re talking now.”

He leaned back in his seat.

“If anything goes wrong at that meet, both my supplier and his local contact will be upset because they’re getting a piece of the action. The local man is particularly upset because he’s guaranteed the people I’m meeting, and if they get cute, he ends up looking bad. Maybe with a new enemy he doesn’t want.”

He paused for a moment for that to sink in before continuing.

“It might interest you to know that our local contact is impressed enough with my supplier that he offered to provide the needed help for free. I turned him down because I believe in paying people top dollar when they do me a favor. Just remember, though, whatever price we agree on is definitely going to mean more money for you than if I had taken him up on his offer. Now then, shall we get down to talking business?”

Again, there was a moment of silence.

“The price depends on the job,” the passenger said at last, a little sulkily. “We’d have to charge extra to go after someone here in the Quarter. The cops don’t like it ’cause it scares the tourists.”

“I expected that,” Flynn said. “I am thinking about the Quarter, but the target’s a local. It could be explained as a grudge fight instead of random violence.”

“That still could be a problem,” the passenger said, gaining confidence as the negotiations progressed. “That ups the chance that he knows us or that we might be seen by someone who knows us. Seems like everybody knows everybody down here.”

“Maybe,” Flynn said. “But he’s only been down here a couple of months. He’s probably not as well connected as the longtime residents.”

“We’ll see,” the passenger said, judiciously. “This guy got a name?”

“He’s a young kid, early twenties, just out of college,” Flynn said. “Like I said, he only moved down here a few months ago. Name of McCandles.”

In a sudden move, the driver pulled over to the curb and stopped the vehicle.

The passenger turned in his seat to stare directly at Flynn.

“McCandles?” he said. “Are you talkin’ about Griffen McCandles?”

“That’s right,” Flynn said. “Why? Do you know him?”

“Get out of my car.”

The statement was made with such finality that Flynn was startled.

“I don’t understand,” he said. “What’s the problem?”

“The problem is that either you don’t know who you’re talkin’ about, or you’re some kind of special dumb,” the passenger said, shaking his head. “Well, we ain’t dumb, and there’s no way we’re goin’ after Griffen McCandles. That man is protected big-time… and I don’t just mean the cops. Word is he has supernatural help. If TeeBo knew who you had in mind, there’s no way he would have even had us talk to you. Now get out of my car, and I mean now. You want to go after Griffen McCandles, I don’t even want to be seen talkin’ to you. Now get out.”

Standing on the sidewalk again, Flynn watched the car drive off. If the McCandles boy had built that much of a reputation in just a few months, then maybe George wasn’t exaggerating when he described the young dragon as “formidable.”

One thing was certain, though. If Flynn was going to continue with his plan, he couldn’t rely on local contacts. He’d have to try another tactic. Maybe import someone.