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.

Six

It was the silence that first caught Griffen’s attention. A bar is never completely quiet, a French Quarter bar least of all. The Irish pub was no different. Still, a sudden drop in the constant background noise caught and held his attention.

He couldn’t immediately track the source of the change. People were still chatting. The music, never Irish, still played. A couple pretended to shoot pool on the back table between their flirting. All this flashed before his attention, then he looked down. Looked down, and saw the dogs.