Dragons Luck by Robert Asprin

footsteps approaching him from behind. Before he could turn, he felt something hard being pressed against his side.
    “Just keep walkin’, mister,” came a voice from behind him. “Hang a left up here into the parkin’ lot.”
    The shooter was struck by the irony of the situation. Here he was about to do a job on someone, and it seemed he was getting mugged.
    “This is far enough,” came the voice again. “Put the bag down, then step away from it and turn around. Keep your hands where we can see them.”
    It seemed whoever he was dealing with was versed in police procedure. Probably from the other side. It also occurred to him that he was now in the exact situation he had been planning on catching his target in. A deserted stretch of space with no witnesses.
    He followed the instructions and turned slowly. There were two of them, both young and male. Both black. One of them was openly holding a nine-millimeter semiautomatic pistol.
    “If this is about money,” the shooter said, calmly, “I can—”
    “Shut up!” said the pistol holder. “Check the bag.”
    His partner picked up the paper bag, hefted it, and looked inside.
    “Shotgun,” he said. “Cut-down.”
    “Uh-huh,” the pistol man said, not taking his eyes off the shooter. “You working alone or with a partner?”
    “Alone,” the shooter said, then immediately wondered if he should have lied.
    “Well,” said the pistol man, “it seems we have us a bit of a problem… or, at least, you do.”
    “What’s going on here? Patches? Is that you?”
    The target, no longer headed for the river, was walking up to the group.
    “Oh… Hi, Mr. Griffen,” said the pistol man, suddenly looking a bit embarrassed.
    “Hi yourself, Patches,” the target said mockingly. “Mind telling me what you’re doing here?”
    “Well, I… we… we spotted this guy following you and thought we’d check him out,” the young gunman said. “He’s got a shotgun in that bag there.”
    “I know he was following me,” the target said. “That’s why I was leading him up to the Moonwalk. The question is, what are
you
doing here? This isn’t your normal neighborhood.”
    “Well… Okay. We were watching out for you.”
    “Any particular reason?” the target pressed.
    “We heard that someone had a contract out on you,” the gunman said. “My brother, TeeBo, said we should keep an eye on you and step in if anything went down.”
    “He couldn’t just give me a call and warn me?”
    “We weren’t sure if it was true or not,” the youth named Patches said. “Besides, this way, if we did you a favor, he thought maybe you’d think you owed us a favor sometime.”
    The whole scene had a vaguely surreal feel for the shooter. Not only had he walked into some kind of a trap—or double trap—it seemed the others had all but forgotten about him as they continued their conversation.
    “Well, you tell TeeBo that I appreciate the gesture, but I don’t think I want to owe him a favor over this.” The target was smiling. “Sometime, maybe. But not now and not over this. Put the gun away and give him back his bag.”
    “If you say so, Mr. Griffen.”
    The gunman’s pistol disappeared, and he nodded to his partner, who tossed the paper bag at the shooter’s feet.
    “Um… mind if we stick around for this?” Patches said.
    “We won’t do nothin’, but I’d kinda like to see this. I know TeeBo will want to hear about it.”
    “Suit yourself.” The target shrugged. “But you’d better move a little farther away. If this guy uses a shotgun, he probably doesn’t shoot that straight.”
    The two black youths eased a few steps to the side, and the target turned his attention to the shooter.
    “Well?” he said. “Anytime you’re ready.”
    The shooter stared at him for a moment, then, moving slowly, he bent over and took the shotgun out of the bag. Without going near the triggers, he broke the weapon open, removed the shells, and threw them away.
    “If you