"No?" Griffen asked.
"Because you're so busy," the lady in the matching mask on his arm put in hastily.
"Yes, right," Eric said. "That's what I meant."
"I'm king of the Krewe of Fafnir," he said.
"Yes, I saw. Congratulations. We're in the court here."
"Congratulations to you. This is Mai."
"As in Mai Goodness? Pleased to meet you, lovely lady," Eric said. "My wife, Gloria."
"That's a beautiful dress," Gloria said.
The tiny woman preened. "Caroline Herrera," she said, turning slightly to show off a better angle.
"Well, it looks wonderful on you," the woman said. "Not everyone can carry off a silhouette like that."
"I am fortunate. Your dress becomes you, too. Is that Armani?"
"Yes! What a good eye you have, dear."
"So, doing the rounds, are you?" Eric sounded nervous. Griffen put on a polite and disarming smile. Eric was a Louisiana businessman with ties to a number of politicos. Griffen had done his best to strike up a friendly acquaintance with him, making sure games were open when he wanted them, bringing in his favorite liquors and snacks. It would be useful to have an in with the local government. Influence of that kind opened doors. Griffen was beginning to think about his future, beyond running a few poker games.
"Like yourself," Griffen said. "Say, Eric, it's been a while since we've seen you at a game."
"Oh, you know," Eric said. "Pretty busy right now. The season's getting started, and we have a big pile of invitations, but I've got to keep up with business matters, too. Probably the same as you."
"That's true," Griffen began.
The orchestra near the wall struck up a soft jazz tune.
"Let's go and sit down, Gloria," Eric said hastily. "Nice seeing you, Griffen."
Alarmed, Griffen saw his useful connection getting away.
"Eric, I'd just like to talk with you for a moment."
Eric held up his hands. "Maybe later, Griffen. Really. Not now."
Mai put a hand on Eric's arm. "Won't you ask me to dance?" she asked sweetly.
Eric looked at his wife, who nodded. The expression in her eyes was not jealous. Mai was glad. It would make this effort somewhat easier. As they moved away, Griffen bowed to Gloria.
They moved off together to the strains of a glorious old standard. Mai allowed Eric to plant a large, heavy hand in the small of her back and press her against his chest. It was his way of guiding her around the floor. It did not leave her a good deal of room to move her legs, but she was nimble enough to keep his feet off of hers.
"Griffen speaks well of you, sir," Mai said, bending gracefully as he twirled her out to arm's length and back into his arms.
"Good guy, Griffen," Eric said absently. He gave her a quick smile. She could read agitation in his expression.
"But something is troubling you."
"It's not his fault, I guess, but I have a reputation to look after in this state. I hear things."
"About Griffen?"
"The games. Been a lot of controversy lately. I ended up talking to a guy in a bar who had been at one of the games and had his whole stake wiped out by someone who turned out to be cheating. Asian like you."
"I probably do not know him," Mai said, coolly.
"No! Not saying you do. But if I'm not wrong, one of these days the cops are gonna raid a game, and I'd get my picture in the paper. All I want to do is play some poker. If I want hassles, I can stay home and talk to my wife."
Mai gave him a playful smile. "I see. I know that Griffen would certainly like you to come back. He respects you so much, Eric. You are a man of power."
Nothing loosens up a man's inhibitions like flattery. "If he can clear up the problems, I'd be back there like a shot. Never had such good hospitality. He picks the best players. And I win a lot." He smiled, some of the nervousness abated. Mai smiled back. They finished the dance, and Mai curtsied prettily to him. She came to squeeze Gloria's hand.
"Thank you for letting me dance with him. He is very good."
"He's not bad at that," Gloria said. "Your Griffen is a good dancer, too. Nice to meet you, dear."
The elder couple squeezed their way through the crowd and disappeared. Mai took Griffen's arm and pulled him off the dance floor. She told Griffen what she had coaxed out of Eric.
"The word is out," Griffen said, angrily. "We ought to have had eight games this week. We're down to five. The rumors are killing us. We'll be wiped out in a few weeks if this keeps up."
"Come and sit down," Mai said hastily, glancing around. Almost everyone else had taken their places.
"I don't think I can sit down," Griffen said. "The Eastern dragons are destroying not only my life, but that of all my employees. Do you know how many people rely on me for their livelihood?"
"Poker face!" Mai hissed. "Play the part. This is no time to let your anger get the better of you."
Griffen looked around and realized that numerous eyes were upon him, including Eric's. If there was ever a time that he had to conceal all his tells, this was it. He smiled and put out his elbow to Mai.
"May I escort you to our table?" he asked.
"It would be my pleasure," Mai said. She alone could feel the fury in him, but as they passed each of the tables, the candles in the centerpiece flared up. Mai was grateful that the guests at their table were all strangers.
"I will get them," Griffen whispered to her, attacking his salad as if it were one of the Eastern dragons. "I just hope I can do it before they wipe me out."
"You have allies," Mai said. "I will do everything to help you."
Griffen smiled, the first genuine smile he had put on in an hour. "I know. I'm counting on you."
Mai went back to her salad. Something told her that she ought to be ashamed of herself, but she was simply not accustomed to it.
Thirty-seven
Griffen blanched at the figures on the balance sheet. "I didn't know it was that bad."
"Believe it, brother," Jerome said, tapping the page with the edge of a coaster. They were alone at a corner table in the Irish bar. The other patrons sensed a personal and painful discussion and left them alone. Griffen glimpsed eyes slewed toward him from the pool tables and other places. They looked sympathetic. "We are down this entire month. I have got only one game scheduled, at the Omni, of all places."
"What happened to the high rollers who were going to meet at the Royal Sonesta tomorrow evening?"
"Canceled. No points for guessing why. The rumor mills have been working overtime and double time. The concierge won't even talk to me."
"Can we fill the suite? Less high-level players?" Griffen took a sip of the one whisky and water he had allowed himself. In order to make sure he could pay his rent, he had cut back on everything that he possibly could. He knew he could run a tab, but Fred would expect to see it cleared at the end of each week, and he did not know if he'd have the extra income to pay it. As much as he hated cooking for himself, it looked like the only way to eke out his food budget for the week. Peanut butter tasted better on hamburgers than on plain bread with jelly.
"Not unless you find out why they're not coming," Jerome said. "Their expectations are low at the moment. This is a bad precedent, since our expenses are not going down, even if the intake is."
"Can we handle payroll?"
Jerome pointed to an entry in red at the bottom left of the sheet. "Only if we don't pay ourselves, man. I'm okay, but how are you doing?"
"Flat broke," Griffen admitted.
"I'm your friend, but there is no way I can't point out the irony of a member of the local royalty more down-and-out than the peasants."
"If I remember my history, plenty of monarchs had empty treasuries. The difference is that they could rob the peasants to raise money."
"Well, the peasants aren't coming. I'm gonna have a face-to-face with a few of our formerly most helpful connections and see if I can't convince 'em to send us some prospects. I suggest yo
u do the same."
Griffen agreed. "Let's split up the list. We'll see if we can at least fill that suite day after tomorrow. If not, we'll have to lay people off."
"They'd feel that was unlucky, losing their jobs during Mardi Gras season," Jerome said. "Not to mention the practical side of needing the funds same as you for the festivities. We've been through tough times before."
"Not with someone trying to put us out of business on purpose," Griffen said. "I just wish we could figure out when they were going to strike and how many of them there are."
"Mai told you not to trust three of them, but it seems like there's more than that, and they aren't all Eastern."
"That's the problem," Griffen said. "We're not spotting them, and it's killing us."
"We'll get by," Jerome said. "We went through worse before you got here."
Griffen made a face. "That's not so much consolation," he said. "But let's start the charm offensive, and see if we can pull it together that way. I'll talk to the spotters. I'll offer them a percentage of the table if they can deliver players."
Jerome shook his head. "I dunno, Grifter. That will have them bringing uncles out of the bayou or prison just to fill seats."
"There'll be rules," Griffen said. "I'm not completely desperate. Not yet."
His cell phone warbled, reminding him there was another bill that he had to pay, and soon. He raised a finger. "Sorry, Jer, just a minute. Hello?"
"Griffen! Peter Sing."
"Hey, Peter," Griffen said. Jerome's brows drew down over his forehead. He made a throat-slitting gesture. Griffen waved it away. "What can I do for you?"
"Well, I got a call from your assistant. He said that the game on Sunday is canceled."
"Yeah, sorry, Peter. The other players who were going to be in on it dropped out."
Peter clucked his tongue. "Well, that is a shame. I am in the mood to play." There was a brief silence. "Would you like to come up to my suite and play a few hands, just for fun?"
Griffen winced at the thought. "I'm pretty busy with Mardi Gras assignments right now."
"Don't say no." Peter interrupted him. "I'm bored out of my mind. I could go down to the casino, but there's no one of your caliber there. Come on up. I will order some food from downstairs, exactly as you would if you were hosting. Just a little friendly one-on-one. Say you will come. In an hour or so? We can play for chips instead of cash. We can talk technique. It will be unofficial."
Griffen was torn. Jerome was shooting him poisonous looks, but a friendly game with such a skilled player as Peter would cheer him up.
"Okay. Thanks. I would enjoy it. See you"--he checked his watch--"in two hours?"
"That would be great," Peter said. "I can pick your brain about betting on Omaha games. It is a weak spot in my repertoire."
Griffen knew Peter was just saying that to help cheer him up, but he appreciated it. "See you then." He hung up.
"Grifter, I do not trust that man."
"I know," Griffen said. "But he hasn't done anything. Not once at any game has he caused a problem. In fact, he's bent over backward to be nice to the other players. It has added cachet to our games to have him there. You can't deny that."
"I know. I just have a feeling that he just hasn't erupted yet, like ragweed. And to offer to play you a game for no money? He knows more than you tell him."
"He's pretty damned observant," Griffen said. "I think he knows I've got my back to the wall, but he's not adding to my debt."
"It's just too convenient," Jerome said. "He might be acting like a nice guy, but he's an Asian and he's a pretty strong dragon and all my vibes go off when I'm around him. I think he's got to be involved with the Easterns even if Mai has never seen him before. But you're the big dragon. You get to make your own decisions, for better or for worse. I'll be there to pick you up again if he knocks you down, but just remember that I get to say, 'I told you so.' "
"If he does, I'll have earned it," Griffen said. He got up and put a dollar on the table. "I'll make some stops before I go see him. Let me know how it works out for you."
Jerome pushed his chair back and stood up. "One thing's for sure," Jerome said, brandishing the balance sheet, "it'd have to sink a whole lot to be worse than it is."
Thirty-eight
"What do you mean, you lost?"
"I mean, I lost," Peter said. He did not like being under scrutiny, but sitting in the brocaded armchair with the other three circling around him like interrogators, all he lacked was the bright light in his eyes. Rebecca would gladly have turned one on him if she had thought about it. Luckily, she lacked imagination. "Griffen McCandles took all the money I put up as my stake on the table. Three thousand dollars against the three hundred he had in his wallet, and he won it all in five hands. I applaud him."
"You're too soft," Jordan Ma said. "You let him take your money."
"I am not soft, and I did not let him take it. He really is that good. You have not played against him at a table. I have, many times now. When he begins to concentrate, it is as if his opponents' minds are open books. It is most disconcerting. And he cannot read minds in the traditional meaning. I have tested the theory. It is just uncanny card sense. He did not want to play for money--he is close to broke right now--but I persuaded him, to the detriment of my own wallet. I could have won it all back, but only by cheating, and I would rather shatter a pure jade vase than stoop to such a level."
Jordan let his annoyance show, a rare event. "He is our quarry. You have befriended him."
Peter shrugged. "I do not deny it. I like him. We have become friends. He is open, unlike the rest of you. It is refreshing to speak with someone who means what he says. Poker is my life, unlike the rest of you. I have learned a few tricks watching him that you probably wouldn't understand."
"But Mai must have told him what you are!"
"Did she? She plays her own game. If he does know, then he is a better player than I would have dreamed and has had better training in controlling his emotions. I sense no power spikes such as Rebecca here is constantly sending off." The female sputtered until Winston Long held up a hand. She subsided, glaring. "If he knows me to be the enemy, then he is playing a dangerous game. I like it."
Jordan Ma was furious. "You are becoming bewitched by him. This will not do. We should remove you from this operation."
Peter snorted in derision. "The elders won't like it if you send me home. I will tell them what I know."
Rebecca stuck her face close to his. "Not if you cannot draw breath to tell them."
He didn't move even though her breath smelled aggressively of spearmint. He smiled, knowing he held a hand higher than hers. "Really? Are you really suggesting murder because I have colored outside the lines a little?" He ignored her. She was not the chief of the operation, after all. "I am not a fool, Jordan. I tell him nothing about what we are doing. I am no less useful to the assignment than I was when we arrived. But I am paying attention to what I am doing."
Winston Long grunted, "It is the Stockholm syndrome. You are befriending the enemy, hoping that you can work out some solution that will see us all survive the encounter."
Peter groaned elaborately.
"Old man, you watch too many movies. He confides in me. I don't confide in him."
"Then what information do you derive from these conversations?"
"The operation is close to collapse," Peter said, feeling reluctant to let the words escape his lips. Jordan's eyes gleamed. "I believe that except for what he left with, he has no assets remaining to him."
"But you have helped to fund him for another day!"
"Air is leaking out of the hole we have made. It does not matter how fast. It's still leaking, and soon it will be empty."
"But it could have been tomorrow! Now it could be next week, or the week after!"
"You know we could be going about this all wrong," Peter said, offering a thought that had been on his mind for days. "He could be an ally instead of an enemy."
&
nbsp; Jordan made a slashing gesture with the edge of his hand. "No. He is the enemy if he can turn our own forces against us."
"I can help to arrange for an accident," Winston said. "It is much swifter than waiting for the bitter end, if you are so impatient." He turned to Peter. "And you had better not tip him off, or you will incur the same accident."
Rebecca came to sit on Peter's knee. "Just like the other one. It will be fun to watch another one die."
Peter raised his hands. "I am not keen to commit suicide. I just think you are misusing a potential asset. I would be inclined to allow Mai to continue on her tack. It would be better to have someone like Griffen McCandles in our operation than to destroy him. It would be like burning a work of art."
"Whether or not, it is our job," Jordan said. "The elders make the decision. We do not. You are doing well so far. Stick to the program. No more improvisation. If we bankrupt him and prevent him from running his operation, we can move in to take it over immediately. Do not prolong the endgame."
Rebecca looked smug that he was getting dressed down. Peter didn't care. "You are making a mistake," he said. "Am I the only one who can see it?"
"It doesn't matter what we see," Jordan said. "Our perception is not what matters, in the long run. The elders make the decision, and we carry out their wishes. Feel free to call them, Peter. I will tell them I said you may."
"I will call them!" Peter said.
Jordan shook his head. "It will change nothing. But if they tell you to follow my orders, I expect you to do so or suffer whatever consequences I wish. Do you understand?"
The other three sets of eyes bored into Peter. For the first time he actually felt fear, but his poker-playing self refused to show it. "I understand," he said. "And I will obey."
Thirty-nine
Val put her hands over her ears, but the horrible noise persisted. She backed away, but there was only so far she could go in the storeroom of the bar.
"Valerie, I only have your best interests in mind," Melinda said.
Dragons Deal Page 27
