Rebecca Tan, the youngest of the three, picked up her cards as they came to her. Her face was small and round, with black eyes, a flattened bridge to her broad nose, and an exaggerated cupid's bow to her mouth. Her chin-length hair was brown and frizzy, an obvious affectation since she could easily have taken control of it. She favored scarlet silk dresses, tailored devastatingly tightly around her slender, small-breasted figure, but the style was a dare, not an invitation, and not a dare that invited casual onlookers. She did not look dangerous, but Jordan knew her to be an evilly dirty fighter both at and away from the poker table. She was not his protegee, but that of the man to her left. She looked to Winston Long occasionally for approval. If Long showed it, it was in some subtle fashion that Jordan missed.
Long was old, very old. He allowed fellow poker players to play around with his name during a game. He had been called Cigarette, Silly Millimeter, and the one that he rather liked, Pack. It never occurred to the Westerners with whom he played that his family name meant "dragon." His face was smooth except for the fine wrinkles around his mouth and eyes. His suit was smooth black with a patina of green and looked as if he had been wearing it for fifty years. Jordan was too young to know for certain, but Long used it often. He raised his cards, perused them briefly without rearranging them, and set them facedown on the tabletop.
The fourth Jordan knew the least. Peter Sing had been wished upon Jordan by those who were senior to him. He wore his long black hair gelled up on one side as if a sudden windstorm had come along and blown it upward. Jordan was not an obsessive person, but the impulse to hold Peter down and smooth out his cockscomb threatened to overwhelm him. Peter gave him a cheeky grin, as if he knew exactly what Jordan was thinking. Peter was ambitious. Not a bad trait to possess, but he was impulsive. He had, against the orders of the elders, entered the World Poker Roundup in Las Vegas seven times, only once with his own face, and had made the feature table six times and the final table once, though he had lost to a combination of bad luck and impetuousness to the reigning king of televised poker, who had eleven of the diamond-encrusted belt buckles to his credit. The elders were furious that he had risked revealing himself on national television, but Peter wanted one of those belt buckles so badly that Jordan was certain he would try again. He deplored having to deal with Peter on such an important assignment.
Jordan set the remaining cards down firmly and picked up his own hand. King high, queen, nine, three, two. An average to poor hand, but no one would ever know it from his face. He nodded to Rebecca, sitting immediately to his left, to begin the betting. She slid a coin into the center of the table to augment the ante. The other players followed her lead, called her minimum bet.
No food or drink was present to distract the players from their game. The light was good, neither too strong nor too faint, coming from shaded table lamps and brass standing lamps rearranged by Jordan so that no shadows would fall on the players' faces. Any small tells that they had would be in full view of the others. If a hotel employee had entered the room at that moment, he or she would have thought nothing special of the tableau: four people gathered for a casual game of poker. Perhaps they were in New Orleans for one of the countless conventions that enjoyed the Big Easy as a hospitable venue. Perhaps they were there to see the Saints play the Vikings during the next day's game at the Superdome. The difference was that instead of chips, the four strangers were playing cards for neat stacks of bright, blank-sided disks of pure gold.
The warm gleam of the metal aroused twin feelings of satisfaction and greed in Jordan Ma's soul. He wanted to possess all the coins on the table, as did each of his fellows. The game was "for keeps," as the quaint colloquialism had it. The participants came with their own stakes, and what they lost, they lost. That made play serious. At one time, he mused, they might have been at one another's throat for the treasure; but they had learned over time that though they were solitary creatures, they could cooperate for the common wealth. As now.
Rebecca dropped a card and signed for its replacement. She sorted her hand and pushed two more disks into the pot. Her face betrayed no emotion. Good, Jordan thought. She controls herself well. He could not tell what she was holding by her posture or expression. That was the mark of a good poker player. Long had taught her well.
"Have you made inquiries how to join a game?" Jordan asked.
"I did," Winston said. He discarded all but one card. Jordan dealt him four. Long glanced at them and put them down. Jordan let his eyes flick toward the older man's face. Long caught his glance. He spotted a hint of amusement in the old eyes in their nest of wrinkles as Winston dropped five disks into the pot, one at a time. Their musical clinking sent a pleasant frisson up Jordan's spine. "I asked the pleasant young man at the bell desk how one could find companionable colleagues for an evening of chance. It was necessary to guide him toward specifics. He found it difficult at first to get past the words 'companionable' and 'evening.' I had to assure him I did not want a bed partner."
Peter let out a short bark of laughter. "What do you expect? I am sure that it is by far the more common inquiry." He discarded one, accepted a card, and saw Winston's bet, five disks.
"And once that was straightened out?" Jordan asked, ignoring Peter. He discarded the three and two and dealt himself their replacements. Another king and a seven. One pair. Long had trusted to chance by taking four new cards. The odds were that he had little but an ace high. Rebecca probably had something of low value, since she had asked for a card and only bet two. She would almost certainly drop out. Peter stood the best chance of having a good hand because he had not hesitated to bet. Jordan felt that he might be able to bluff the other out of the round. He tossed five coins into the pot. As he had guessed, Rebecca threw her cards in. Jordan gathered them into the discarded pack. Her face still did not change expression.
"I was directed to a young black man who was, I may say, loitering with intent by the check-in desk," Winston continued. He added three coins to the growing pot. "Quality clothes, though of casual cut. Just the right note to strike, I believe. His name is DeShawn. He called me Mr. Long. He was happy to accommodate me. A few other travelers of the same inclination as mine will meet this evening. I am welcome to join them. The evening would be very informal, but pleasant. Refreshments will be provided. I had but to state my preferences as to drink, comestibles, music, even the type of chair I prefer. Smoking, DeShawn warned me, was permitted, and hoped it would not inconvenience me. I assured him that was not a concern. He did not take notes, but he seemed of quick wit. He suggested that if I find the company congenial, it would be available to me when I chose."
"Very well organized," Peter said, with a small nod. "Detail oriented. Makes for greater satisfaction of the clientele. I am impressed."
"Only if they follow through," Rebecca countered.
"He did not write down anything?" Jordan asked.
"No." Long pushed coins into the center of the table. Five. It was a modest bet, but it committed him to the hand. Jordan took that into account.
The tiny curves at the corners of Jordan's mouth indented. "Good. We can exploit that."
"How long do you think this will take?" Peter asked. He raised to eight.
"To bring down an entire gambling empire?" Winston asked, regarding him with amusement. "Not in a day, young one. Be patient. Our job is to cut away at all the legs that support this organization and make certain it cannot rise again. That will take time. You must be patient."
"I don't want to stay here forever," Peter protested. "It smells of mold. The people move too slowly."
"A river moves slowly, but it is powerful in its depths," Winston said. "Don't forget that. If you are arrogant, you will underestimate those who might have something to teach you."
Bored, Jordan found himself drawing a little circle on the back of his cards with the tip of his forefinger. Winston was right, of course, and Peter was wrong, but if they were going to disagree every day, this assignment would become unbea
rable.
"At least let us agree we are united in our aim," he said.
"No problem," said Rebecca. "It is very simple. I have also made a connection to be admitted to a game. A man in a bar who wanted to pick me up also turned me over to a nicely dressed white male whom he claimed as a friend. Only," she added, letting her smile spread slowly over her face like melting butter on a hotcake, "this friend's name is Griffen."
"So you have met him," Jordan said, his eyes widening a fraction of a millimeter. "What is he like?"
"He does not move like a dragon when he is among others," Rebecca said, thoughtfully. "But when he forgets to think about being human, you can see it. Anyone could."
"He doesn't hide his heritage, then," Jordan said. "That is good. At least he is proud. That will make him a worthy adversary. The elders did not think it would be easy. But rewarding. Call." He regarded his twin kings once, then tossed eight disks into the pot.
Winston studied him for a time. Jordan knew there was nothing to see, but he concentrated on keeping his aura empty of clouds or beams of light. Clarity was all. He waited. Winston smiled for a moment, then placed his cards facedown on the table.
Peter put five disks more into the pot. Jordan matched him. He waited. Peter put three more in, but the growing shadow of doubt in his aura told Jordan he was flagging. Jordan added three. With a curl of his lip, Peter flicked his cards in. Jordan did not smile as he raked the pot toward him and stacked his winnings at his left hand. The tall pile of coins pleased him. Peter narrowed his eyes at him.
"You must watch your moods," Jordan told him. "If I can see it, even a human with a spot of intuition will see it, too, let alone a fellow dragon."
"And what about Mai?" Winston Long's dark eyes glowed.
"That bitch!" Rebecca snarled.
"She is unimportant," Jordan said, gathering up the cards. "We disregard her unless she interferes with us. She had her chance to bring down McCandles. The elders no longer trust her to try. That is left to us now." He separated the cards and shuffled them.
Four
Of all the places that Griffen had come to love over the last several months in New Orleans, nothing had come to feel like home as much as the Irish pub in the French Quarter two streets off Bourbon. Strangers usually passed it by most of the time. It wasn't fancy. It didn't offer strippers or live jazz bands. True, there were two pool tables, occupied most of the time in the evening. The walls were full of interesting junk. None of that looked like enough of a reason for travelers to spend their scanty vacation time hanging out with the locals when they could drink an overly sweet Hurricane from a plastic glass and wander down Bourbon Street dipping in and out of the music clubs or huddle in the dark watching women in sequin bras and G-strings making love to a brass pole. The music was out there when Griffen wanted to go listen, of course, a string of Christmas lights that hung from the wineglass rack over the bar substituted just fine for all the neon, and with two lovers, he had no need for the live nude shows. What made the Irish pub his favorite spot was the company. Anyone who came in for a drink and stayed became part of the conversation. The subject matter ranged from how the Saints were doing that season to monetary policy in Elizabethan England to what to do with a brother-in-law who had overstayed his welcome to the latest electronic gizmo and whether or not it would change the world. He and another regular named Bone were the reigning experts on all movie trivia. All of his friends knew that if they wanted to find him, chances were they could locate him there.
A couple of dogs, mismatched as to size, who more or less lived in the bar, came over to sniff his hand in hopes of pieces of sandwich or bar snacks. The small dog belonged to the bar owner, a big, burly man named Ed. The bigger dog, a rangy hound mix, used to run with a man named Slim, who had power over animals that he rarely used, or had to use. Animals, especially dogs, loved and trusted him. Griffen, too, had the power to control animals, but had been working hard not to use it unnecessarily, since Slim had taught him how easily it could be misused. Slim had been killed by a ruthless monster that had been trying to cause trouble for Griffen. Griffen still felt responsible for his death. He and the dogs missed Slim. The dogs would not lack for homes, since the denizens of the Quarter took care of their own, whether with two legs or four legs, but he gave them special attention when he saw them. As it was for Griffen, the bar had become their permanent hangout.
Griffen held up one end of the bar on the "family side," nursing an Irish whisky with a little water on the side, listening to Maestro, the fencing master who taught students on the upper floor of the Yo Mama's Bar and Grill, debating with a pale, thin woman with blond hair, round blue eyes behind thick glasses, and a blunt nose about which was the more authentic American music, blues or jazz. Griffen liked both types of music and had an extensive collection of CDs. He, like the rest of the patrons hanging out on the family side of the bar, listened with interest, throwing in a comment here and there to help fuel the fire. They had heard Maestro, a slim man in his middle years with a deep bronze complexion, silvering black beard and mustache, wavy hair held back in a ponytail, and wire-rimmed glasses on his nose, arguing both sides of the debate on different occasions. Like Griffen, Maestro was from Ann Arbor, Michigan, but had settled down in the French Quarter as if he had been born there. He, too, had a little dragon blood but didn't know it. Maestro shouted over the jukebox and the crowd who were watching a hockey game broadcast live from Calgary.
"There's no doubt that the blues tradition came from the Southern slaves," he bellowed, "but their songs were based on the ones they brought with them from Africa. Jazz arose from that, on this continent."
"Blues is original American, too!" the blond woman argued. "Based on American rhythms, not songs direct from Africa."
"They can trace melodies to their native countries," said Maestro. "Not all of them, but many."
"What about the ones they can't trace?" the woman countered. "That proves my point!"
For one who had been raised in Ann Arbor, Michigan, coming to live in New Orleans had been an adjustment. Griffen loved almost everything about the city except for the never-changing climate. By now, the trees in his former home would be bare, the sky would be iron gray, with heavy, bulging clouds that looked like they were going to come down on you like a waffle iron closing, and there'd be tons of snow to shovel. He actually missed it a little. Instead, it was sweltering in the bar. The miasma of cigarette smoke was mixed lazily with the smells of beer, sweat, plaster, and mildew by the ceiling fans, which did little to cool the place down. Music blared as a counterpoint to human voices and the unmistakable pock of pool balls being knocked around the tables. Griffen had seldom been so happy.
He had spent the afternoon at the Presbytery, one of the majestic white buildings on Jackson Square, going through its permanent collection of Mardi Gras memorabilia. He had never dreamed that there was so much work involved in putting together a yearly spectacle. If you added up all the hours that it would take to build the floats, sew the costumes, organize the parties, create all the souvenirs and all the thousands of other details, it would come to more than there were in a year, no matter how many people were working on it. Still, it happened, and the parades ran on time, to the delight of the thousands who came to New Orleans to see them. Etienne was right: It was like magic.
Films ran on a continuous loop throughout the museum displays, showing parades in progress. The floats, even in the daytime, were lit up with strings of Christmas lights, neon and strobes. The costumes, with all their glitter and sequins, were dazzling. The Presbytery's docents, most of them middle-aged women who had lived in New Orleans all their lives, on hearing that he had been asked to be a king, were thrilled for him. They told him stories of Mardi Gras celebrations going back into the middle of the nineteenth century, heavy on the glamour and intrigue. They handed him leaflets and gave him Web site information about other krewes and directions to the famous maker of the best floats in New Orleans. Their enthusiasm exc
ited his, so by the time Griffen left, he was ready to call Etienne and agree to anything just so he could accept that honor few people ever got, step up onto that float, and ride through the streets. But, a hundred steps out the door, back in the New Orleans that he knew, hard reality took hold.
The financial investment sounded like it would be substantial. He would have to sit down with Etienne and the rest of the committee to see what it would cost him to participate. The range for kingship seemed to run between ten thousand and a hundred thousand dollars. Even though his bank balance had been depleted severely over the last few months paying for the damage to the conclave hotel ballroom and some ill-considered bets on pool with another dragon named Flynn, he might be able to swing the lesser end of the scale. The greater end was beyond his means and out of the question, no matter how great an honor or how long Etienne had been dreaming about it. Still, he was intrigued with the idea of being part of Mardi Gras.
"Where y'at?" a feminine voice asked, interrupting his thoughts. Griffen jumped. He had been miles away. He put away the mental strings of beads and gathered up the small redheaded woman for a kiss. Fox Lisa kissed him back with interest, then leaned over to bestow a solid smooch on Maestro's cheek. Griffen thought of her as a protegee of the older man, but he never asked. If the relationship went deeper than that, it was none of Griffen's business. He wasn't seeing her exclusively, either. Maestro pecked Lisa back without losing the flow of his argument with his visitor and held up his empty glass to the bartender.
"You looked like you had something on your mind," Lisa said. A frame suspended rows of wineglasses upside down by their bases over their heads. Fox Lisa put an elbow against one of the wooden pillars that held it up. "Anything I can help with?"
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