Griffen sifted through the pile of paperwork, ready to say no, when he came up with a layout for the grand private dining room. He had not even thought to ask for one when he toured the restaurant. Etienne must have given it to him. That accurate a gift for foresight made him shiver.
"No, I've got one. When can we talk? Say, Thursday?"
"Right. Come after lunchtime. I'll feed you, but let the lunch crowd die down first, okay? We'll be proud to host your king's party. It's an honor, Griffen."
Griffen courteously called the other three restaurants to tell them their rooms were free and they could rent them out, and thanked them for holding them for him. They each asked him to think of them the next time he was planning a party.
"I sure will," Griffen promised. "I love your food." It was the truth. Those were the top restaurants in town. He had come a long way from eating only fast food and microwave frozen dishes, Even though there were days when he still did that, too. But New Orleans had vastly expanded his culinary range.
"Hey, Grifter," Jerome said. He sat down opposite Griffen and accepted a menu from the uniformed waitress. "How's it going?"
"Not bad, Jer," Griffen said. "What can I do for you?"
The two of them never mentioned the New Year's Eve argument aloud, but they had patched up their differences within a day. Jerome reminded Griffen that his choices, however wrongheaded he felt them to be, were final as far as the operation went. With that kind of authority handed to him, Griffen had been very careful to consider what he was doing. He just couldn't see any harm in Peter Sing, and Peter had never caused a single problem.
"Just remindin' you that I won't be around on February 16. Can't answer the phone, can't help out with crises. That okay with you?"
"Sure," Griffen said. "Something wrong?"
"Oh, hell, no," Jerome said, grinning. "That's when my marching society steps off."
Griffen settled back in the booth. "I've heard a little about them. Are they like a parade?"
"They pretty much predate parades," Jerome said. "No floats. A few bands and other units go with us, but everyone is on foot. By the way, Marcel's in my group. A few of the others, too. They'll all need that day off. Might as well shut down the operation for the day."
"We may have to shut down on a few other days during the parade weeks," Griffen said. "You're not the only one to tell me you need the day off. I can't believe how many of the people who work with us are involved in a krewe or a marching society. Or bands. Kitty said she is supposed to play saxophone in five parades. Five. I feel out of breath just thinking about it."
"Oh, yeah, boss-man," Jerome said, holding up his cup for the waitress. She poured coffee for him and Griffen. "We really get into it here. History of celebratin' Fat Tuesday goes all the way back to the very beginning of the colony of New Orleans. For me, I started up with the marching society after Mose made me into a functional being all those years ago. I still go out with 'em. You ought to come out and hang with us. It's a lot of fun. Plenty of drinking, bawdy songs. It's a great time. May not get back until after midnight."
"Sounds good to me," Griffen said. "A day off wouldn't do me any harm. I hate to ask this, but how much?"
"Bring your own costume and your own throws and booze, and you're in," Jerome said.
"I love this city," Griffen said, with a laugh. "Hey, I could use your advice. I have to plan this king's party."
"Fancy parties are beyond me," Jerome said. "I'd end up reading Emily Post and Miss Manners to cram for the exam, but I never made one up myself."
"The girls are coming to help me plan. Trouble is, every time I come up with a good idea, it seems to cost a fortune. I've tried calling Mose to see how he handled all the expenses thrown at him, back in the old days, but he's still avoiding me. I hope he's okay."
Jerome waved his coffee cup. "He's fine. I'll tell you what he told me when I didn't know to trust my own judgment. Say no first, then think about it. If you still love an idea later, do it. If you decide against it, someone else had better come up with a damned solid reason why you need to cover it. I'll help in any way I can, you know that, but the final word still has to come from you."
"And that's the big problem," Griffen said. "I have a tough time saying no to myself."
"So show me your plans," Jerome said. "I'll be happy to stick my two cents in."
"Wait until the girls get here. Val has to start work at four, and Lisa gets off at two, so I told them to meet me here."
The three women arrived in a group, giggling together over the contents of a paper bag. Mai sat down beside Griffen before Fox Lisa could get into the long seat. Instead, the redhead slid in beside Jerome.
"Shove over," Val told Mai.
"Pull up a chair," Mai said. Val shook her head. She sat down on the bench seat and pushed in until the smaller woman was jammed between her and Griffen.
"That's better," Val said.
"Thanks for coming," Griffen said.
"We could have done this at the Irish pub later on," Mai said. "In much less discomfort."
"I don't need everyone weighing in with their ideas," Griffen said. "I need some help, but not that much."
"So, what do you have so far?"
"I have a location and a few ideas." Griffen showed them the catering sheets from the restaurant.
"Nice place," Fox Lisa said. "I used to bus tables there a few summers ago while I was in school. Good people. The kitchen's clean as a whistle. Elegant but not stuffy."
"What are you serving?" Val asked.
"That's what I need some help deciding," Griffen said. "Don't go too crazy on me. Take a look at what they want per person for banquets."
"Hokey smoke, Bullwinkle!" Val exclaimed. "I thought they were expensive in the regular dining room!"
"What about sole stuffed with shrimp?" Mai asked. "That sounds delicious."
Griffen winced. It was the most expensive thing on the menu. Trust Mai to go straight for that. "Try to keep the cost reasonable, okay?"
"Forget the expenses, this is your party! When are you ever going to be king again?"
"Always," Griffen said, with a straight face. "That's what I want to be called from now on. Griffen Rex."
"Y'can't be called 'Rex' in this town, pal," Fox Lisa said. "Not unless you actually are. That's taken."
He laughed. "Okay, King Griffen."
"Very well, Your Majesty," Mai said. "What price range are you hoping for?"
Griffen went down the options. The five of them hashed over the set menus and glanced at the a la carte lists. With an eye on Jerome, Griffen said no to everything that sounded too costly until the others justified it as reasonable. In the end, they picked out four entrees: fish, meat, fowl, and vegetarian, plus a soup, salad, and dessert that played to the strengths of the chef.
"That's great," Griffen said, putting the papers in a heap. "Now all I have to work on is the theme."
"Well, what about the parade theme?" Mai asked. "Why don't you use that? It's ready-made for the krewe. Could that work into your dinner?"
Griffen opened his mouth, then closed it again. "You almost got me," he said, as Val laughed uproariously. "I nearly told you."
"But what is it?" Fox Lisa asked. "We've been trying on those costumes, but none of us can guess from the design."
Griffen shook his head. "I'm sworn to secrecy," he said, mysteriously. "Look, I have my own idea for the party." He flipped open his small notebook and showed them a series of crude sketches. "I'm not much of an artist, but here's what I thought: I want to line the walls of the room with movie posters on easels, only all the titles will have dragon themes." He eyed them speculatively. "Like Gone With the Wing."
"Ohhhhh," moaned Fox Lisa. "Not puns!"
"Why not?" Jerome asked, laughing. "How about Goldbusters? Who y'gonna call?"
"I thought of The Wyvern of Oz," Griffen said.
"Two Gremlins of Verona," Val threw out. "Wait, those aren't dragons."
"Hatching Can Wa
it," suggested Jerome.
The others laughed at each new suggestion. Griffen wrote them down as fast as he could. When they finished, he had over twenty that he thought were funny.
"These are going to be great. I'll choose about six or eight of these," he said.
"Who's doing it for you?"
"One of Steamboat's cousins is an artist," Griffen said, naming a fellow barfly in the Irish pub. "He'll draw them up for me and get them printed. Everyone's going to get a miniature poster as a favor, an eight-by-ten print at their place setting."
"That's really clever," Fox Lisa said. "It won't be too expensive, and it's unique. I thought you were going to give everyone a picture of you in your regalia."
Griffen struck a pose. "You think they'd like that better?"
"Oh, well, there's another one for your movie titles," Val said, laughing. "The Dragon Who Would Be King. You'll have to have your face on the poster."
"Goldfinger," Fox Lisa suggested. "That already sounds like a dragon name."
"No, Goldwinger!" Mai said.
Jerome leaned back and shook out a cigarette. "You know you don't have to try this hard, Grifter. They're already impressed to death with you."
"I want to get it right," Griffen said, feeling the need intensely. "Like Mai said, when will I get another chance?"
Jerome grinned at him. "You're on your way to becoming a pillar of the community. Good job, Grifter." He flicked his lighter. Instead of the inch-high flame, a gout of fire gushed upward. Jerome dropped it on his plate. It didn't go out. The flames seemed to consume what was left of his sandwich and fries as if they were made of tissue paper.
"Put it out," Mai ordered him.
"I didn't do that!" Jerome said.
"Not you. Griffen."
"Me?"
"You started it. I felt it. Put it out. Now! Concentrate."
Griffen stared at the flame, feeling silly. The waitress had hoisted a fire extinguisher from behind the counter and headed toward them. Go out, he thought. Go out now!
The flames died away into a pool of congealed ketchup. Griffen regarded it with confusion.
Jerome headed off the waitress. "It's okay!" he called. "Sorry about that. I gotta give up smokin'. Maybe this was God's way of reminding me. Sorry!"
"What just happened?" Griffen asked.
Mai smiled. "It looks as if you have a new addition to your secondary powers," she said. "What were you thinking before that happened?"
"I just . . . I just want what I'm doing to work out right," Griffen said.
"You were feeling something deeply. Try it again. Start a fire, right there, but in a small way."
Griffen looked at the charred hamburger. Burn, he thought. Just a little.
He almost jumped out of his skin when smoke started curling up from the blackened bun.
Out! Go out!
Just as swiftly, the smoke died away.
"Now, that is one useful talent," Jerome said. "You never have to carry a lighter again, Grifter."
"That's amazing," Fox Lisa said. "Cool party trick."
"Do you have it, too?" Griffen asked Val.
Val tried to focus on the remains of Jerome's lunch. She wrinkled her forehead and her face turned red. "No," she said. "If I'm going to get this one, it'll be later. That's okay. I would be afraid of burning the place down anytime someone lit a cigarette. You ought to be concerned about setting yourself on fire in your sleep, Griffen."
"True," Mai said. "You will have to watch your temper as well."
Griffen looked at her, bemused. It was almost exactly what Etienne had said to him in the den. That meant that he was the one who had made the float catch fire. That suggested to him that it wasn't a natural progression of his powers. It might have something to do with having handled the Scepter of Fire. He'd have to call Holly Goldberg, and ask her if she was having any similar effects from touching her scepter. In the meantime, he needed to be on his guard against excesses of emotion. It was good to be the king, but it left him with a new and very dangerous responsibility.
Great, he thought. Now I'm a walking torch. What next?
Thirty
" Shuffle up and deal," said the dealer, taking her own advice. Her name was Kitty. She fanned the cards out between her slender hands, riffled the two piles together, and combined them with a wrenching sound. The players kept their hands on either side of their stacks of chips.
Rebecca sat at the end of the table, watching the dealer's hands. A second dealer, Wallace, sat in a chair against the wall, keeping an eye on the game. He would step in later, the players were told, to spell the young woman. It was not explained but understood that his job was also to keep an eye out for misbehavior among the players. Rebecca found it annoying. It was far easier to cause mischief when the dealer was tired or looking the other way.
She shifted a fraction in her seat. Because of the previous incident, she had been denied access to any further games in Griffen McCandles's operation. Therefore, Winston instructed her to disguise herself and infiltrate again. If that avatar was thrown out as well, she could shift to another appearance and another. It was, he told her, a chance to explore other states of being. She didn't like wearing a strange face; but if her mentor told her that was what was expected of her, she did it. And what was New Orleans for if not to explore one's sexuality?
To remove all suspicion from the minds of these puny humans that she had played with them before, she had transformed herself into a man. Not just a man, but a tall, thin, fair man with large blue eyes and broad shoulders. Working in a mirror, she based the facial features on a movie star whom she admired, one with a high degree of dragon blood and therefore worthy of her adulation. As a result, she had full lips, a strong chin, high cheekbones, a straight nose and brows. The movie star's eyes and hair were very dark, but she wanted to be a blonde. It was a striking combination. All eyes had turned to her when she entered the room. She had done a good job.
She checked the two cards held facedown. Ace and nine of diamonds. Workable. With professional scrutiny, she examined the way her opponents held themselves. The older man to her left, Mel, who smelled much too strongly of aftershave, was a poor player with many tells. He should not be there. Ira, next to him, was much better, with sharp eyes accustomed to keeping secrets. He was likely to be a corporate lawyer. Beside him, opposite Rebecca, was Nicky, another male almost as handsome as she was. His thick brown hair was just a little too long, and he kept his lips pursed slightly in a sardonic grin. The last player, Penny, was a woman in her forties. She was plain. She kept sneaking glances at Rebecca and the other good-looking player. Her tells were in her fingers. She must have a good hand; she kept checking the cards to see that they were still there. Rebecca would have no trouble with these players. She deliberately lost the first hand.
"So," said the long-haired man across the table, "where are you from?"
"San Jose," she said. She glanced at her hand. A king and a jack.
"Never been there. What is it like?"
"A town," Rebecca said tersely.
"My, aren't you precise!" She glanced up at Nicky's sarcastic tone. His eyes sparkled with mischief.
"I am here to play cards," she said. But she couldn't resist a glance at him. He was very good-looking, and he was clearly interested in her. He winked. Rebecca felt her cheeks redden.
"Ah," he said. "Thought so."
Rebecca concentrated hard on her cards. In a few hands more she would learn enough about her fellow players so she could choose the victim to accuse and ruin the game. She bid. Mel and Ira raised. Penny folded. Another round of bidding left Rebecca and Nicky as the only contenders. The turn revealed another nine. She put in a cautious raise. He matched her.
"So," he said, "what do you like in a man?"
"His liver," Rebecca shot back. "Grilled."
The others laughed. The long-haired man seemed a trifle rebuffed.
"You have got a sharp tongue, haven't you?"
"What do
you care, as long as you think you can beat me at this table?" Rebecca said.
"Well, I was thinking of later on," Nicky said. "I hope the rest of you don't mind."
"Oh, I don't," said Penny, though she looked a little disappointed. "You only live once."
"Seriously," Nicky said, leaning over the table toward Rebecca. "I have to tell you, bro, that my gaydar broke out all over the place the moment you walked in."
"What did you say?" Rebecca stammered. The others broke out laughing. She remembered at that moment that she was supposed to be a man. She deepened her voice. "What kind of remark is that?"
Nicky shook his head. "Don't try to tell me you've got a girlfriend back home. You don't do women, do you?"
"No!" Rebecca shouted. "Not that it is any of your business."
"Well, how'd you like to have a boyfriend right here in New Orleans? On a temporary basis, of course. If I go home to Randy with a souvenir like you, he's likely to beat my head in."
"And you think I'm not?"
Nicky looked even more intrigued. "So you like it rough? Hmmm." He lowered his eyelashes at her. "So, do I have to tell you my safe word?"
Rebecca threw in her cards without thinking. Nicky grinned. She realized that he was teasing her, almost certainly in hopes of throwing off her game. Furious, she collected her wits. She would show this ape-descendant how easy it was to trifle with her!
One might almost have heard the fanfare of the "Waltz of the Toreadors" as Kitty dealt them the next hand. Rebecca claimed her two kings and buckled down to serious work.
Within eight hands, she had cleaned out Mel and Penny. Two more rounds took down Ira, who threw her a mock salute.
"I surrender," he said. "Just pleased that I was beaten by a better man."
Man! Rebecca thought, with some satisfaction. At last she was passing!
One more hour, sitting as still as a statue behind her growing stacks of chips so as to give nothing away, she threw bets back and forth with Nicky. At one forty in the morning, both dealers flagging, she turned over the last hand to show the king and ace of spades, to match the king and aces of hearts and clubs on the table. Nicky threw up his arms.
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