"Criminals! Why, you sonovabitch!" Stearn launched himself toward the table, fist first.
Griffen leaped in and pulled him back. "All right, can we just talk about what went on?"
"No! I am going to call the police!" the other man said. "He is a friend of yours, is he? Perhaps the problem is collusion! You get a share of whatever it is that he takes away from the rest of us?"
Griffen felt his temper flare. He damped it down with difficulty, as the cigarettes that had been snuffed out in the ashtrays on the table edge started to smolder again. "Sir, I am sorry I have given the wrong impression. My operation only provides you with the time and place to play a friendly game of poker. The other players are, as far as I am able to determine, honest, upstanding citizens like you. My business runs on its reputation. I do not plant shills. I don't support cheating. If I have proof that there has been some dishonest play, then I will do my best to settle the matter. Now, what proof do you have?"
"How about an eyewitness?" the old man asked. "Aha, you think I am the only one who saw what went on?" He turned to the others. "Tell him. What did you see?"
Up until then, Griffen hadn't paid any attention to the rest of the players in the room. Only one other beside Mr. Stearn was a regular. Mr. Diener shook his head. The other two were a tall black man in a polo shirt and long shorts, a former professional basketball player on the Boston Celtics who Griffen recognized from television, and a small woman with red hair who reminded him of Fox Lisa. She wore a cotton dress and a lightweight cardigan with the top button fastened.
"He looked furtive. Yes, that's the word," the woman said. "Furtive. He could have done something." Stearn glared at her.
"I saw the guy slip a card down onto his lap," the ballplayer said, after a glance at the old Asian. "Next hand, he had two kings. Can't tell me that's an accident."
"It was the deal!" Stearn bellowed. "That's all! I have said it a hundred times now. I got pocket kings. I never slipped a card anywhere!"
"It's fraud," the old man said. "I am calling the police."
"I would rather you didn't do that," Griffen said. "Can't we settle this here and now in a civilized way?"
"He can give me my money back," the old man said.
"I won that!"
"And damages, for pain and suffering."
"This isn't a court of law," Griffen said. "We don't award damages."
"Then I am calling the police! They'll get it for me!"
Griffen could see the look on Harrison's face if he had to roust one of Griffen's games out of the Royal Sonesta. He also foresaw having to bail Stearn out of jail in the middle of the night. But to agree to blackmail was to open the door to further demands. He shook his head. "I can't do that, sir. I'll make good your losses plus a hundred dollars, but that is all I will do."
"You pussy!" Stearn said, glaring at Griffen. "Maybe I should demand damages, too, for having my character impugned!"
"I didn't say you did anything wrong, Mr. Stearn," Griffen said.
"It would be nice if you at least defended me!"
"I wasn't here," Griffen said. He turned to the dealers. "Wallace, Ezra, what about you?"
"Didn't see nothing that they say happened," Wallace said. "It was all goin' real nice until then."
But the situation had reached a stalemate. Griffen reached for his wallet. It was flatter than ever. He managed to scrape up the amount that Wallace said the Asian gentleman had lost, plus the promised C-note. The Asian pocketed the money. Stearn swapped in his chips and departed without saying a word.
Griffen left, after offering praise to the dealers for handling the difficult situation. They felt bad for him. He could see it in their eyes though they didn't insult him by saying so. He was devastated. Whatever had happened there had ruined a nice game. Yet another rumor was going to hit the mills, and he could not do a damned thing about it. His head ached. The frustration sent unquenched fire rushing through his blood.
I am getting addicted to that scepter, he thought. He headed for a side-street bar for a drink. He didn't want to have to talk about what had happened with anyone he knew.
The rest of the players reached the ground floor and scattered. The short Asian man headed into the Mystic Bar for a celebratory cocktail. A few minutes later, the tall basketball player joined him. In the shadow of the corner booth, the tall form shrank into a compact, slender one, looking rather incongruous in a polo shirt and long shorts that almost reached her ankles.
"That was magnificent, elder one," Rebecca said, breathlessly. "I bow to your expertise."
"Thank you, child," Winston said, patting her on the arm. "Now you have seen, I expect you to go out and do."
"I will!"
"Good. Go and get us some drinks."
Thirty-four
Val clutched Griffen's arm as they waited in line amid dozens of couples in black tie and floor-length gowns. Griffen was proud to observe that he and his sister fit in perfectly. Her new dress was a column of blue silk that skimmed over the small baby bump at her waist. The strapless top showed off her slim, athletic shoulders. He noticed more than one man looking her over with interest.
"I feel like we're in a movie," she whispered. It did look like a classic movie set, with men in tuxedos and ladies in evening dresses posing against heavy swagged curtains tied with tassels and tall, Art Deco flower vases overflowing with blossoms. Somewhere an orchestra, heavy on the strings, was playing Cole Porter. Any moment now, someone was going to burst into song.
"Maybe Shall We Dance, or Top Hat," Griffen suggested. "Something that starred Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers."
"Everything is so elegant!"
"And this is just the first one," Griffen said. He had thought that because Rex and Zulu were two of the most important, they would have the first formal balls, but another superkrewe had beaten them to the punch. As Etienne had predicted, Griffen and the other members of the court and committee heads were sent invitations. He had a whole stack of them on the table where he paid his bills. Of course, the response had to be accompanied by a check or money order; but on peering into the ballroom ahead of them, he saw that they were getting their money's worth. Busby Berkeley would have been proud of the detail the organizers had gone into. Silver, crystal, and china gleamed on perfectly white tablecloths. The centerpieces on the tables were towering, fairylike sculptures of green, gold, and purple. They were impressive, but not bulky enough to prevent the diners from seeing one another.
"I won't know what to say to people."
"Don't worry. They're all thinking the same thing."
Val shot him an accusatory look. "I thought you were going to ask Mai to this ball."
Griffen shrugged. "I thought you'd enjoy it. She wanted me to bring her, but I told her family took priority. You are my sister, so you get to go first. She has her own invitation. She said she might come if she found an escort."
Val leaned close to him. "Do I look like a watermelon in this dress?"
"No! You can't even tell. It hides, uh--"
"You feel that uncomfortable mentioning my baby?" she asked, wryly. "When you can discuss sex and dead bodies out loud with people?"
"It seems like pregnancy should be private," Griffen said. He did feel uncomfortable. "I mean, the baby's inside you, and what's happening there is no one's business."
Val shook her head.
"Don't be so squeamish! Babies are natural. But . . . do I look big?"
Griffen was at a loss for words. If he told her the truth, that people could see the small bulge when the soft fabric flattened against her stomach, she would get upset even though she had just insisted it was natural. If he lied, she would be upset, too. He was rescued by a suave voice at his shoulder.
"You look lovely, Ms. McCandles. And both of you look very healthy."
"Thanks, sir," Val said. She smiled shyly at the older man in black tie and bright red silk cummerbund. The lady on his arm, who matched him in age and elegance, wore old-gold damask broca
de. She smiled at the McCandles siblings. The man bowed to Val.
"You don't know me. I met your brother at the conclave in October."
"Right," Griffen said, searching for a name. "I don't recall . . ."
"Milton Pelletier. This is my wife, Emily. We are very proud that you are gracing our krewe with your presence. Enjoy the evening. Nice to see you, Griffen. Miss Valerie, I hope you will honor me with a dance." He bowed to her. Val giggled at the old-fashioned gallantry.
"Thanks, Milton and, uh, Emily," Griffen said. "See you inside."
"Did you meet him at the conclave?" Val whispered.
"I don't remember his name."
The older couple turned and passed through the doors.
"Who are you talking to?" the hostess in the pale blue lace jacket asked him, as he reached her and handed over the invitation cards.
Griffen gestured toward the direction the couple had gone. "Uh, that man in the red cummerbund. And that lady in gold. Mr. and Mrs. Pelletier? They said they were on the krewe."
"Really?" the hostess said, puzzled. She thought for a moment. "We haven't had anyone named Pelletier in the krewe since 1937. They were the king and queen then."
"Maybe I heard the name wrong," Griffen said. He accepted a seating card from her.
Val's eyebrows were high on her forehead as Griffen escorted her into the ballroom. She was holding back with difficulty and exploded as soon as they were out of earshot of the others.
"Why couldn't she see them?" she demanded. "Were they ghosts? The ghosts of a king and queen?"
"I guess so," Griffen said. "There were ghosts at the conclave, Rose and some others. I didn't have time to get to know everyone there. I had to handle a lot of problems then."
Val whistled.
"I guess you never stop being into Mardi Gras," she said. "Do you think they've been coming to the ball since 1937, or just since they died?"
"If you see him again later, you can ask him," Griffen said. "Just don't dance with him,"
Val looked offended. "Why not?
He grinned. "Because if no one else can see him, then you will look as if you're crazy."
Val made a face at him.
"Mr. Griffen!" Etienne homed in on them just inside the doorway. An older lady in coral-colored satin held on to his arm. "Mama, you know Griffen McCandles. And dis is his pretty-as-a-picture sister, Valerie."
"Pleased to meet you," she said. "I'm Antoinette. Come and sit next to me, Valerie. I want to gossip 'bout some of the outfits that the other ladies here are wearin'. I cannot believe that they left the house 'thout lookin' at the mirror!"
Val smiled at Griffen. "I think I am going to enjoy this party," she said.
A jazz trio struck up soft music as the guests found the tables with their numbers on them.
The table they were assigned was already occupied by Terence Killen, Mitchell Grade, and their wives. Griffen introduced them to Val. Secretly, he was relieved to have a few people he knew present. They could answer questions for him.
" 'Scuse me for working business into pleasure, Griffen," Terence said. "Got a call from the restaurant about your party. They're happy to hold the room on your say-so, but their suppliers need a deposit for the food. Do you think you can just drop by there and put one down? They only need about 25 percent."
"Sure," Griffen said, feeling pained. That amount would strip his bank account down to a few hundred. He hated to have that small an emergency pad on hand.
Val leaned over. "Do you need a loan, Big Brother?" she murmured.
"I shouldn't," Griffen said, swallowing hard. He needed to get in on another game. Or twelve.
Terence jumped slightly, as if his wife had elbowed him hard in the ribs. "Well, that's it. Not another word about that. Pretty nice decorations they put up here. Nice and traditional, with the jesters. I wonder if that has anything to do with their theme."
"I always guess, and I am never right," Mitchell said. "My wife, here, she is always right. What do you think, honey?"
Mrs. Grade glanced around the room. "I think it's kind of generic. If I had to say for certain, I think they are going to make us wait for the tableau. But they did hire the very best musicians. Listen to them. I want to get up and dance."
"Later, honey, later. Wait until they've made the speeches."
Griffen saw no flaw in the grandeur of the room. The adornments that Mrs. Grade called "generic" were still hand-painted and beautifully made. He was impressed once again with the level of detail that had to be put into every Mardi Gras event. Real royalty would have to push to equal the beauty of this setting. Pages in damask satin and eye masks helped guests into their seats and brought around drinks. "I know that we're a smaller krewe. Is our ball going to be as grand as this one?"
"Ours will be better," Etienne assured him. "Dis is just a warm-up. Don't you fear; we'll be shown up by nobody."
Thirty-five
Griffen sat back, stone-faced, as a trio of players tried to guess whether he was bluffing about the quality of his hand. The game could end now. Griffen held a straight flush, two to six of clubs. It could be superseded by a higher-ranking suit or a better straight flush. He hoped his luck was going to hold out. He had plenty of chips in front of him to intimidate other players.
"I think yer bluffing, Griffen," said the millionaire from New York. He pushed his stack forward. He took a carrot stick off the plate at his right and crunched it. Through shards of vegetable, he mumbled, "Five thousand."
"Fold," said the tough-faced woman from Kansas who ran a confectionary empire.
Griffen didn't change expression. Too bad. He wasn't going to be able to make a clean sweep of everyone's pot.
He felt so much more at home in this setting that he wanted to beam at the others, but they would have thought he was crazy or up to something. The latter was true, certainly, but not the former. He was just relieved to be out of the tuxedo and back into familiar clothing. His dreams had been haunted by imagined social missteps, with choruses of howling banshees laughing each time he did or said something wrong. Not that the ball itself had really gone that way. He was just suffering from the reaction to having had to spend all night guessing what to do next.
"I call you," said Peter Sing. Griffen didn't meet his eyes.
"Five thousand," the dealer recited, counting the chips in a single glance. Griffen pushed in his own stack to match it. He couldn't afford to lose. He had put an IOU in the bank for his stake, seen by no one but the surprised dealer. He really had to win, to pay back the house, plus help take care of his expenses. He was pretty sure he could beat the others. Their tells said they were holding nothing. All except Peter. Griffen could not penetrate the other dragon's facade. He was good. If it had been anytime but Mardi Gras, Griffen would have enjoyed playing him on a regular basis. He studied Peter again for a moment, then turned over his cards. Peter grimaced and pushed his away without revealing them.
"Ohhhh!" the others moaned. Griffen raked in the pot. He glanced at the clock. After 2:00 a.m. A couple of the players were beginning to flag. Griffen had too much adrenaline in his system to be sleepy. He was prepared to play until dawn.
"So, what's it like being king of Mardi Gras?" Peter asked. "I don't know if you heard, folks, but we have royalty among us. Griffen is king of the Krewe of Fafnir."
The others applauded him.
"Congrats, Griffen!" said the millionaire. "I've always wanted to be king on one of them floats, but everyone tells me I don't qualify. What's it like?"
Griffen grinned sheepishly. "Expensive. I never dreamed when I said yes that it was going to cost me something every time I turned around."
"But isn't it a great honor?" the confectionary queen asked.
Griffen pulled his wits together. Running down the very institution for which New Orleans was known above all else was bad business, as well as uncharitable. "It really is. I was knocked sideways when they asked me. I mean, I haven't been here very long, and I'm pretty young. The
history behind the festival goes back hundreds of years, but the one here in New Orleans is unique. There are so many other men that they could have given the post to, but I'm really glad for the opportunity. It's been an amazing time so far. I've been invited to a lot of parties. Formal parties. I was just at one last evening. It was the most elegant event I have ever attended. We have our own masquerade ball coming up. And you ought to see the float that I am going to ride on in our parade. In fact, all the floats are unbelievable. It's going to be a great day."
"Wish I could see it," the millionaire said. "Got to get back after this weekend. Maybe I'll get back in time for the parades."
The woman from Kansas put in five chips. "Why is it called Fafnir? That sounds silly."
"Well, most of the krewes are named after someone in mythology," Griffen said. "Fafnir was a dragon in Norse myth."
"You like dragons?" asked the New York millionaire.
"Yes, I do," Griffen said.
"Me, too," added Peter, with a conspiratorial grin at Griffen. "So you don't mind coming back to the real world in between?"
"It's a relief, to be honest," Griffen admitted.
The ball had been a challenge to his pride as well as his powers of observation. The krewe elite made him feel all too keenly the disadvantages of his middle-class upbringing. They talked about their swimming pools and jet-setting around the world. The women were all wearing diamond-encrusted jewelry that his senses told him was real. Val's eyes gleamed with envy though she had nowhere to wear anything like that in her ordinary life. Only there and in similar occasions would it ever be appropriate, and this season was probably the only time in their lives when they would be rubbing elbows with the social hierarchy.
After the tableaux, which revealed the krewe's upcoming parade theme in a series of little sketches by ladies in gorgeous gowns and elaborate headdresses, he had met the king, queen, and court of the host krewe. Introduced by Etienne as the king of Fafnir, Griffen was shown much honor as a brother monarch. They tried to include him as an equal in their conversation, which made him feel all the lower down the social chain. He hated it. Americans had no titles, so they felt compelled to invent their own nobility: politicians, movie stars, and now once-a-year monarchs. He did his best to enjoy himself but felt guilty for enjoying it. That voice at the back of his mind was the equivalent of the slave standing on the back of Caesar's chariot during one of his triumphs in Rome. It held the figurative laurel wreath up over his head, all the while whispering, "Remember thou art mortal." On Ash Wednesday, he would be back to being Griffen McCandles.
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