Why did he feel put down by these equally ordinary people, when he played poker with richer, more eminent, more famous people and never felt out of place? Presentation did so much. Presentation and personality. The industrialists and celebrities who found their way to his tables didn't expect to be treated more deferentially than the shoe salesman or cocktail waitress who played cards with them, and the kings of Mardi Gras did. Admittedly, like his games, the price of admission was to have money, lots of money. But Mardi Gras royalty required acclaim by someone else who decided you were worthy to hold that exalted office, for however short a time. And that let one into the club.
Perhaps he had not learned yet to aim higher. He had never really anticipated having to socialize with the upper class. It was telling that this particular upper class did not have as powerful a bloodline as he did; but they had been raised with money, privilege, and, most important, the knowledge of what and who they were. Griffen felt at a disadvantage. He didn't know how to respond to some of the little nasty comments. Sometimes he felt that he wasn't even speaking the same language. Without meaning to, they treated him like an idiot cousin. He didn't like it, but it wasn't his party. He was just the king. It was a temporary post, and a hazardous one. He had not asked enough questions at the beginning, not that he'd known which ones to ask.
At least they never denigrated Val or made her feel an outcast. That would have made Griffen go for the throat. Instead, Antoinette de la Fee protected Val like a mother hen. Antoinette was gracious and welcoming, as were the other women at the ball. They praised her looks and her dress, included her in their conversations, and listened to what she said. They gave her advice, made little comments about other people, and pointed out what was going on around them from their point of view. At first it sounded as if they were patronizing her, but as Griffen listened more carefully, he saw that they were treating her as if she was a daughter who had not learned the social conventions yet. Val was eating it up. She was rapt. She had never had a circle of maternal older relatives.
They had been so isolated in Ann Arbor. For the first time, Griffen felt a pang of deep loss. Not for himself, but for Val. He had managed to get along in the world. He had his social network, like the players around the table, his drinking buddies and friends. Mose had insisted, then proved, that Griffen didn't need a mentor. He had made his mistakes, recovered from them, grown, and prospered. Val had had to help herself grow up. Mrs. Feuer had been pretty clinical about such things as menstruation and birth control. She had not been any emotional or practical support to a maturing girl who needed to know how the world worked.
There, in the middle of a fancy-dress ball, Val was getting lessons in becoming a woman of society. He could forgive the rougher treatment he was getting from the men of the krewe, if only to make sure that Val kept getting from their wives and mothers what she had never had after she had lost her own mother. He hadn't really considered keeping up relationships with them after Mardi Gras was over, until that moment. Val had given him a look of happiness. He had never seen anything like that on her face since they were small children.
Peter threw in his hand. Seven and two, the worst possible combination anyone could hold. Griffen glanced at the millionaire. The way he chewed on the left half of his lower lip said he had nothing in his hand. Griffen could beat him with his pair of nines. "Call," he said.
"Fold," said the millionaire. Griffen didn't make any triumphant sounds as he hauled in the pot. There had to be several thousand dollars there. If he could keep from losing most of it, he would feel a lot more secure.
"Shuffle and deal," said the dealer. "What game, folks?"
The confection queen glanced at her small, diamond-rimmed watch. "I've got a meeting in the morning, guys. Cash me out, honey."
"Yes, ma'am," the dealer said. He flashed a smile, gleaming white except for a missing front tooth. She collected her winnings, dropped a hundred in front of him, and departed.
"I better go, too," said the millionaire. "Great game, Griffen. Nice to meet you, Peter. Let's play again, huh?"
"A pleasure," Peter said, shaking hands with him. "Anytime. Griffen will tell me when there is an open table."
"Good thing I can afford it," the millionaire said. "Night, guys."
Griffen hesitated as Peter sat down again. He started to push another ante into the pot. If anyone could take the night's profits away from him, it was Peter.
"No, I do not wish to play anymore," he said. "I wanted to talk to you alone."
"I'm takin' my break," Ezra said, hastily getting to his feet. He moved across the room to the wet bar and had the caterer pour him a drink. Griffen welcomed his discretion.
"What's on your mind?" he asked Peter.
The other man looked uncomfortable. "Well, I do not know how to bring this up. I have always found you to be a friendly host, and I admire the way you run your operation. When I retire from the professional field, I wouldn't mind having something like this. In a city where it is legal, of course. I would not enjoy running the gauntlet as you do."
"I wouldn't recommend that part," Griffen said, "but I came into a going concern."
"I know. But that is not what I wanted to say. I will be blunt. I find you honest and straightforward. Your business is fair to the customers. Five percent of the tables for the house is not out of line. The house share is much more expensive elsewhere, and in much less pleasant circumstances. But I get into conversations . . ." He hesitated. "I am hearing from other sources that players think that your games are being rigged. Not all of them, but enough that people are nervous to trust their money to you."
Griffen felt as if his heart had been cut out. "Do you know the name of anyone who said that? I'd like to talk to them, straighten this out."
Peter shook his head. "I have a great card memory, but I'm not so good on names. One guy said he was going back to Atlanta and not coming back until things get better. If they ever do."
Griffen flipped through his mental Rolodex and came up with three regulars that it might have been.
"I just thought you ought to know," Peter said. "People who see me on television think they know me, so they tell me things. As a friend, I thought I'd better tip you off."
Griffen sank into a chair. His world felt as if it was collapsing on top of him. The one thing that he had built up this operation with was his integrity. He had been straightforward with everyone he dealt with. He counted on that pool of money from games to pay his expenses, rent, bar tab, food. He never took anything that might indebt him to someone else. He paid his way. Why was it so important to someone to take away the small operation he was running? The atmosphere was becoming so soured that the majority of players who were not cheated felt as if it could happen to them. Griffen was at a loss.
"Thanks," he said. "Yeah, I'd rather know. I will have to figure out a way to deal with this. I appreciate that you aren't one of the ones who is jumping off the ship."
"Oh, I can spot a cheater," Peter said. "I'm not afraid of being taken. I'd tell you if I saw one. He wouldn't stand a chance against the two of us."
"You're a friend," Griffen said. "I've . . . I've got to go."
He paid the two dealers and left the suite, feeling miserable.
He didn't notice Peter grinning ferociously as he gathered his winnings and put them in his wallet. Jordan and the others would be pleased. There were many more ways to undermine an operation than merely depriving it of its clientele.
Thirty-six
Griffen spun Mai around the room to the soft strains of a waltz. The orchestra, nine musicians of ancient years but excellent caliber, nodded and smiled to him as he whisked her past them. It was Thursday. He had two parties that week, both can't-miss invitations. Fox Lisa had campaigned to come to this dance, but so had Mai. In compensation, he promised Fox Lisa the biggest ball of all, the masquerade ball held that Saturday by a superkrewe who wanted as many kings and queens as possible. She had not been pleased to be third choice, and ha
d made it known to everyone in the bar. Griffen had a lot of people's sympathy.
Mai had a few bones to pick with him, as well.
"Why was I not made queen?" she demanded.
"Look, I still don't know more than I told you," Griffen said, utterly tired of the topic. "All I know is what the krewe tells me. Callum Fenway said it was Etienne's choice, and they could vote up or down, that is all. So they voted up."
"On M. Wurmley," Mai said. "I saw the entry in that magazine. You haven't met her yet?"
"No," Griffen said. "I bet she's someone's rich aunt."
"Mmm," said Mai, sounding preoccupied.
"You look beautiful," Griffen said. She was clad in brilliant green. The fabric fell from tiny straps on her shoulders in a smooth flow to her feet, accentuating her figure in the simplest way. He had expected her to wear the red dress she had bought while out with him, but she had informed him she was saving it for the Fafnir ball. Naturally, she had a closetful of eveningwear.
Mai tilted her head. "Very well, I shall drop the subject. It's done now."
"Right. Let's talk about something else."
"Is there any more information about Jesse Lee?"
Griffen almost choked. "Something positive?"
"I do care what happened, you know."
"I know." Griffen sighed. "But Harrison hasn't told me a thing. He's coming up empty. I put out word among my watchers and some people I met at the conclave. No one seems to have seen anything, or they are too scared to come forward."
"I see." Mai tapped her fingers pensively on Griffen's shoulder.
Her own investigation, asking questions among her spies in the Quarter, had come up with no other information on the murder. Jesse Lee would likely never be avenged. That irritated and frustrated her. She wanted badly to connect Jordan Ma to the killing. If she could do that, she could prevail upon the elders to remove him. Perhaps permanently.
"Wait, there's someone I want to talk to," Griffen said. Mai glanced in the direction he was looking. A tall man with a potbelly stood beside a woman in a yellow dress, about a size sixteen, she estimated. They wore eye masks.
They swung to a halt next to the couple just as the music ended.
"Hello, Eric," he said.
"Griffen McCandles?" the masked man said, startled. "I didn't expect to see you here."
"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.
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