Dragons Deal (13 page)

The ball was scheduled for Saturday, January 18, when he was to be introduced to the krewe and their guests. The king's party, and he was still not sure if he was having one, ought to be in between. Whether it was big or small was up to him, but it had to be elegant. Griffen had that feeling again of being a small boy at a board meeting.

The next krewe meeting was Monday, a day early because the next day was Christmas.

And he was now in possession of a true secret: the theme of the year's parade. It was "Dragons Rule." Mitchell and Langford, who was in charge of liaising with the costume manufacturers, produced photographs and a stack of color sketches for him to see. The floats would all express themes of dragons throughout history, literature, legend, and media of dragons who win. Griffen marveled over whimsical sketches of St. George losing to the dragon, giant snapdragons with eyes and darting tongues, a dozen different puns about dragonflies, the Welsh red dragon facing off against the white dragon of England, all five colors of Pernese dragon with one tiny white dragon on the end of the float, the nine sons of the dragon on a Chinese-themed float.

That last was the float on which the dukes would ride. Those were men who had been selected to be honored by the krewe. There were nine of them, as there would be nine maids, on a Dragon Lady float. Griffen admired the cut of the women's costumes, sexy but not revealing. Allure wasn't the purpose of Mardi Gras parade costumes since they were masques to conceal themselves against the devil. He found the whole concept exciting. Put end to end as if the parade stretched out before him, Griffen was more delighted than ever to be a part of it. Mitchell put down one more picture, of a float that resembled a huge gold dragon with green eyes. "That's the queen's float," he had explained.

Griffen had finally worked up the courage to ask the question. "Who's queen?" he asked, feeling as if he were echoing a line of dialogue. "I have, uh, a sister and two girlfriends who are interested, if you haven't chosen anyone yet. They, uh, asked me to ask."

The lieutenants had burst into laughter. Griffen had felt abashed.

"Not your problem," Etienne had assured him, his eyes twinkling. Griffen had forgotten his gift of foreknowledge. "You can tell those three fine ladies that they going to be maids. It's a big honor. They will ride on their own float and sit with the dukes of the court at all the parties."

"They aren't called duchesses?" Griffen had asked.

"Nope. That's not proper Mardi Gras terminology. They are maids, and they will have as fine a time as you will. I've seen it."

As a final treat, Etienne had shown him a photo album of the last Fafnir parade. The white leather-bound book bore the krewe name and the year, which Griffen noted was before the Second World War, when Mardi Gras had been suspended.

"I think you'll find the king's float the most interesting," Etienne had said, opening it to a page and pushing the yellow-edged book toward him. Griffen had studied the old black-and-white photograph closely, concentrating on the fine, shining surface at the man in white satin and a jeweled crown who sat majestically waving a multipointed scepter on a throne with dragon's-head finials on the uprights and the arms.

It was Mose.

Griffen stared. The man in the picture was wearing a crown that concealed his forehead, and he had a full beard, but Griffen was absolutely certain of his identity. Mose looked exactly the same as he had the last time Griffen had seen him. He looked up at Etienne, who grinned at him.

"Just wanted you to know that there's a tradition that it's right for you to uphold, Mr. Griffen," he had said.

Griffen was stunned. Automatically, he had reached for his cell phone and pushed Mose's number. His old mentor had gone to visit his daughter out of state, or at least that was what he insisted Griffen tell the others in the operation, but Griffen had to ask. The phone rang and rang before going over to voice mail. Griffen had hung up without leaving a message. Mose!

As he walked, Griffen's head spun at the thought of all that was going on and all that he had to do. He wished he
could
ask Mose about the krewe and get his advice. He worried that he was far out of his league. These people were all very experienced, knew the ropes, had been part of and helped dozens of other krewes over the years. They were proud to be restarting something that their parents and grandparents were part of decades ago.

He tried Mose again. The cell phone rang four times, then went straight to voice mail. Frustrated, Griffen punched the red button.

"He's not answering this late, especially since he knows it's you."

The quiet voice made Griffen jump.

He had not heard her fall into step beside him, but then he wouldn't have. Rose, a beautiful black woman in her thirties and a well-regarded voodoo priestess, had been dead for eight years. Her footsteps were silent.

"Why not?" Griffen asked.

"Because this is something he wants you to work through all on your own," she said. "It's too important. He wants you to make your own decisions."

Griffen nodded. "You never appear without a reason," he said. "Is my getting involved in the krewe important to you, too?"

"Very," she said. She gave him a wry smile. "I made a mistake not giving you more time before to decide whether or not to chair that conclave. This time, I wanted you to make up your own mind. If you hadn't said yes, I would have asked you. It's not true," she said, with a faint hint of mischief, "that ghosts can't learn anything new."

"Well, you don't strike me as an ordinary ghost," Griffen said. "Not that my experience has been very broad. What's so important about it?"

"Balance," Rose said. "This city requires it. Mardi Gras is part of the balancing act that New Orleans goes through year after year. All that indulgence before the deprivations of Lent is a balance, the feast before the willing sacrifice. It is most sincerely meant, by the locals. The visitors all think it is a big party. They do not see that the pendulum must swing from the opulent to the austere and back again. So, too, must the elements be balanced. It has been growing out of whack for a long while. I am glad to see that it will at last be redressed. You are doing the right thing. Do your part at the parties and most especially in the parade. Etienne needs you and your special skills."

"All I'm going to do is sit on a throne and throw doubloons," Griffen said, doubtfully.

"Not at all," Rose said, her serene face serious. "You are the focus, the channel. Keep your humility, but you are entitled to pride as well. Use the office well. Keep in mind your most important task."

"The balance," Griffen repeated.

"All power must be kept in balance, or destruction follows. It is part of history." Rose turned toward a streetlamp shaped like an antique gaslight. Griffen lost sight of her in the momentary glare before his eyes readjusted.

When they got used to the light, she was gone.

Griffen
threw a couple of hundred-dollar chips into the pot and restacked his five cards. Sun blazed in the window behind him. He wouldn't usually sit with his back to either a door or a window, but the least glare hit him in the eyes that way.

When he had returned to the French Quarter the night before, it was still too early to go to bed. He had walked over to the Irish bar to see who was around. Fox Lisa had been there with Maestro. She had wanted to hear every detail of the meeting. He told her what he could without breaking the krewe's confidence. She tried hard to worm the parade theme out of him. It had been hard to resist her, especially when she suggested they leave the bar and go back to his place.

She had fallen asleep afterward. Griffen had been too excited to drop off. Instead, he went out to his living room. He was starting to formulate ideas for his king's party. He found a notebook, made a batch of microwave popcorn, and put on
Masque of the Red Death
, starring Vincent Price, with the volume down very low. It was the only movie in his collection that had anything to do with Carnival. He would have to check out Tower Records or the DVD rental shop to find if there were any movies about Mardi Gras in New Orleans. Since Rose had given her approval, he wanted to do his best for the Krewe of Fafnir. Whatever he could do to help maintain balance, whatever that was, he would do. He needed to research more into the history to see if there was a reason for Carnival beyond the religious festival.

About four, Fox Lisa had discovered he was awake and joined him on the couch. Neither of them got much more sleep. She had to leave early to go to her job. Griffen went back to bed, but his mind kept racing, interspersing the sketches of the parade floats, Vincent Price, and Rose.

The phone rang just about eleven. Griffen groped for it with a hand and muttered a hello into it. At the sound of Jerome's voice, he opened his eyes to a headache and quickly shut them again. His head throbbed whenever he moved his head too quickly. But he had promised Jerome faithfully after the conclave that he would pay more attention to the business. He had kept his word. This was just one of the myriad small problems that he needed to help solve. He had been dressed, shaved, and on his way in fifteen minutes flat.

"Raise you," said Jerome, putting in three chips. He grinned at Griffen. Griffen refused to admit that he was bluffing. Let Jerome try to figure it out. Hopefully, it would cost him a bundle. Griffen held two pairs, twos and threes. It was pretty small, but it would beat even a pair of aces. He might even be able to make a full house. Even if he didn't, he might be able to convince the others to fold. Sadly, he was not there to play for blood.

Ellis and Mike, two white businessmen from Detroit, sat between them. They were executives from the auto industry. The game had been set up to run during the two-hour break the visitors got for lunch. The convention was being held in the function rooms and grand ballroom of the Astor Crowne Plaza, sixteen floors below them. If they were happy, they knew other executives who would like to join a hosted poker game. Jerome was determined to make sure they were happy. Griffen agreed that what they wanted mattered more than another hour's sleep for him. The suite was already rented. Lunch had been ordered in, and a full bar of drinks awaited them.

"I think you have a handful of nothing," Ellis said, with a laugh. He pushed in three chips.

"Pay and see," Jerome said, smiling broadly.

"Well, I have got nothing," Mike said, turning his cards back to Noah, the dealer, a light-skinned African-American in his forties with graying hair and light freckles. Peter put in the three and raised two more. The rest of them concentrated on the hand. It was a hard battle, but Griffen's two pair took the pot. The others emitted the obligatory moan. Noah shuffled and dealt again.

There should have been five players in the game. Two of the three locals they had expected to fill out the table had canceled, citing an important lunch date. The third simply didn't show up. Jerome had phoned Griffen and asked him to sit in. That made four. They were ready to settle for being one short, when a businessman in an Armani suit had happened to catch the eye of one of their spotters at the Marriott and asked if he knew where he could find some action. Marcel had put the man in a cab at his own expense. Peter, a dapper Chinese-American with slicked-up hair that stood six inches high, arrived just before the first hand was dealt. He sat to the right of the dealer, his fingers resting lightly on his downturned cards. Griffen had made a note to pay Marcel back with a bonus for quick thinking and sit down with him for a drink.

Marcel wasn't the only man in his employ who had shown initiative like that. Griffen realized he needed to get to know more of the people who worked for Mose's operation--now his. The wake-up call he'd received after the conclave had brought him around to understand being a responsible boss and member of the community meant more than just making sure payroll went out on time. It also meant recognizing those employees who wanted the business to run better and instituting improvements they suggested. They wanted to be part of a first-class, well-run establishment. He wanted that for them as well as for himself.

The first on his list to appreciate was Jerome. Griffen had sensed some disquiet from Jerome when Mose had installed him as heir apparent over the head of the dragon who had been in the team longer. He certainly knew the job better than Griffen did. There was no reason not to have given Jerome the position except for Griffen's bloodline. He was glad that Jerome seemed like he was starting to relax around the "Young Dragon." He was finally losing the chip off his shoulder he had after Griffen was promoted over him.

"Hey, Grifter, since you were off playing with your parade friends, I interviewed a new caterer," Jerome said. "What do you think of the canapes?"

Griffen ate a meatball from the plate by his elbow. The burst of beef flavor was accented with savory spices he couldn't identify, but enjoyed. "Very good," he said, reaching for another tidbit, a chunk of steamed fish with a green sauce on a rice cracker. It was as tasty as the first. "You should hire them."

"Already did. They're our go-to guys now when the hotels don't supply room service," Jerome said. "I checked out about twenty places. These were the best."

"Nice pick," Griffen said, pretending to doff a hat. "You have my respect."

"Hear, hear," said Mike. "Great eats."

"Stop passing the shit, man," Jerome said, though he looked pleased.

"Not shit," Griffen said, his expression severe. "Only one problem."

Jerome looked concerned. "What?"

"There might not be enough food. I'm going to eat about five pounds of this stuff!"

"So will I," said Peter, munching on another bite-sized morsel. "What do you call these things with the cheese and shrimp?"

"I don't name 'em, man. I just eat 'em." Jerome called for the caterer's assistant to refill everyone's plate.