Dragons Deal (25 page)

Word seemed to be spreading to the other gambling rings that the McCandles game was vulnerable. Unhappy customers were going to other groups. The hotel concierges, usually the source of their best leads, were steering players away from the spotters. It took personal visits from Griffen and Jerome with assurances that he was on top of the issue, and that it was just the occasional disgruntled player causing trouble, to get them to start recommending his games again. Jerome had put in hours of legwork. Griffen felt he owed him a big favor.

Jerome sat back with a drink, enjoying the show. The two men, both elderly African-Americans, sent musical phrases up and back to one another as challenges. The man on the left, with large, protuberant eyes like Count Basie's, grinned wickedly and played the first lines from "Anything You Can Do, I Can Do Better." His counterpart picked it up, jazzed it up, then added syncopation. The first pianist laughed, repeated what his friend had produced, and drew it out into a trill of music that rolled and ricocheted around the original song. Everyone cheered them on, stuffing money into the jars on the table between the pianos.

"Got three tables tonight," he said. "Everyone's an old-timer. They rather spend New Year's Eve with a handful of cards than their families."

"Four," Griffen said. "Forgot to tell you. I got a call from Peter Sing. He found a few people in his hotel who want a game. We'll play in his room. I called Marcel to deal."

Jerome's eyebrows lowered over his nose. "I told you I don't like that man, Grifter. He's trouble."

"I know! But I'm sitting in. As long as I'm there, what can he do?"

"I dunno, but I don't want to find out! Why do you keep lettin' him in?"

Griffen frowned. At Mai's insistence, they had banned Jordan Ma and the woman from joining any more tables, but he wasn't willing to let Jerome push him around. "I like the guy. He's good company. We get along. I know you don't. I don't see what you think is a problem."

"I told you I didn't like his attitude," Jerome said.

"What's his attitude got to do with it?" Griffen asked. "It's kind of cool that a pro wants to play in our games. It's good for our reputation. We could use a boost about now."

"But not with a dude like him." Jerome looked disappointed. "Grifter, you said you trusted my judgment. Then act like it!"

"You act like you don't trust mine! Who's the--"

The pianist on the left glanced up from his keyboard. "Hey, fellahs, chill. Let's all go with the flow, 'kay?"

Griffen gave him a guilty glance but dropped his voice. "Who's the head dragon around here?"

Jerome raised his eyebrows.

"That mean you know more than the rest of us? You still a baby, Grifter."

"Really? So all the times you come to
me
for advice have been window dressing?"

"I am showing respect to the office, man! The guy occupyin' it obviously don't deserve it!"

A man in a shiny tuxedo jacket and a satin bow tie dipped his head down between them. "Gentlemen," the manager murmured, "sorry to interrupt your argument, but you're ruining the vibes for the other people here. We'd love to have you stay, but only if you have finished your discussion. Otherwise, we'll be happy to see you another time."

Griffen worked his jaw. He felt his cheeks burn. "Thanks," he said. He dug money out of his wallet and set it down on the cocktail table. Jerome shook his head and raised his drink.

"Happy New Year, man."

"Yeah," Griffen said.

He stalked out. Couples and groups raised cheerful go-cups to one another as they passed.

"Happy New Year!"

Griffen responded, though his heart wasn't in it. He felt guilty about Jerome. Griffen depended on him absolutely when it came to the business, but it seemed as if he had a bug about Peter Sing. Sure, he knew Peter was a dragon. He was a demon poker player, and that raised concerns that he had been sent by the Eastern dragons, but he hadn't done anything wrong! At every game he had played at one of Griffen's tables Griffen himself had been present. Was Jerome jealous that he was befriending another strong-blooded dragon? Did this have anything to do with Griffen's Mardi Gras krewe? If Jerome wanted to be involved in that, all he had to do was ask! There was no need for him to sulk.

He found his feet turning automatically toward the Irish bar. The poker game Peter had asked to set up wasn't due to begin until after midnight. He had at least an hour to kill before then.

He passed by a few clubs and bars. Their French doors were wide open to the air, letting the sweet music and loud conversation pour out. Crowds with plastic cups in their hands hung out around the doors, laughing and talking. They were ready to ring in the new year. Griffen felt sorry for himself. There would probably be no one he knew in the Irish pub. Just a few losers who found their way there, who had no one else to celebrate with.

To his amazement, every seat in the house was filled, and the bar was hemmed in three deep with people lost in conversation. The pool tables were both occupied. Practically every regular was there. Half of them were wearing plastic top hats with the numerals of the new year blazoned on them. Blares of toy horns punctuated the usual hum.

"Hey, Griffen!" shouted Maestro, brandishing his pool cue. "Come on and help me rob these poor fools of what's left of their paychecks!"

Griffen was grateful for the invitation, but he waved a hand to decline.

"Griffen!"

He glanced past the bartender to the family side. Val beckoned to him. He went around and squeezed in next to her.

"What are you doing here?" he asked. "I thought you were out with Gris-gris."

"He had to go help one of his aunts," Val said, making a face. "His uncle fell off a ladder and broke his leg. He didn't want me to come and help. Said I might strain myself. What about you? I thought you and Jerome were at the piano concert."

Griffen felt ashamed. "I left," he said. "We had a disagreement over business." He didn't want to rehash it with Val. She wasn't involved in the business, and it stung to relive the accusations they had thrown at one another. She was wise enough not to push it.

"Hey, Fred, a drink for my brother!" Val called. The bartender poured out Griffen's usual Irish and pushed it over the bar. Griffen reached for his wallet, but Val forestalled him. "This one's on me, Griffen. You look like you could use it."

"Thanks, Little Sister," he said. He raised it to her. He felt better. Of all the places he could have been, this was the one closest to a home he had had in a long time. The people there knew his quirks, most of his business, and cared about him. They had accepted him and his sister. It was bittersweet that he had argued with the man he had considered a close friend for many years, only to find out this very year that Jerome was not a human, nor were Griffen and Valerie, that Griffen might be able to make a living at his avocation, that he would meet creatures of legend who lived hidden in plain sight among human beings, and that once in a while people that he had never met tried to kill him. It would have been a lot to take in in a lifetime, let alone a few months.

"Hey, it's one minute to midnight!" Fred shouted. Everyone turned to look at him. He pointed to the clock. "Let's all count it down! Forty-five! Forty."

Griffen lifted his glass to Val. "So ends the weirdest year of my life."

"So far, Big Brother," Val said, hoisting her Diet Coke to him. She patted her abdomen. "Wait until next year. It's going to be weirder still."

"All together now! Five! Four! Three! Two! One! Happy New Year!"

Griffen drank the toast, but he didn't believe it. How much weirder could it get?

Matt
held Griffen back from entering the function room at the Hyatt Hotel. "You have to wait until you're announced," he said.

Griffen felt nervous. He had met on a casual basis a few of the committee members whose krewes would be sharing their parade date. They had come over to the den to help the builders with crucial parts of float construction. Griffen and the others had been advised then to stay out of the way, or, as Etienne put it, "observe and learn somet'ing." This was the formal meeting of the elite of the four krewes, a ritual ceremony that had not been held in over sixty years, not since Mose had been king. The other three krewes had temporarily disbanded around the time of the war, too, but had reconstituted over previous decades. All of them had been marching since 1979. No one in Fafnir wanted to talk about why it was the last to begin again. He hoped someone at this meeting would answer his questions.

Griffen felt dozens of dragons present beyond the curtain. He was also aware of other powerful personalities. At least one other type of supernatural was present. Griffen couldn't put his finger on it, but he had sensed that kind of power at the conclave. If it was someone he had met, he hoped it wasn't one of the troublemakers.

A lot of the members of Fafnir were present at this reception. They had come to gather around him and shake his hand before going into the main function room to sit down. Apart from its sexist practice of having only men on the committee, men, women, and children of every color and every social class belonged to Fafnir. The one thing they had in common was dragon blood. The heads of committees, the movers and shakers, with the exception of Etienne, had the most, but all of them had a little. The proximity to so many fellow dragons put Griffen's defenses on overload, but he knew kin when he felt it. It was like attending a huge family reunion.

". . . The king of the element of fire, Fafnir! Please welcome Griffen McCandles."

Applause broke out. Matt peeked through the curtain, then clapped Griffen twice on the shoulder. "That's you. Go on!"

Griffen marched out into the room, head high. Hundreds of people turned to look at him, still applauding. As he had been instructed, he kept his face grave and dignified.

The audience was not set up to face one end of the room, as was customary. Instead, it had been broken up into four groups divided by aisles arranged in a cross. Griffen spotted Etienne and most of the lieutenants in the seats along the path by which he entered. The captain gave him a cheerful thumbs-up as he passed.

At the center, Doug was waiting with two men and a woman whom Griffen had never seen before, none of them dragons. He gestured to Griffen to join them. The krewe liaison had a microphone in one hand and gestured with the other like a television evangelist.

"I welcome you all to the Ritual of the Four Elements. According to ancient charter, for the well-being of the city and the environs of this province of New Orleans, groups representing each of the principal elements of nature are called together to grant their blessings upon the coming season. Prosperity, safety, and goodwill toward all!

Griffen groaned to himself. He had come across mention of pseudoreligious rites associated with Mardi Gras. Etienne had not given him much information about this meeting, other than it was their first with the other three krewes marching on February 24. The woman standing behind Doug grinned and put out a hand.

"Holly Goldberg," she whispered. "Sprite of the Krewe of Aeolus." She had round cheeks and hazel eyes, with laugh lines at the corners. Her hair, which fell well below her waist, was dishwater blond, going naturally gray at the temples. Griffen guessed she was in her forties. She had a solid grip.

"Griffen McCandles."

"This is Costain Wrayburn and Bert Leopold." The other two shook hands with Griffen. Wrayburn was tall, burly, muscular but running to fat, probably in his early fifties. His hair, while still black, clung in a scanty tonsure around a pink scalp. Griffen guessed that he had played football, in school if not professionally. He held himself like an athlete. Bert Leopold had small features but a lantern jaw. His eyes were brilliant green, his tightly curled hair reddish brown and shot with gray. His tawny skin was so weathered Griffen could not guess his age. He could have been anything between thirty and ninety.

"It is a great privilege for me to be here today. This ritual has not been performed in over sixty years. It is only now that Fafnir has been reestablished that all four groups can be brought together again. The need to renew the city's protections is always great, but never more than lately, when this great nation has been under attack by hostile forces, both natural and human."

"Humans
are
natural," Wrayburn growled under his breath. It sounded like an old gripe of his.

". . . Therefore, we begin the process to protect our home. Step forward, the Kings of the Elements!"

Griffen took a pace. He felt like Harry Potter, but this time his name was in the cup on purpose. The audience cheered.

"Now, before we begin," Doug cautioned them, "you must vow to keep the secret of what you are about to behold. Parents, you know if your children are capable of understanding what that means. If not, please take them out now."

No one moved. Doug nodded over the heads of the audience. The people standing by the doors locked them. Griffen felt the hum of voices take on an ominous tone.

"Okay, then, Matt?"

Matt came out from behind the curtain near the east door with a large box like a metal suitcase. It was gilded and ornamented in the style of the Louis kings of France.

"Do you all solemnly swear to keep secret and never tell any living soul the rites you are about to witness? Do you promise to uphold and protect the devices and elements of the Ritual of the Four Elements? Signify now by saying, 'I swear.' "

The audience echoed. "I swear."

"All righty, then." Matt hoisted the box into his arms and presented it to Doug. Doug opened it.

"Oooooh," chorused the crowd.

Griffen reeled backward. He felt as if he had been hit with a two-by-four. The power that had been contained within the case was overwhelming. His eyes filled with tears. So did Holly's. The other two men, though they looked impressed, merely investigated the contents of the box with interest.