Dragons Deal

by Robert Asprin

  " '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 It could be superseded by a higher-ranking suit or a better straight flush.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.

  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 admis
sion 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 had 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."