Dragons Deal (34 page)

"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 brocade. 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."

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 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.