Dragons Deal (33 page)

"No! Now, get out of here!"

"Dang, what a bitch!"

Val made a move toward him and stamped the floor. He fled for the fireplace and zipped up into the chimney. He left a contrail of sparks that winked out.

"That was absolutely amazing," Mai exclaimed, turning to offer Val a smile of admiration.

"Hurts," Val said, folding up like an accordion on the floor. She clutched her hands. Mai noticed for the first time that both arms were covered with blisters up to the elbow.

"It'll heal," Mai said. Now was the time for her to help. She rose from her nest and folded the quilt into a pillow to put under Val's head. Aunt Herbera left the room and returned with a glass mayonnaise jar filled with green salve.

"You both need my special burn cream," she said. "This come from an old family recipe my great-grandma learned from her great-grandma. You can't buy this in stores." She started slathering it onto both girls.

In spite of the eye-watering smell of menthol, the salve smelled good. After just a few moments, the redness went away. Within fifteen minutes, most of the blisters had flattened out. Mai looked down at herself in dismay.

"Will you look at my blouse? It's ruined!"

"I told you it was a waste to buy designer," Val said, fingering the pieces of cloth.

Mai smiled. "Darling moose-butt, it is never a waste of time to buy designer. It is a waste if you wrestle demons in it, though. I will kill that creature. What did you say it was?"

"A clinker," Aunt Herbera said. "Dragon-kin, but real distant. I thought it was a legend that mothers tell their children to keep 'em from goin' out at night and raisin' hell. That was as pretty as anything, the way the two of you faced it down! And you, Miss Val, stompin' it like a cockroach. You wouldn't mind if I tell that story? I participate in folktale circles. That is as good as anythin' else that ever won first prize."

At first, Val was horrified to realize that she had just fought a fire-wielding creature in front of a stranger, and one of Gris-gris's relatives at that. But the older woman's eyes were full of admiration, not fear. She believed in supernaturals. She lived with legends, and she was not at all surprised that Val and Mai had handled themselves like one of her peers.

"No problem," Val said, relieved. "As long as you make sure I don't look fat in my dress."

Aunt Herbera touched her arm. "Honey, they will all be wondering what you got under there by the time I finish with you. You'll look like a woodland nymph. Not that I ever met any. But I bet you have."

"No," Val said. "You'll have to ask my brother. Wood nymphs are more his speed."

"Do we have to ask you not to tell your nephew about this?" Mai asked.

Aunt Herbera shook her head. "Wouldn't matter if I did. He already thinks this girl here can walk on water. The fact that she can wrestle fire-demons will just make him worship her more. But if you don't want me to, I won't. You go on, now. I'll call you when your dress is ready. It'll just give me something pleasurable to think about while I'm sewing. Let me give you something to wear home, honey."

They heard her cackling with delight as they left.

"And so a legend begins," Mai cracked. A borrowed blouse of Aunt Herbera's that would have wound around her twice hung from her slim shoulders.

"So," Val said, "you want to tell me who sent you that guy as a warning?"

Mai hesitated. "Not yet. Forgive me, but I don't want to involve you in my troubles. Not yet. I must thank the two of you for saving my life. And healing my wounds."

"That salve of hers is great," Val said, thoughtfully. "I wonder if it will work on diaper rash."

Griffen
ran off the elevator in the Royal Sonesta Hotel. He had had to leave a stimulating discussion over drinks with Holly and Bert, about magic being sacred or profane, but the phone call sounded urgent. The rising annoyance in Wallace's voice told him he had better get there quickly, or there was going to be violence.

Not as many games had been running lately as there might be during this season. The people who normally played one or two nights a week were involved in Mardi Gras activities: going to parties, tableaux, building floats, and all the other activities that Griffen himself was doing on the side. That meant that not as much money was coming in as he and Jerome had hoped. They were feeling the pinch. Griffen had had to cover part of the last payroll out of his savings. Word had also continued spreading about the crooked games--or at least the losers' perception that they were crooked. Once a rumor started, it was hard to stop it. Griffen hoped this was not going to be another disaster.

He heard the shouting from the open door of the suite and winced. He hoped the windows looking out over the pool were shut. A hotel security guard raised his head when he saw Griffen. There must have been some complaints. Griffen made a gesture to assure the man he had seen him, and the guard leaned back against the wall. He had a bribe coming later on for not shutting down the room.

"Hello, folks," Griffen said, coming in with his hands raised. "I'm Griffen McCandles. What's all the fuss?" The combatants stopped yelling and turned to glare at him. A short, round-bellied man with a few strands of hair plastered on his scalp jabbed an angry finger at an equally short, round man on the other side of the table.

"Griffen! This sonovabitch accused me of slipping cards under the table! He says I'm cheating! You have known me for how long?"

"There has to be some kind of misunderstanding," Griffen said. He felt pressure like a drill driving right into the third eye on his forehead that Holly insisted he had. "Mr. Stearn is an old friend of ours. What is it that you think you saw happen?"

"Think?" the other man said. He was a Chinese-American about the same age as Stearn, but with a good deal more hair. "Just because I am old doesn't mean I'm blind, or that since I retired I have enough money to lose to criminals."

"Criminals! Why, you sonovabitch!" Stearn launched himself toward the table, fist first.

Griffen leaped in and pulled him back. "All right, can we just talk about what went on?"

"No! I am going to call the police!" the other man said. "He is a friend of yours, is he? Perhaps the problem is collusion! You get a share of whatever it is that he takes away from the rest of us?"

Griffen felt his temper flare. He damped it down with difficulty, as the cigarettes that had been snuffed out in the ashtrays on the table edge started to smolder again. "Sir, I am sorry I have given the wrong impression. My operation only provides you with the time and place to play a friendly game of poker. The other players are, as far as I am able to determine, honest, upstanding citizens like you. My business runs on its reputation. I do not plant shills. I don't support cheating. If I have proof that there has been some dishonest play, then I will do my best to settle the matter. Now, what proof do you have?"

"How about an eyewitness?" the old man asked. "Aha, you think I am the only one who saw what went on?" He turned to the others. "Tell him. What did you see?"

Up until then, Griffen hadn't paid any attention to the rest of the players in the room. Only one other beside Mr. Stearn was a regular. Mr. Diener shook his head. The other two were a tall black man in a polo shirt and long shorts, a former professional basketball player on the Boston Celtics who Griffen recognized from television, and a small woman with red hair who reminded him of Fox Lisa. She wore a cotton dress and a lightweight cardigan with the top button fastened.

"He looked furtive. Yes, that's the word," the woman said. "Furtive. He could have done something." Stearn glared at her.

"I saw the guy slip a card down onto his lap," the ballplayer said, after a glance at the old Asian. "Next hand, he had two kings. Can't tell me that's an accident."

"It was the deal!" Stearn bellowed. "That's all! I have said it a hundred times now. I got pocket kings. I never slipped a card anywhere!"

"It's fraud," the old man said. "I am calling the police."

"I would rather you didn't do that," Griffen said. "Can't we settle this here and now in a civilized way?"

"He can give me my money back," the old man said.

"I won that!"

"And damages, for pain and suffering."

"This isn't a court of law," Griffen said. "We don't award damages."

"Then I am calling the police! They'll get it for me!"

Griffen could see the look on Harrison's face if he had to roust one of Griffen's games out of the Royal Sonesta. He also foresaw having to bail Stearn out of jail in the middle of the night. But to agree to blackmail was to open the door to further demands. He shook his head. "I can't do that, sir. I'll make good your losses plus a hundred dollars, but that is all I will do."

"You pussy!" Stearn said, glaring at Griffen. "Maybe I should demand damages, too, for having my character impugned!"

"I didn't say you did anything wrong, Mr. Stearn," Griffen said.

"It would be nice if you at least defended me!"

"I wasn't here," Griffen said. He turned to the dealers. "Wallace, Ezra, what about you?"

"Didn't see nothing that they say happened," Wallace said. "It was all goin' real nice until then."

But the situation had reached a stalemate. Griffen reached for his wallet. It was flatter than ever. He managed to scrape up the amount that Wallace said the Asian gentleman had lost, plus the promised C-note. The Asian pocketed the money. Stearn swapped in his chips and departed without saying a word.

Griffen left, after offering praise to the dealers for handling the difficult situation. They felt bad for him. He could see it in their eyes though they didn't insult him by saying so. He was devastated. Whatever had happened there had ruined a nice game. Yet another rumor was going to hit the mills, and he could not do a damned thing about it. His head ached. The frustration sent unquenched fire rushing through his blood.

I am getting addicted to that scepter,
he thought. He headed for a side-street bar for a drink. He didn't want to have to talk about what had happened with anyone he knew.

The
rest of the players reached the ground floor and scattered. The short Asian man headed into the Mystic Bar for a celebratory cocktail. A few minutes later, the tall basketball player joined him. In the shadow of the corner booth, the tall form shrank into a compact, slender one, looking rather incongruous in a polo shirt and long shorts that almost reached her ankles.

"That was magnificent, elder one," Rebecca said, breathlessly. "I bow to your expertise."

"Thank you, child," Winston said, patting her on the arm. "Now you have seen, I expect you to go out and do."

"I will!"

"Good. Go and get us some drinks."

Val
clutched Griffen's arm as they waited in line amid dozens of couples in black tie and floor-length gowns. Griffen was proud to observe that he and his sister fit in perfectly. Her new dress was a column of blue silk that skimmed over the small baby bump at her waist. The strapless top showed off her slim, athletic shoulders. He noticed more than one man looking her over with interest.

"I feel like we're in a movie," she whispered. It did look like a classic movie set, with men in tuxedos and ladies in evening dresses posing against heavy swagged curtains tied with tassels and tall, Art Deco flower vases overflowing with blossoms. Somewhere an orchestra, heavy on the strings, was playing Cole Porter. Any moment now, someone was going to burst into song.

"Maybe
Shall We Dance
, or
Top Hat
," Griffen suggested. "Something that starred Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers."

"Everything is so elegant!"

"And this is just the first one," Griffen said. He had thought that because Rex and Zulu were two of the most important, they would have the first formal balls, but another superkrewe had beaten them to the punch. As Etienne had predicted, Griffen and the other members of the court and committee heads were sent invitations. He had a whole stack of them on the table where he paid his bills. Of course, the response had to be accompanied by a check or money order; but on peering into the ballroom ahead of them, he saw that they were getting their money's worth. Busby Berkeley would have been proud of the detail the organizers had gone into. Silver, crystal, and china gleamed on perfectly white tablecloths. The centerpieces on the tables were towering, fairylike sculptures of green, gold, and purple. They were impressive, but not bulky enough to prevent the diners from seeing one another.

"I won't know what to say to people."

"Don't worry. They're all thinking the same thing."

Val shot him an accusatory look. "I thought you were going to ask Mai to this ball."

Griffen shrugged. "I thought you'd enjoy it. She wanted me to bring her, but I told her family took priority. You are my sister, so you get to go first. She has her own invitation. She said she might come if she found an escort."

Val leaned close to him. "Do I look like a watermelon in this dress?"

"No! You can't even tell. It hides, uh--"

"You feel that uncomfortable mentioning my baby?" she asked, wryly. "When you can discuss sex and dead bodies out loud with people?"

"It seems like pregnancy should be private," Griffen said. He did feel uncomfortable. "I mean, the baby's inside you, and what's happening there is no one's business."

Val shook her head.

"Don't be so squeamish! Babies are natural. But . . . do I look big?"

Griffen was at a loss for words. If he told her the truth, that people could see the small bulge when the soft fabric flattened against her stomach, she would get upset even though she had just insisted it was natural. If he lied, she would be upset, too. He was rescued by a suave voice at his shoulder.