Dragons Deal (36 page)

"Canceled. No points for guessing why. The rumor mills have been working overtime and double time. The concierge won't even talk to me."

"Can we fill the suite? Less high-level players?" Griffen took a sip of the one whisky and water he had allowed himself. In order to make sure he could pay his rent, he had cut back on everything that he possibly could. He knew he could run a tab, but Fred would expect to see it cleared at the end of each week, and he did not know if he'd have the extra income to pay it. As much as he hated cooking for himself, it looked like the only way to eke out his food budget for the week. Peanut butter tasted better on hamburgers than on plain bread with jelly.

"Not unless you find out why they're not coming," Jerome said. "Their expectations are low at the moment. This is a bad precedent, since our expenses are not going down, even if the intake is."

"Can we handle payroll?"

Jerome pointed to an entry in red at the bottom left of the sheet. "Only if we don't pay ourselves, man. I'm okay, but how are you doing?"

"Flat broke," Griffen admitted.

"I'm your friend, but there is no way I can't point out the irony of a member of the local royalty more down-and-out than the peasants."

"If I remember my history, plenty of monarchs had empty treasuries. The difference is that they could rob the peasants to raise money."

"Well, the peasants aren't coming. I'm gonna have a face-to-face with a few of our formerly most helpful connections and see if I can't convince 'em to send us some prospects. I suggest you do the same."

Griffen agreed. "Let's split up the list. We'll see if we can at least fill that suite day after tomorrow. If not, we'll have to lay people off."

"They'd feel that was unlucky, losing their jobs during Mardi Gras season," Jerome said. "Not to mention the practical side of needing the funds same as you for the festivities. We've been through tough times before."

"Not with someone trying to put us out of business on purpose," Griffen said. "I just wish we could figure out when they were going to strike and how many of them there are."

"Mai told you not to trust three of them, but it seems like there's more than that, and they aren't all Eastern."

"That's the problem," Griffen said. "We're not spotting them, and it's killing us."

"We'll get by," Jerome said. "We went through worse before you got here."

Griffen made a face. "That's not so much consolation," he said. "But let's start the charm offensive, and see if we can pull it together that way. I'll talk to the spotters. I'll offer them a percentage of the table if they can deliver players."

Jerome shook his head. "I dunno, Grifter. That will have them bringing uncles out of the bayou or prison just to fill seats."

"There'll be rules," Griffen said. "I'm not completely desperate. Not yet."

His cell phone warbled, reminding him there was another bill that he had to pay, and soon. He raised a finger. "Sorry, Jer, just a minute. Hello?"

"Griffen! Peter Sing."

"Hey, Peter," Griffen said. Jerome's brows drew down over his forehead. He made a throat-slitting gesture. Griffen waved it away. "What can I do for you?"

"Well, I got a call from your assistant. He said that the game on Sunday is canceled."

"Yeah, sorry, Peter. The other players who were going to be in on it dropped out."

Peter clucked his tongue. "Well, that is a shame. I am in the mood to play." There was a brief silence. "Would you like to come up to my suite and play a few hands, just for fun?"

Griffen winced at the thought. "I'm pretty busy with Mardi Gras assignments right now."

"Don't say no." Peter interrupted him. "I'm bored out of my mind. I could go down to the casino, but there's no one of your caliber there. Come on up. I will order some food from downstairs, exactly as you would if you were hosting. Just a little friendly one-on-one. Say you will come. In an hour or so? We can play for chips instead of cash. We can talk technique. It will be unofficial."

Griffen was torn. Jerome was shooting him poisonous looks, but a friendly game with such a skilled player as Peter would cheer him up.

"Okay. Thanks. I would enjoy it. See you"--he checked his watch--"in two hours?"

"That would be great," Peter said. "I can pick your brain about betting on Omaha games. It is a weak spot in my repertoire."

Griffen knew Peter was just saying that to help cheer him up, but he appreciated it. "See you then." He hung up.

"Grifter, I do not trust that man."

"I know," Griffen said. "But he hasn't done anything. Not once at any game has he caused a problem. In fact, he's bent over backward to be nice to the other players. It has added cachet to our games to have him there. You can't deny that."

"I know. I just have a feeling that he just hasn't erupted yet, like ragweed. And to offer to play you a game for no money? He knows more than you tell him."

"He's pretty damned observant," Griffen said. "I think he knows I've got my back to the wall, but he's not adding to my debt."

"It's just too convenient," Jerome said. "He might be acting like a nice guy, but he's an Asian and he's a pretty strong dragon and all my vibes go off when I'm around him. I think he's got to be involved with the Easterns even if Mai has never seen him before. But you're the big dragon. You get to make your own decisions, for better or for worse. I'll be there to pick you up again if he knocks you down, but just remember that I get to say, 'I told you so.' "

"If he does, I'll have earned it," Griffen said. He got up and put a dollar on the table. "I'll make some stops before I go see him. Let me know how it works out for you."

Jerome pushed his chair back and stood up. "One thing's for sure," Jerome said, brandishing the balance sheet, "it'd have to sink a whole lot to be worse than it is."

"
What
do you mean, you lost?"

"I mean, I lost," Peter said. He did not like being under scrutiny, but sitting in the brocaded armchair with the other three circling around him like interrogators, all he lacked was the bright light in his eyes. Rebecca would gladly have turned one on him if she had thought about it. Luckily, she lacked imagination. "Griffen McCandles took all the money I put up as my stake on the table. Three thousand dollars against the three hundred he had in his wallet, and he won it all in five hands. I applaud him."

"You're too soft," Jordan Ma said. "You let him take your money."

"I am not soft, and I did not let him take it. He really is that good. You have not played against him at a table. I have, many times now. When he begins to concentrate, it is as if his opponents' minds are open books. It is most disconcerting. And he cannot read minds in the traditional meaning. I have tested the theory. It is just uncanny card sense. He did not want to play for money--he is close to broke right now--but I persuaded him, to the detriment of my own wallet. I could have won it all back, but only by cheating, and I would rather shatter a pure jade vase than stoop to such a level."

Jordan let his annoyance show, a rare event. "He is our quarry. You have befriended him."

Peter shrugged. "I do not deny it. I like him. We have become friends. He is open, unlike the rest of you. It is refreshing to speak with someone who means what he says. Poker is my life, unlike the rest of you. I have learned a few tricks watching him that you probably wouldn't understand."

"But Mai must have told him what you are!"

"Did she? She plays her own game. If he does know, then he is a better player than I would have dreamed and has had better training in controlling his emotions. I sense no power spikes such as Rebecca here is constantly sending off." The female sputtered until Winston Long held up a hand. She subsided, glaring. "If he knows me to be the enemy, then he is playing a dangerous game. I like it."

Jordan Ma was furious. "You are becoming bewitched by him. This will not do. We should remove you from this operation."

Peter snorted in derision. "The elders won't like it if you send me home. I will tell them what I know."

Rebecca stuck her face close to his. "Not if you cannot draw breath to tell them."

He didn't move even though her breath smelled aggressively of spearmint. He smiled, knowing he held a hand higher than hers. "Really? Are you really suggesting murder because I have colored outside the lines a little?" He ignored her. She was not the chief of the operation, after all. "I am not a fool, Jordan. I tell him nothing about what we are doing. I am no less useful to the assignment than I was when we arrived. But I am paying attention to what I am doing."

Winston Long grunted, "It is the Stockholm syndrome. You are befriending the enemy, hoping that you can work out some solution that will see us all survive the encounter."

Peter groaned elaborately.

"Old man, you watch too many movies. He confides in me. I don't confide in him."

"Then what information do you derive from these conversations?"

"The operation is close to collapse," Peter said, feeling reluctant to let the words escape his lips. Jordan's eyes gleamed. "I believe that except for what he left with, he has no assets remaining to him."

"But you have helped to fund him for another day!"

"Air is leaking out of the hole we have made. It does not matter how fast. It's still leaking, and soon it will be empty."

"But it could have been tomorrow! Now it could be next week, or the week after!"

"You know we could be going about this all wrong," Peter said, offering a thought that had been on his mind for days. "He could be an ally instead of an enemy."

Jordan made a slashing gesture with the edge of his hand. "No. He
is
the enemy if he can turn our own forces against us."

"I can help to arrange for an accident," Winston said. "It is much swifter than waiting for the bitter end, if you are so impatient." He turned to Peter. "And you had better not tip him off, or you will incur the same accident."

Rebecca came to sit on Peter's knee. "Just like the other one. It will be fun to watch another one die."

Peter raised his hands. "I am not keen to commit suicide. I just think you are misusing a potential asset. I would be inclined to allow Mai to continue on her tack. It would be better to have someone like Griffen McCandles in our operation than to destroy him. It would be like burning a work of art."

"Whether or not, it is our job," Jordan said. "The elders make the decision. We do not. You are doing well so far. Stick to the program. No more improvisation. If we bankrupt him and prevent him from running his operation, we can move in to take it over immediately. Do not prolong the endgame."

Rebecca looked smug that he was getting dressed down. Peter didn't care. "You are making a mistake," he said. "Am I the only one who can see it?"

"It doesn't matter what we see," Jordan said. "Our perception is not what matters, in the long run. The elders make the decision, and we carry out their wishes. Feel free to call them, Peter. I will tell them I said you may."

"I will call them!" Peter said.

Jordan shook his head. "It will change nothing. But if they tell you to follow my orders, I expect you to do so or suffer whatever consequences I wish. Do you understand?"

The other three sets of eyes bored into Peter. For the first time he actually felt fear, but his poker-playing self refused to show it. "I understand," he said. "And I will obey."

Val
put her hands over her ears, but the horrible noise persisted. She backed away, but there was only so far she could go in the storeroom of the bar.

"Valerie, I only have your best interests in mind," Melinda said.

"I am not listening to you anymore," Val cried.

She had only glanced down for a moment to read a few lines from her latest book. The bar had been completely empty at three thirty. The last customer had drained the final drops from his beer, slapped a tip on the counter, and departed with a grin at her. Then, suddenly, the place was crawling with people. Men in suits, who looked as if they were packing, covered the doors, front and back. One closed the shutters over the windows and turned the sign from OPEN to CLOSED. Val had reached for the phone to call for help, but another besuited man had taken it from her and ripped the cord out of the wall--and up inside it for five feet. Plaster dust was still sifting down.

In the center of it all was a small, slightly overweight woman with reddish brown hair and a no-nonsense demeanor. She wore a two-piece suit of pebble-textured, mahogany fabric that shouted "money" at the top of its lungs. Her Stuart Weitzman shoes had five-inch heels, but they only brought the top of her head to just under Val's chin.

"Hello, Valerie," she said. "I'm Melinda."

Val's attempts to escape had only caused cascades of glasses and bottles to shatter on the floor everywhere in the bar. The coffered ceiling had scars in it, one from a head impacting the painted panels, and two from flying feet. Three chairs she had tried to use as bludgeons had been reduced to firewood, along with the table one of the men had landed on. It had been no use. She was desperately outnumbered. They had backed her slowly but inexorably behind the bar and into the storeroom, Melinda marching on her like Napoleon Bonaparte, whose face was on a brandy bottle not a foot from her shoulder. Then she had started talking.

Val screamed and fought, but there was no way out. Melinda had her where she wanted her at last.

". . . And you have to stop sleeping with every handsome man that goes past you! Why don't you have any self-respect? You're a beautiful girl. You're twenty-one years old. You should care more about yourself."

"I have self-respect," Val shouted back. "I've got a boyfriend!"

"A street thug? He's beneath you, Valerie," Melinda said. "A mongrel human. Nothing special."