Eleven
Griffen threw a couple of hundred-dollar chips into the pot and restacked his five cards. Sun blazed in the window behind him. He wouldn't usually sit with his back to either a door or a window, but the least glare hit him in the eyes that way.
When he had returned to the French Quarter the night before, it was still too early to go to bed. He had walked over to the Irish bar to see who was around. Fox Lisa had been there with Maestro. She had wanted to hear every detail of the meeting. He told her what he could without breaking the krewe's confidence. She tried hard to worm the parade theme out of him. It had been hard to resist her, especially when she suggested they leave the bar and go back to his place.
She had fallen asleep afterward. Griffen had been too excited to drop off. Instead, he went out to his living room. He was starting to formulate ideas for his king's party. He found a notebook, made a batch of microwave popcorn, and put on Masque of the Red Death, starring Vincent Price, with the volume down very low. It was the only movie in his collection that had anything to do with Carnival. He would have to check out Tower Records or the DVD rental shop to find if there were any movies about Mardi Gras in New Orleans. Since Rose had given her approval, he wanted to do his best for the Krewe of Fafnir. Whatever he could do to help maintain balance, whatever that was, he would do. He needed to research more into the history to see if there was a reason for Carnival beyond the religious festival.
About four, Fox Lisa had discovered he was awake and joined him on the couch. Neither of them got much more sleep. She had to leave early to go to her job. Griffen went back to bed, but his mind kept racing, interspersing the sketches of the parade floats, Vincent Price, and Rose.
The phone rang just about eleven. Griffen groped for it with a hand and muttered a hello into it. At the sound of Jerome's voice, he opened his eyes to a headache and quickly shut them again. His head throbbed whenever he moved his head too quickly. But he had promised Jerome faithfully after the conclave that he would pay more attention to the business. He had kept his word. This was just one of the myriad small problems that he needed to help solve. He had been dressed, shaved, and on his way in fifteen minutes flat.
"Raise you," said Jerome, putting in three chips. He grinned at Griffen. Griffen refused to admit that he was bluffing. Let Jerome try to figure it out. Hopefully, it would cost him a bundle. Griffen held two pairs, twos and threes. It was pretty small, but it would beat even a pair of aces. He might even be able to make a full house. Even if he didn't, he might be able to convince the others to fold. Sadly, he was not there to play for blood.
Ellis and Mike, two white businessmen from Detroit, sat between them. They were executives from the auto industry. The game had been set up to run during the two-hour break the visitors got for lunch. The convention was being held in the function rooms and grand ballroom of the Astor Crowne Plaza, sixteen floors below them. If they were happy, they knew other executives who would like to join a hosted poker game. Jerome was determined to make sure they were happy. Griffen agreed that what they wanted mattered more than another hour's sleep for him. The suite was already rented. Lunch had been ordered in, and a full bar of drinks awaited them.
"I think you have a handful of nothing," Ellis said, with a laugh. He pushed in three chips.
"Pay and see," Jerome said, smiling broadly.
"Well, I have got nothing," Mike said, turning his cards back to Noah, the dealer, a light-skinned African-American in his forties with graying hair and light freckles. Peter put in the three and raised two more. The rest of them concentrated on the hand. It was a hard battle, but Griffen's two pair took the pot. The others emitted the obligatory moan. Noah shuffled and dealt again.
There should have been five players in the game. Two of the three locals they had expected to fill out the table had canceled, citing an important lunch date. The third simply didn't show up. Jerome had phoned Griffen and asked him to sit in. That made four. They were ready to settle for being one short, when a businessman in an Armani suit had happened to catch the eye of one of their spotters at the Marriott and asked if he knew where he could find some action. Marcel had put the man in a cab at his own expense. Peter, a dapper Chinese-American with slicked-up hair that stood six inches high, arrived just before the first hand was dealt. He sat to the right of the dealer, his fingers resting lightly on his downturned cards. Griffen had made a note to pay Marcel back with a bonus for quick thinking and sit down with him for a drink.
Marcel wasn't the only man in his employ who had shown initiative like that. Griffen realized he needed to get to know more of the people who worked for Mose's operation--now his. The wake-up call he'd received after the conclave had brought him around to understand being a responsible boss and member of the community meant more than just making sure payroll went out on time. It also meant recognizing those employees who wanted the business to run better and instituting improvements they suggested. They wanted to be part of a first-class, well-run establishment. He wanted that for them as well as for himself.
The first on his list to appreciate was Jerome. Griffen had sensed some disquiet from Jerome when Mose had installed him as heir apparent over the head of the dragon who had been in the team longer. He certainly knew the job better than Griffen did. There was no reason not to have given Jerome the position except for Griffen's bloodline. He was glad that Jerome seemed like he was starting to relax around the "Young Dragon." He was finally losing the chip off his shoulder he had after Griffen was promoted over him.
"Hey, Grifter, since you were off playing with your parade friends, I interviewed a new caterer," Jerome said. "What do you think of the canapes?"
Griffen ate a meatball from the plate by his elbow. The burst of beef flavor was accented with savory spices he couldn't identify, but enjoyed. "Very good," he said, reaching for another tidbit, a chunk of steamed fish with a green sauce on a rice cracker. It was as tasty as the first. "You should hire them."
"Already did. They're our go-to guys now when the hotels don't supply room service," Jerome said. "I checked out about twenty places. These were the best."
"Nice pick," Griffen said, pretending to doff a hat. "You have my respect."
"Hear, hear," said Mike. "Great eats."
"Stop passing the shit, man," Jerome said, though he looked pleased.
"Not shit," Griffen said, his expression severe. "Only one problem."
Jerome looked concerned. "What?"
"There might not be enough food. I'm going to eat about five pounds of this stuff!"
"So will I," said Peter, munching on another bite-sized morsel. "What do you call these things with the cheese and shrimp?"
"I don't name 'em, man. I just eat 'em." Jerome called for the caterer's assistant to refill everyone's plate.
It was funny. Griffen had come to understand he didn't really know Jerome at all. How Mose did without him those long months when Jerome was up at college with him in Ann Arbor, he didn't know. He seemed to be able to juggle dozens of knives in the air all at once. Reserving suites, arranging players who would find one another's company pleasurable, hiring caterers as well as all the other people they used were only a few of the jobs he handled. He once asked if Mose knew all that Jerome did for them.
" 'Course he did!" Jerome had said, scornfully. "It's his operation!"
Touche, Griffen thought. He had to lose his own ignorance, to be worth the people who worked for him.
"Play cards!" Ellis said. "We've only got an hour."
Griffen sat back at his ease to survey the others. He prepared to look for weaknesses in play and tells. He was amused to see they were all doing the same. Griffen couldn't take total advantage in this game. It was to benefit them, not him. He already took a piece of the gate, the percentage that came from the buy-in. He had to remember that and not play for blood. A little extra to cover his Mardi Gras expenses would be nice.