"Water!" Lucinda's clear voice came over the shouting. "Griffen!"
Griffen looked down. He realized he was still holding a full bucket. He ran to hand the water up to Jacob, who was standing on a ladder beside the sculpture. Mitchell grabbed another bucket and stuck it under the tap. The krewe formed a bucket brigade, pouring pail after pail of water on the blaze. Smoke blanketed the room. The orange tongues of fire flickered, then disappeared.
"Hold it!" bellowed Jacob. "I think that's it!"
Griffen and the others halted. They were covered with water and flakes of soot. His eyes stung from the smoke.
"Damm it all," Callum said. "Did we get it?"
One of the others reached inside the now-blackened, skeletal framework and felt around. "It's out."
"We're gonna have to let the fire marshal in to confirm," Terence said. "He'd better not blab about what we've got going on in here. What the hell started it?"
"I don't know what happened!" Jacob protested. "It was still wet. How could it catch fire like that?"
"No idea," Callum said. "Never mind, it's over."
"What a shame," Lucinda said, bringing hand towels to the firefighters. "That's the part you just finished, Griffen. We'll have to do it all over again."
A hand grabbed Griffen's arm. Griffen turned to blink at Etienne. The captain leaned in and spoke softly.
"Mr. Griffen, you gotta calm youself down. You gonna cause a lot of damage if you don'."
"I was only defending you," Griffen said.
"I can take care of myself, but t'anks, huh?"
"Yeah." Griffen turned to Mitchell, who was wiping smudges off his own face. "I'm sorry, Mitchell. I don't mean to pull rank. But you see what it feels like to be on the receiving end?"
"Yeah, I know. Not like it hasn't happened to me other places in my life," Mitchell said. "Ignorant humans--what do they know? I know I wouldn't like it if you decided to walk away from us, but what could we say? You got to make your own decisions about that. Hoping you won't, of course."
Griffen studied him. "It was pretty arrogant of me to push my views on you, but I really do feel strongly about it. If you know anything about me by now, I choose the people I hang out with by their merits, not their bloodlines. I'd be an idiot to think I could do better than all of you on this stuff. It's right out of my league. If I'd been in charge, this would be a ten-year project, not two."
"Yeah, but you're learning," Mitchell said, grinning. "I don't mind learning a little, too. You're gonna be a force to be reckoned with one day, son. I just hope you remember the little dragons who helped you along the way."
"Where?" Griffen said, pretending to look around with an innocent expression on his face. "I don't see any little dragons here."
"Man, Etienne, you are good," Mitchell said, slapping both of them on the back. "This boy is a whole lot more than just a hand to wield the scepter."
"That is what I tol' you, Mitchell," Etienne said, no more perturbed than he had been before. "You gots to learn to listen to me better."
Mitchell took in a deep breath. "Yeah, I do."
Griffen breathed a sigh of relief, too.
Twenty-nine
Griffen slid into a booth in Yo Mama's Bar and Grill. He ordered a Peanut Butter Burger, a combination he would never have tried anywhere but the French Quarter. It was not only unexpectedly good, but addictive. Griffen often ordered other things off the menu, but always came back to his favorite. He licked the rich combination of oil and meat juice off his fingers as he made notes in a pocket notebook from a sheaf of paperwork on one side of the table.
He had just come from the last of the four restaurants holding rooms for him. The hospitality directors had all been friendly but harried. They gave him price lists, catering menus, and sample contracts. They were all excellent, top-rated restaurants. It was a hard choice to decide on one of them, but in the end there was one standout, a beautiful white-tablecloth establishment over seventy years old on the edge of the park at the north end of the Quarter. He and Val ate there once in a while and always enjoyed it. It wasn't as fancy as Commander's Palace, for example, but it had an elegance and an easygoing charm. He flipped open his cell phone and dialed.
The hospitality director was glad that he had finally made up his mind. "I'd do anything for Etienne de la Fee," he said, "but people have been hounding me because they know that room is still open. I will be some glad to be able to tell them it's booked. Come in in the next couple of days and we'll sit down and make arrangements. You need the floor plan?"
Griffen sifted through the pile of paperwork, ready to say no, when he came up with a layout for the grand private dining room. He had not even thought to ask for one when he toured the restaurant. Etienne must have given it to him. That accurate a gift for foresight made him shiver.
"No, I've got one. When can we talk? Say, Thursday?"
"Right. Come after lunchtime. I'll feed you, but let the lunch crowd die down first, okay? We'll be proud to host your king's party. It's an honor, Griffen."
Griffen courteously called the other three restaurants to tell them their rooms were free and they could rent them out, and thanked them for holding them for him. They each asked him to think of them the next time he was planning a party.
"I sure will," Griffen promised. "I love your food." It was the truth. Those were the top restaurants in town. He had come a long way from eating only fast food and microwave frozen dishes, Even though there were days when he still did that, too. But New Orleans had vastly expanded his culinary range.
"Hey, Grifter," Jerome said. He sat down opposite Griffen and accepted a menu from the uniformed waitress. "How's it going?"
"Not bad, Jer," Griffen said. "What can I do for you?"
The two of them never mentioned the New Year's Eve argument aloud, but they had patched up their differences within a day. Jerome reminded Griffen that his choices, however wrongheaded he felt them to be, were final as far as the operation went. With that kind of authority handed to him, Griffen had been very careful to consider what he was doing. He just couldn't see any harm in Peter Sing, and Peter had never caused a single problem.
"Just remindin' you that I won't be around on February 16. Can't answer the phone, can't help out with crises. That okay with you?"
"Sure," Griffen said. "Something wrong?"
"Oh, hell, no," Jerome said, grinning. "That's when my marching society steps off."
Griffen settled back in the booth. "I've heard a little about them. Are they like a parade?"
"They pretty much predate parades," Jerome said. "No floats. A few bands and other units go with us, but everyone is on foot. By the way, Marcel's in my group. A few of the others, too. They'll all need that day off. Might as well shut down the operation for the day."
"We may have to shut down on a few other days during the parade weeks," Griffen said. "You're not the only one to tell me you need the day off. I can't believe how many of the people who work with us are involved in a krewe or a marching society. Or bands. Kitty said she is supposed to play saxophone in five parades. Five. I feel out of breath just thinking about it."
"Oh, yeah, boss-man," Jerome said, holding up his cup for the waitress. She poured coffee for him and Griffen. "We really get into it here. History of celebratin' Fat Tuesday goes all the way back to the very beginning of the colony of New Orleans. For me, I started up with the marching society after Mose made me into a functional being all those years ago. I still go out with 'em. You ought to come out and hang with us. It's a lot of fun. Plenty of drinking, bawdy songs. It's a great time. May not get back until after midnight."