"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."
Thirty-four
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.
"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?"