"If you see him again later, you can ask him," Griffen said. "Just don't dance with him,"
Val looked offended. "Why not?
He grinned. "Because if no one else can see him, then you will look as if you're crazy."
Val made a face at him.
"Mr. Griffen!" Etienne homed in on them just inside the doorway. An older lady in coral-colored satin held on to his arm. "Mama, you know Griffen McCandles. And dis is his pretty-as-a-picture sister, Valerie."
"Pleased to meet you," she said. "I'm Antoinette. Come and sit next to me, Valerie. I want to gossip 'bout some of the outfits that the other ladies here are wearin'. I cannot believe that they left the house 'thout lookin' at the mirror!"
Val smiled at Griffen. "I think I am going to enjoy this party," she said.
A jazz trio struck up soft music as the guests found the tables with their numbers on them.
The table they were assigned was already occupied by Terence Killen, Mitchell Grade, and their wives. Griffen introduced them to Val. Secretly, he was relieved to have a few people he knew present. They could answer questions for him.
" 'Scuse me for working business into pleasure, Griffen," Terence said. "Got a call from the restaurant about your party. They're happy to hold the room on your say-so, but their suppliers need a deposit for the food. Do you think you can just drop by there and put one down? They only need about 25 percent."
"Sure," Griffen said, feeling pained. That amount would strip his bank account down to a few hundred. He hated to have that small an emergency pad on hand.
Val leaned over. "Do you need a loan, Big Brother?" she murmured.
"I shouldn't," Griffen said, swallowing hard. He needed to get in on another game. Or twelve.
Terence jumped slightly, as if his wife had elbowed him hard in the ribs. "Well, that's it. Not another word about that. Pretty nice decorations they put up here. Nice and traditional, with the jesters. I wonder if that has anything to do with their theme."
"I always guess, and I am never right," Mitchell said. "My wife, here, she is always right. What do you think, honey?"
Mrs. Grade glanced around the room. "I think it's kind of generic. If I had to say for certain, I think they are going to make us wait for the tableau. But they did hire the very best musicians. Listen to them. I want to get up and dance."
"Later, honey, later. Wait until they've made the speeches."
Griffen saw no flaw in the grandeur of the room. The adornments that Mrs. Grade called "generic" were still hand-painted and beautifully made. He was impressed once again with the level of detail that had to be put into every Mardi Gras event. Real royalty would have to push to equal the beauty of this setting. Pages in damask satin and eye masks helped guests into their seats and brought around drinks. "I know that we're a smaller krewe. Is our ball going to be as grand as this one?"
"Ours will be better," Etienne assured him. "Dis is just a warm-up. Don't you fear; we'll be shown up by nobody."
Thirty-five
Griffen sat back, stone-faced, as a trio of players tried to guess whether he was bluffing about the quality of his hand. The game could end now. Griffen held a straight flush, two to six of clubs. It could be superseded by a higher-ranking suit or a better straight flush. He hoped his luck was going to hold out. He had plenty of chips in front of him to intimidate other players.
"I think yer bluffing, Griffen," said the millionaire from New York. He pushed his stack forward. He took a carrot stick off the plate at his right and crunched it. Through shards of vegetable, he mumbled, "Five thousand."
"Fold," said the tough-faced woman from Kansas who ran a confectionary empire.
Griffen didn't change expression. Too bad. He wasn't going to be able to make a clean sweep of everyone's pot.
He felt so much more at home in this setting that he wanted to beam at the others, but they would have thought he was crazy or up to something. The latter was true, certainly, but not the former. He was just relieved to be out of the tuxedo and back into familiar clothing. His dreams had been haunted by imagined social missteps, with choruses of howling banshees laughing each time he did or said something wrong. Not that the ball itself had really gone that way. He was just suffering from the reaction to having had to spend all night guessing what to do next.
"I call you," said Peter Sing. Griffen didn't meet his eyes.
"Five thousand," the dealer recited, counting the chips in a single glance. Griffen pushed in his own stack to match it. He couldn't afford to lose. He had put an IOU in the bank for his stake, seen by no one but the surprised dealer. He really had to win, to pay back the house, plus help take care of his expenses. He was pretty sure he could beat the others. Their tells said they were holding nothing. All except Peter. Griffen could not penetrate the other dragon's facade. He was good. If it had been anytime but Mardi Gras, Griffen would have enjoyed playing him on a regular basis. He studied Peter again for a moment, then turned over his cards. Peter grimaced and pushed his away without revealing them.
"Ohhhh!" the others moaned. Griffen raked in the pot. He glanced at the clock. After 2:00 a.m. A couple of the players were beginning to flag. Griffen had too much adrenaline in his system to be sleepy. He was prepared to play until dawn.
"So, what's it like being king of Mardi Gras?" Peter asked. "I don't know if you heard, folks, but we have royalty among us. Griffen is king of the Krewe of Fafnir."
The others applauded him.
"Congrats, Griffen!" said the millionaire. "I've always wanted to be king on one of them floats, but everyone tells me I don't qualify. What's it like?"
Griffen grinned sheepishly. "Expensive. I never dreamed when I said yes that it was going to cost me something every time I turned around."
"But isn't it a great honor?" the confectionary queen asked.
Griffen pulled his wits together. Running down the very institution for which New Orleans was known above all else was bad business, as well as uncharitable. "It really is. I was knocked sideways when they asked me. I mean, I haven't been here very long, and I'm pretty young. The history behind the festival goes back hundreds of years, but the one here in New Orleans is unique. There are so many other men that they could have given the post to, but I'm really glad for the opportunity. It's been an amazing time so far. I've been invited to a lot of parties. Formal parties. I was just at one last evening. It was the most elegant event I have ever attended. We have our own masquerade ball coming up. And you ought to see the float that I am going to ride on in our parade. In fact, all the floats are unbelievable. It's going to be a great day."
"Wish I could see it," the millionaire said. "Got to get back after this weekend. Maybe I'll get back in time for the parades."
The woman from Kansas put in five chips. "Why is it called Fafnir? That sounds silly."
"Well, most of the krewes are named after someone in mythology," Griffen said. "Fafnir was a dragon in Norse myth."
"You like dragons?" asked the New York millionaire.
"Yes, I do," Griffen said.
"Me, too," added Peter, with a conspiratorial grin at Griffen. "So you don't mind coming back to the real world in between?"
"It's a relief, to be honest," Griffen admitted.
The ball had been a challenge to his pride as well as his powers of observation. The krewe elite made him feel all too keenly the disadvantages of his middle-class upbringing. They talked about their swimming pools and jet-setting around the world. The women were all wearing diamond-encrusted jewelry that his senses told him was real. Val's eyes gleamed with envy though she had nowhere to wear anything like that in her ordinary life. Only there and in similar occasions would it ever be appropriate, and this season was probably the only time in their lives when they would be rubbing elbows with the social hierarchy.