After the tableaux, which revealed the krewe's upcoming parade theme in a series of little sketches by ladies in gorgeous gowns and elaborate headdresses, he had met the king, queen, and court of the host krewe. Introduced by Etienne as the king of Fafnir, Griffen was shown much honor as a brother monarch. They tried to include him as an equal in their conversation, which made him feel all the lower down the social chain. He hated it. Americans had no titles, so they felt compelled to invent their own nobility: politicians, movie stars, and now once-a-year monarchs. He did his best to enjoy himself but felt guilty for enjoying it. That voice at the back of his mind was the equivalent of the slave standing on the back of Caesar's chariot during one of his triumphs in Rome. It held the figurative laurel wreath up over his head, all the while whispering, "Remember thou art mortal." On Ash Wednesday, he would be back to being Griffen McCandles.
Why did he feel put down by these equally ordinary people, when he played poker with richer, more eminent, more famous people and never felt out of place? Presentation did so much. Presentation and personality. The industrialists and celebrities who found their way to his tables didn't expect to be treated more deferentially than the shoe salesman or cocktail waitress who played cards with them, and the kings of Mardi Gras did. Admittedly, like his games, the price of admission was to have money, lots of money. But Mardi Gras royalty required acclaim by someone else who decided you were worthy to hold that exalted office, for however short a time. And that let one into the club.
Perhaps he had not learned yet to aim higher. He had never really anticipated having to socialize with the upper class. It was telling that this particular upper class did not have as powerful a bloodline as he did; but they had been raised with money, privilege, and, most important, the knowledge of what and who they were. Griffen felt at a disadvantage. He didn't know how to respond to some of the little nasty comments. Sometimes he felt that he wasn't even speaking the same language. Without meaning to, they treated him like an idiot cousin. He didn't like it, but it wasn't his party. He was just the king. It was a temporary post, and a hazardous one. He had not asked enough questions at the beginning, not that he'd known which ones to ask.
At least they never denigrated Val or made her feel an outcast. That would have made Griffen go for the throat. Instead, Antoinette de la Fee protected Val like a mother hen. Antoinette was gracious and welcoming, as were the other women at the ball. They praised her looks and her dress, included her in their conversations, and listened to what she said. They gave her advice, made little comments about other people, and pointed out what was going on around them from their point of view. At first it sounded as if they were patronizing her, but as Griffen listened more carefully, he saw that they were treating her as if she was a daughter who had not learned the social conventions yet. Val was eating it up. She was rapt. She had never had a circle of maternal older relatives.
They had been so isolated in Ann Arbor. For the first time, Griffen felt a pang of deep loss. Not for himself, but for Val. He had managed to get along in the world. He had his social network, like the players around the table, his drinking buddies and friends. Mose had insisted, then proved, that Griffen didn't need a mentor. He had made his mistakes, recovered from them, grown, and prospered. Val had had to help herself grow up. Mrs. Feuer had been pretty clinical about such things as menstruation and birth control. She had not been any emotional or practical support to a maturing girl who needed to know how the world worked.
There, in the middle of a fancy-dress ball, Val was getting lessons in becoming a woman of society. He could forgive the rougher treatment he was getting from the men of the krewe, if only to make sure that Val kept getting from their wives and mothers what she had never had after she had lost her own mother. He hadn't really considered keeping up relationships with them after Mardi Gras was over, until that moment. Val had given him a look of happiness. He had never seen anything like that on her face since they were small children.
Peter threw in his hand. Seven and two, the worst possible combination anyone could hold. Griffen glanced at the millionaire. The way he chewed on the left half of his lower lip said he had nothing in his hand. Griffen could beat him with his pair of nines. "Call," he said.
"Fold," said the millionaire. Griffen didn't make any triumphant sounds as he hauled in the pot. There had to be several thousand dollars there. If he could keep from losing most of it, he would feel a lot more secure.
"Shuffle and deal," said the dealer. "What game, folks?"
The confection queen glanced at her small, diamond-rimmed watch. "I've got a meeting in the morning, guys. Cash me out, honey."
"Yes, ma'am," the dealer said. He flashed a smile, gleaming white except for a missing front tooth. She collected her winnings, dropped a hundred in front of him, and departed.
"I better go, too," said the millionaire. "Great game, Griffen. Nice to meet you, Peter. Let's play again, huh?"
"A pleasure," Peter said, shaking hands with him. "Anytime. Griffen will tell me when there is an open table."
"Good thing I can afford it," the millionaire said. "Night, guys."
Griffen hesitated as Peter sat down again. He started to push another ante into the pot. If anyone could take the night's profits away from him, it was Peter.
"No, I do not wish to play anymore," he said. "I wanted to talk to you alone."
"I'm takin' my break," Ezra said, hastily getting to his feet. He moved across the room to the wet bar and had the caterer pour him a drink. Griffen welcomed his discretion.
"What's on your mind?" he asked Peter.
The other man looked uncomfortable. "Well, I do not know how to bring this up. I have always found you to be a friendly host, and I admire the way you run your operation. When I retire from the professional field, I wouldn't mind having something like this. In a city where it is legal, of course. I would not enjoy running the gauntlet as you do."
"I wouldn't recommend that part," Griffen said, "but I came into a going concern."
"I know. But that is not what I wanted to say. I will be blunt. I find you honest and straightforward. Your business is fair to the customers. Five percent of the tables for the house is not out of line. The house share is much more expensive elsewhere, and in much less pleasant circumstances. But I get into conversations . . ." He hesitated. "I am hearing from other sources that players think that your games are being rigged. Not all of them, but enough that people are nervous to trust their money to you."
Griffen felt as if his heart had been cut out. "Do you know the name of anyone who said that? I'd like to talk to them, straighten this out."
Peter shook his head. "I have a great card memory, but I'm not so good on names. One guy said he was going back to Atlanta and not coming back until things get better. If they ever do."
Griffen flipped through his mental Rolodex and came up with three regulars that it might have been.
"I just thought you ought to know," Peter said. "People who see me on television think they know me, so they tell me things. As a friend, I thought I'd better tip you off."
Griffen sank into a chair. His world felt as if it was collapsing on top of him. The one thing that he had built up this operation with was his integrity. He had been straightforward with everyone he dealt with. He counted on that pool of money from games to pay his expenses, rent, bar tab, food. He never took anything that might indebt him to someone else. He paid his way. Why was it so important to someone to take away the small operation he was running? The atmosphere was becoming so soured that the majority of players who were not cheated felt as if it could happen to them. Griffen was at a loss.