"Yeah, but we do all the time," Gris-gris pointed out. "It's a lot cheaper than buying fancy clothes. There's probably as many tailors and dressmakers down here as there are in New York because of Mardi Gras and Halloween."
"I never thought of that, but yeah. I can see that. Michael Kors probably doesn't do a lot of parade costumes."
Gris-gris laughed. "Designer-line masquerade? That'd be something else."
Val was suddenly ravenous. "I need something to eat right now," she said. "Sorry. I could blame it on you-know-who"--she glanced down--"but it's just me. I forgot to eat lunch."
"Clarissa!" Gris-gris cried, without breaking eye contact with her. "You'd better feed my honey soon, or we'll go someplace that knows how to cook real food!"
"You think you know what it tastes like?" Clarissa asked skeptically. "Ain't been that long since you actually started paying for your meals."
"Look, mama, I am going to get beat up here if you don't deliver!"
A loud snicker came from the booth behind them. Val turned around to glare. "You poor hunk of scum," said a large man with tattoos all the way around his thick neck. "I'm watching you jump whenever that girl tells you to. You are so whipped, man!" He made a gesture with one finger like a flower stem wilting. His friend, who had a long scar from his ear to his throat, sneered.
"Yeah. She too much woman for someone like you. You ain't got enough manhood to please her, so you actin' like her personal servant."
Val was shocked and furious. She started to open her mouth. Gris-gris reached over and put his hand on her arm. She spun to look at him. He wasn't angry. He was smiling.
"Man," he said, "you only wish you were whipped like me." He sighed and grinned widely, the look of a satisfied man. "You would be luckier than a four-leaf clover to be whipped like me."
The others looked shocked. Their expressions shifted to something like admiration.
"That good, huh?" asked the large man.
"Oh, yeah," Gris-gris said. "There are ladies that are worth bowing down for, and this lady here is one of them. I have no shame for showin' my gratitude in public. You ought to think about that sometime." Val felt her cheeks burn. She was so flattered it made her breathless.
"Thank you," she whispered. Gris-gris gazed at her and dragged her into those deep eyes again.
"Honey miss, you are somethin' special. I don't mind what you do, as long as you take some time to do it with me."
"Forget about the food," Val said, taking his hands in hers. She squeezed them, as if trying to communicate her growing need to him. She did not need to. He looked as eager as she felt.
"Too late, Clarissa!" Gris-gris bellowed, a broad grin on his face. "Maybe some other time. Got somethin' better in mind!"
Arm in arm, they slipped out the door. For a while, Val managed to forget--or care--about being followed.
The young waitress at the Cafe du Monde set down a heavy white mug of coffee and a plate of fresh, hot, white-coated beignets in front of Griffen.
"Now, y'all watch it. They're hot!"
"They taste the best that way," Griffen assured her. She smiled, slapped a bill down, and went on to the next customer.
Griffen took a huge bite of beignet. The searing heat of dough just moments out of the hot oil parboiled his teeth, but it would take molten lava to hurt a dragon's mouth. He loved the sensation and the flavor of the fresh doughnuts. The chicory-infused coffee was just as hot. Its slightly spicy smell made the perfect counterpoint to the sweet, puffy, square doughnuts. No wonder this place was always full, at every hour of the day or night. It was a national treasure. The day they put him in charge of everything, he was going to grant Cafe du Monde landmark status.
As he took the next bite, the ringing of his cell phone surprised him. He inhaled at the wrong time and got a lungful of powdered sugar. He reached for the handset while trying to cough the white powder out.
"He-hello?" he hacked. "Yes, this is Griffen McCandles."
"Peter Sing. I sat in on your game the other day?"
"Yes!" Griffen said. Hastily, he drank a swig of coffee to clear his throat. "Hey, good to hear from you. What can I do for you?"
"I am in the mood to play poker," Peter said. "You said you would be happy to have me in on any of your games. Do you have one going on tonight?"
Griffen hesitated for a moment. "Let me check my list," he said. He stared out of the restaurant across Decatur Street at Jackson Square. He was torn as to what to do.
Following the game at the Omni, Jerome had taken him aside and said he didn't trust the man. Coming from anyone else, Griffen could have ascribed any number of motives for disliking another person, but Jerome was different.
Jerome was smart, experienced, tough, and streetwise, but the main talent in which he excelled overall was as a judge of character. Mose had noticed it when Jerome was very young and relied on it from then on. Griffen would have been a fool to ignore his warning.
"I'm sorry, Peter," he said. "The only thing running tonight is a closed game for a few regulars. They're not very good. You'd outshine them, and they'd get pissed at me."
"I could hold back," Peter offered. "I really want to play."
"Sorry." Griffen was pleasant but firm. "Hey, how about this? I have a late-night game set up day after tomorrow, some really experienced players who want to come around after a show at Preservation Hall. They're high rollers. Much more your speed. You'd enjoy that a lot more. The action won't get started until after ten."
"That is not very good customer service." Peter sounded annoyed, so Griffen kept his tone apologetic.
"We really do try to give our clients what they want," Griffen said. "Do you want me to arrange a game for you tonight? I can try and set something up and get back to you with the details."
"That will not be necessary," Peter said tersely. "I will attend the game in two days. Give me the location."
"When I have it, I will let you know," Griffen promised. Sing signed off without saying another word. Griffen punched in Jerome's speed-dial number and told him what happened. "See if you can put something together with a few clients who won't mind losing money. I'm going to sit in myself and keep an eye on him."
Jerome sounded incredulous. "You listened to me? You actually listened to somethin' I said?"
"I've learned my lesson," Griffen said, humbly. "I hated turning down money, but if you don't trust him, I don't want him near the operation unless I can be there myself."
Jerome sounded relieved. "I just get the feelin' that he's the first snowball in some kind of avalanche. I'll set something up for Friday night."
"Thanks," Griffen said. When he hung up, he already felt better.
Griffen stalked toward the Fafnir den. Etienne's message had sounded urgent. Anything that got him out of bed before noon for the second time in a week had better be urgent.
He strode among the Mid-City warehouses. No part of the old city was much more seedy or run-down than any other part, but there was just something about industrial buildings that tended to look abandoned and derelict even if they were being used by a thriving business. The den, the bright yellow paint on its huge sliding doors slivering in the baking heat and humidity, seemed like it hadn't been used for years. According to Terence Killen, it was rented from a garden-furniture importer who had two other warehouses and wouldn't need that one until April, plenty of time for Mardi Gras staging and takedown.
Griffen reached the apron and felt as if he had been hit in the head by a hot, wet fish. The power that the old building exuded made him believe in science-fiction force fields. Passersby, mostly locals, walked around him on the sidewalk, meeting his eyes with a friendly expression of puzzlement but never looking at the nondescript warehouse itself. If they didn't feel it, why did he? What was it?
He managed to push his way through the sensation and enter the den by way of the small door next to the main entrance.
The contents of the bustling facility had changed since he was there before. It was not just that the floats there were much closer to completion, nor that dozens more people were working on them, or spreading plans out on tables, or conferring in corners. Something unseen was building in the very air. The feeling was much stronger inside than it had been outside. It was intense. Griffen wanted to fight back against it. Not that it was sinister, but it was powerful. Yes, that was it: power. It was concentrated here as he had never felt it, not even at the conclave. It must be true that dragons possessed far more power than the average being of supernatural heritage.
He let himself absorb the sensation for a moment. Like a perfume, it entered his body by every pore and orifice. His natural mojo fought off the intruding energy until he could accept it as nonthreatening. He even liked it.
With a proprietary air, Griffen surveyed the dozens of people working on floats. They were making the float that would carry him through the streets of New Orleans. He tried to pretend that he was a real king, and these were his lackeys. They were going to go out and do battle with the rush-hour traffic and the minions of the tourism industry. He would wave to his thousands of loyal subjects, many of whom would be young ladies who would show their loyalty to him by raising their shirts with nothing on underneath. Then the whole idea overwhelmed him with the absurdity of it. He laughed out loud. The big dragon in the corner seemed to wink at him. He had to stop getting his information from the evening news.