Melinda sat down on a chair in front of the closet and tried on another pair of shoes, ones fresh out of the box. They never fit exactly right. Ferragamo served a clientele with incredibly narrow feet. Melinda put her thumbs into the ball of the right shoe and pressed outward. The smooth leather spread out about a centimeter. Melinda tried it on and smiled. She turned her ankle from side to side to admire the designer's handiwork. Beautiful. Worth every penny.
She wished she could channel Lizzy's gift. She had a vision of holding a blue-eyed baby in her arms, could feel and smell it. She must make that come true! Valerie and Griffen were hemmed in by protections, both magical and social. Melinda was doing her best to be low-key, but time was fleeting, and so was her influence.
She had had to abandon her own clan to woo Valerie. Running the family from such a distance was beginning to loosen her hold on authority. Her rivals were openly questioning her ability and devotion to the family. She railed at them over the phone, but nothing had the same impact as face-to-face confrontations. If something did not happen very soon, she was going to have to go home and reestablish herself. By that time, who knew what might happen to Valerie and the grandchild?
Not that she was sentimental, at all, she chided herself. She had her reasons for wanting control of that baby. She had failed miserably with her own children. It was Christmas, and she had spent half the night on the roof trying to talk her daughter down. No one had sent her a present or cards. Only her younger son had called to wish her a Merry Christmas.
"Children," she said, sitting down in front of the mirror to prepare a countercurse for her own spell. "They interfere with everything you do."
Children. They interfere with everything you do.
Melinda looked at her own reflection wryly. "You said it, baby. Bah humbug."
"Hey, thanks for the music player, Grifter," Jerome said, as Griffen slid into a chair next to him in O'Brien's side bar. A couple of legendary blues musicians had scheduled a concert on the "dueling" grand pianos in the lounge. Word had spread among the locals long before the public heard about it, and they had gotten there early to occupy the best seats. "Can't believe it is so small, but it has got some sound on it."
"Glad you like it, Jer," Griffen said, pleased.
The week between Christmas and New Year's was a great time for Griffen's business. Tourists flocked into New Orleans to enjoy the night life and indulge in what it had to offer. The strip clubs did booming business. The bartenders invented holiday cocktails, but they sold just as many Hurricanes, Sazeracs, and Ramos gin fizzes. Every jazz and blues club in the city filled to overflowing with happy people with a week off and money to spend. Griffen and Jerome had had no trouble running two to four games a night at various locations around the city. Harrison, with an unsolved murder on his books and other, more serious infractions against the vice laws turning up in the crowded city, had no time to roust illegal poker.
If the truth were told, Griffen could have used his help. The game on Saturday on the eighth floor of the Omni Hotel had turned ugly. A female professional poker player from Las Vegas insisted that one of the other players had been stealing chips from her stacks. Jerome had gone in to settle the problem, and found himself in a six-way shouting match that culminated in the arrival of hotel security. He had managed to prevent the game being shut down, but the woman cashed in her chips and stormed off, vowing to spread the word to her high-roller friends.
Word seemed to be spreading to the other gambling rings that the McCandles game was vulnerable. Unhappy customers were going to other groups. The hotel concierges, usually the source of their best leads, were steering players away from the spotters. It took personal visits from Griffen and Jerome with assurances that he was on top of the issue, and that it was just the occasional disgruntled player causing trouble, to get them to start recommending his games again. Jerome had put in hours of legwork. Griffen felt he owed him a big favor.
Jerome sat back with a drink, enjoying the show. The two men, both elderly African-Americans, sent musical phrases up and back to one another as challenges. The man on the left, with large, protuberant eyes like Count Basie's, grinned wickedly and played the first lines from "Anything You Can Do, I Can Do Better." His counterpart picked it up, jazzed it up, then added syncopation. The first pianist laughed, repeated what his friend had produced, and drew it out into a trill of music that rolled and ricocheted around the original song. Everyone cheered them on, stuffing money into the jars on the table between the pianos.
"Got three tables tonight," he said. "Everyone's an old-timer. They rather spend New Year's Eve with a handful of cards than their families."
"Four," Griffen said. "Forgot to tell you. I got a call from Peter Sing. He found a few people in his hotel who want a game. We'll play in his room. I called Marcel to deal."
Jerome's eyebrows lowered over his nose. "I told you I don't like that man, Grifter. He's trouble."
"I know! But I'm sitting in. As long as I'm there, what can he do?"
"I dunno, but I don't want to find out! Why do you keep lettin' him in?"
Griffen frowned. At Mai's insistence, they had banned Jordan Ma and the woman from joining any more tables, but he wasn't willing to let Jerome push him around. "I like the guy. He's good company. We get along. I know you don't. I don't see what you think is a problem."
"I told you I didn't like his attitude," Jerome said.
"What's his attitude got to do with it?" Griffen asked. "It's kind of cool that a pro wants to play in our games. It's good for our reputation. We could use a boost about now."
"But not with a dude like him." Jerome looked disappointed. "Grifter, you said you trusted my judgment. Then act like it!"
"You act like you don't trust mine! Who's the--"
The pianist on the left glanced up from his keyboard. "Hey, fellahs, chill. Let's all go with the flow, 'kay?"
Griffen gave him a guilty glance but dropped his voice. "Who's the head dragon around here?"
Jerome raised his eyebrows.
"That mean you know more than the rest of us? You still a baby, Grifter."
"Really? So all the times you come to me for advice have been window dressing?"
"I am showing respect to the office, man! The guy occupyin' it obviously don't deserve it!"
A man in a shiny tuxedo jacket and a satin bow tie dipped his head down between them. "Gentlemen," the manager murmured, "sorry to interrupt your argument, but you're ruining the vibes for the other people here. We'd love to have you stay, but only if you have finished your discussion. Otherwise, we'll be happy to see you another time."
Griffen worked his jaw. He felt his cheeks burn. "Thanks," he said. He dug money out of his wallet and set it down on the cocktail table. Jerome shook his head and raised his drink.
"Happy New Year, man."
"Yeah," Griffen said.
He stalked out. Couples and groups raised cheerful go-cups to one another as they passed.
"Happy New Year!"
Griffen responded, though his heart wasn't in it. He felt guilty about Jerome. Griffen depended on him absolutely when it came to the business, but it seemed as if he had a bug about Peter Sing. Sure, he knew Peter was a dragon. He was a demon poker player, and that raised concerns that he had been sent by the Eastern dragons, but he hadn't done anything wrong! At every game he had played at one of Griffen's tables Griffen himself had been present. Was Jerome jealous that he was befriending another strong-blooded dragon? Did this have anything to do with Griffen's Mardi Gras krewe? If Jerome wanted to be involved in that, all he had to do was ask! There was no need for him to sulk.
He found his feet turning automatically toward the Irish bar. The poker game Peter had asked to set up wasn't due to begin until after midnight. He had at least an hour to kill before then.
He passed by a few clubs and bars. Their French doors were wide open to the air, letting the sweet music and loud conversation pour out. Crowds with plastic cups in their hands hung out around the doors, laughing and talking. They were ready to ring in the new year. Griffen felt sorry for himself. There would probably be no one he knew in the Irish pub. Just a few losers who found their way there, who had no one else to celebrate with.
To his amazement, every seat in the house was filled, and the bar was hemmed in three deep with people lost in conversation. The pool tables were both occupied. Practically every regular was there. Half of them were wearing plastic top hats with the numerals of the new year blazoned on them. Blares of toy horns punctuated the usual hum.
"Hey, Griffen!" shouted Maestro, brandishing his pool cue. "Come on and help me rob these poor fools of what's left of their paychecks!"
Griffen was grateful for the invitation, but he waved a hand to decline.
"Griffen!"
He glanced past the bartender to the family side. Val beckoned to him. He went around and squeezed in next to her.
"What are you doing here?" he asked. "I thought you were out with Gris-gris."
"He had to go help one of his aunts," Val said, making a face. "His uncle fell off a ladder and broke his leg. He didn't want me to come and help. Said I might strain myself. What about you? I thought you and Jerome were at the piano concert."
Griffen felt ashamed. "I left," he said. "We had a disagreement over business." He didn't want to rehash it with Val. She wasn't involved in the business, and it stung to relive the accusations they had thrown at one another. She was wise enough not to push it.
"Hey, Fred, a drink for my brother!" Val called. The bartender poured out Griffen's usual Irish and pushed it over the bar. Griffen reached for his wallet, but Val forestalled him. "This one's on me, Griffen. You look like you could use it."
"Thanks, Little Sister," he said. He raised it to her. He felt better. Of all the places he could have been, this was the one closest to a home he had had in a long time. The people there knew his quirks, most of his business, and cared about him. They had accepted him and his sister. It was bittersweet that he had argued with the man he had considered a close friend for many years, only to find out this very year that Jerome was not a human, nor were Griffen and Valerie, that Griffen might be able to make a living at his avocation, that he would meet creatures of legend who lived hidden in plain sight among human beings, and that once in a while people that he had never met tried to kill him. It would have been a lot to take in in a lifetime, let alone a few months.
"Hey, it's one minute to midnight!" Fred shouted. Everyone turned to look at him. He pointed to the clock. "Let's all count it down! Forty-five! Forty."