Dragons Wild (11 page)

Fourth of July weekend meant different things to different people in New Orleans.

For some it was the Essence Fest, another of the numerous music festivals that dotted the city calendar.

For others, it meant a long weekend break from work. Weather permitting, an excursion to the beach, the Audubon Zoo, or even just a picnic or backyard barbecue provided a sufficient change of pace.

With the hotels and restaurants full, the service industry dropped it into low gear and worked their tails off. No rest for the wicked.

For Mose’s crew, and therefore for Griffen, it meant a high-stakes poker game.

It seemed that this was a yearly event that a group of regular players attended, both local and out of towners. To be accurate, it was one of several yearly games that Mose hosted, usually coinciding with holidays or major local celebrations. This was just the first big game that Griffen had been invited to play in since he arrived in New Orleans three weeks earlier.

While he was at college, there were several regular games that Griffen would sit in on. These would usually be at someone’s apartment or fraternity house, and would be held on specific nights of the week. Some of them would begin midday on Friday and continue through the weekend, with players sitting in, then leaving to go on a date or sleep, then sitting in again. Those games were usually at nickel/dime/quarter or, in some cases, quarter/half/dollar stakes. The host would usually pull a low chip or two out of every pot to cover the cost of the cards (they always used new decks) and refreshments. Griffen’s real preference was half/dollar/five stakes as it upped the power of the bluff, but students were traditionally poor and games like that were rare unless you were willing to collect large quantities of IOUs.

The Fourth of July game Mose hosted was nothing like that.

Instead of sitting around someone’s dining room table in an apartment, they had a suite at the luxurious Royal Sonesta Hotel in the heart of the French Quarter. There was an open wet bar with top-shelf liquors, and instead of potato chips and pizza they had trays of sandwiches and potato skins from room service. They also had a real casino poker table with two nonplayers (Jerome being one) alternating as dealers.

The stakes were $25/$50/$100 with $500 chips available if the betting got fierce. It was the highest stakes game Griffen had ever sat in on, and he was worried that it would affect his game. While in theory, one should play a blue chip the same whether it was worth a dollar or a hundred dollars, it was hard to keep the actual dollar value out of one’s mind. As an example, Griffen had always avoided the penny/nickel/dime games back at school. For one thing, the amount to be won in a single evening wasn’t worth the time and effort. More important, the low stakes affected everyone’s play. Even if someone raised your bluff the limit on the last card, for a dime it was easy to call the raise just to see if your busted flush and one medium pair would stand up.

There was another worry just as bothersome.

Mose had told him that the word was out through many of the regular players that Griffen was being groomed to take over the operation. When they phoned or e-mailed in to reserve a seat in the weekend’s game, they had also commented that they wanted to meet and play against the new wunderkind. This made Griffen very self-conscious and aware of his age. Even though both Mose and Jerome counseled him not to worry about it, he was afraid that the players would consider him too young to run the operation and take their play elsewhere. That would bode ill for his eventual involvement.

There were five players in addition to Mose and himself: a middle-aged businessman and his teenage son from Oklahoma, a solidly built Philippine woman from Los Angeles who was a surgeon, a well-dressed black man who was some kind of politician locally, and a Chinese restaurant owner who Griffen recognized as a semiregular at the Irish pub. He had wondered about the teenager being allowed to sit in, but was told that it was sort of a coming-of-age ritual. The businessman’s father had brought him to sit in on one of Mose’s games when he was in his teens, and the man wanted to continue the tradition.

As the evening progressed, Griffen began to gradually relax and lose himself in the play of the game. For once, he felt that he didn’t have to worry about threats on his life. All of the players were well-known and vouched for by Mose, and no one else came in or out of the room. They were all good players, though the teenager was clearly the weakest, but Griffen found he could read them as easily as he had his old opponents at school.

Mose had the fewest “tells” with the Philippine lady a close second, but everyone seemed to have those little habits and gestures that would signal when they had a good hand or if they were bluffing. In addition, there were changes in breathing patterns and eye blinks that were more telling than the players’ betting patterns or table talk. The teenager might as well have been playing his cards faceup.

When a break was called after four hours of play, Griffen estimated that he was several thousand dollars ahead.

“So, Mose. What’s this I hear that you’re going to be stepping down in favor of this young Turk here?” the businessman said, freshening his drink.

“Nothing goes on forever, Mr. Goodman,” Mose said. “I figure it’s time I started taking it easy.”

“Oh, bullshit,” the businessman said. “Com’on Mose. You were old when I was Junior here’s age…and I keep telling you, it’s Hank, not Mr. Goodman. I mean, you call Lollie here Tia, don’t you?”

“‘Tia’ is a Spanish word,” the Philippine woman said. “It means ‘aunt’ and is a title or honorific, like when he calls you ‘mister.’ Mose is just being polite.”

“Whatever.” Hank waved. “And we’re getting off the subject here. I want to hear why Mose is thinking of retiring, and I don’t think it’s just because he’s getting old.”

“Seems to me that’s Mose’s business, not ours,” the politician put in.

“That’s right,” the restaurant owner said. “We play here because Mose runs an honest game and we trust his judgment about who he lets play. I don’t think we should start questioning his judgment if he wants to step down, much less who he chooses for his successor.”

“Gentlemen, please,” Mose said. “Mr. Goodman has a right to ask any question he wants, just like I’ve got a right not to give any answers I don’t want. In this case, I don’t mind answering him.”

He took a small sip of his drink before continuing.

“I’ve been running these games for a long time now. And I mean a LONG time. That’s gotten me kind of set in my ways. You know, thinking, ‘It’s always been good doing it this way before, so why change?’ The trouble is, the world moves on. Maybe the old way isn’t as good as it could be. Maybe it needs new blood like Jerome or Griffen here with new ideas to bring some changes in. Just as an example, you know I don’t like Texas Hold ’Em, but it’s all the rage now. They got tournaments and television shows on it now, not to mention books and magazines. Maybe it’s time to give it a try.”

“So why bring this kid in?” Goodman said, jerking a thumb at Griffen. “I mean, he’s a hell of a poker player, but Jerome’s been around these games for a long time. Why bring in some outsider?”

“As a matter of fact, Mr. Goodman,” Jerome said from the sofa where he was watching television with the sound turned off, “I was the one who recommended Griffen. I’ve been playing cards with him for years and have gotten to know him pretty well. I think he can help our network in ways I can’t.”

“Like how?” Goodman pressed. “By bringing in Texas Hold ’Em? I don’t happen to like that game myself. If I wanted to play Texas Hold ’Em, I’d go to the casino.”

“For the record, sir, I don’t care for it either,” Griffen said. “If we were going to try it, my first thought would be not to bring it into these games, but to set up some separate games on a trial basis.”

“So what other kind of changes are you thinking of?” the businessman said, speaking directly to Griffen for the first time.

“Frankly, sir, I don’t know,” Griffen said easily. “As you pointed out, I’m still very new to this setup. I’ve got a lot to learn and consider before I’d even start to think about changing anything.”

“One thing you might be interested in,” Jerome said. “Griffen’s only been with us for a few weeks. Mostly, I’ve been introducing him around and showing him how we do things. In that time, we’ve had no fewer than eight independent games contact us and ask to join our network. That’s more than we had join in the last year. What’s more, the ones I’ve talked to make it clear that they’re doing it because they want to work with Griffen. I think that says something.”

“There. You see, Goodman?” the politician said. “Mose knows what he’s doing. Hell, if they were selling stock, I’d buy some.”

Mose caught Griffen’s eye and winked.

Griffen had wholeheartedly adopted the nocturnal schedule of a Quarter rat, but Valerie lacked her brother’s tastes and habits. More and more she found herself embracing the Quarter by day.

At first, it had been morning jogs on the Moonwalk to keep her active and in shape. She was used to an active lifestyle, and it felt good to get her heart rate up and pounding with some simple aerobic exercise. Of course, night or day, there were always temptations to be found.

Naturally, after such healthy and worthwhile endeavors, she deserved a healthy bit of indulgence. As often as not, she ended up breakfasting at the Cafe Du Monde. The inexpensive and delicious beignets, buried under their mountains of powdered sugar, sent a rush through her at least as enjoyable as the endorphins her run produced.

She sat as she always did, right beside the rails marking the boundaries of the open-air cafe. Though it meant occasionally being hassled by tourists and panhandlers, it provided her a splendid view of Jackson Square. Already, as a lazy Sunday morning flowed over the Quarter, the Square was full of life. As she sipped her hot chocolate, another indulgence more satisfying then the strong coffee preferred by most of the cafe’s regulars, she leaned back in her chair and watched as the street entertainers plied their arts for the scattered groups of ever-present tourists.

Artists hung their canvases on the iron railing of the Square, or set up mobile easels to do quick sketch portraits and caricatures. Valerie knew that on the opposite side of the Square, psychics would have set up small tables to read palms and cards and bones. Performance artists, from men painted as silver robots to jugglers to living statues who never moved, stood in front of hats or boxes or buckets that held the smatterings of bills and coins from appreciative passersby. The snappy patter of a street musician blended into the soft strains of an accordion accompanied by a young girl’s voice singing in French, and somewhere in the mix a lonely guitar repeated the same blues riff over and over.

Though she hadn’t quite fallen in love with New Orleans as her brother had, she had succumbed to many of the local habits. People watching, for example. She found it fascinating the types of people attracted to the area, day or night, and spent just as much attention on the endlessly changing stream of tourists as she did the more stable performers. Whether it be families weighed down by too many children far too young to enjoy the Quarter at night, or well-dressed professionals on a break from their various conferences, or even the expensively but slovenly decked out retirees just off the cruise ships, each brought their own style, and their own amusement. And that was without the eclectic mix of locals who sauntered across the Square or down Decatur Street. They nodded to and tipped the performers just as often as the tourists, and knew just how lucky they were to get such a display of humanity anytime they should choose to indulge.

After she had finished with her breakfast, she decided to take a leisurely stroll down Decatur Street. Unlike the tight, channel-like feel of Bourbon, Decatur was split into two lanes to accommodate greater vehicle traffic. Both sides were lined with shops and restaurants, with bars being less common and the Bourbon Street–style strip club nonexistent. Valerie found hours could pass just window shopping the countless shops, which ranged from the tacky T-shirt shops to upscale clothing and jewelry merchants. She usually found many things she wanted, though limited herself to a rare purchase. Shopping was a spectator sport for her.

On the way back, she decide to browse through the many galleries on Royal Street. Again, shops ranged wildly, and not just between paintings and sculptures. There was a cluttered hole-in-the-wall poster gallery a few doors down from a high-class place that seemed to have nothing but Dr. Seuss art. Valerie didn’t even pause while walking past the famous “blue dog” gallery. There were some things about New Orleans that she just never would understand.

Of course, above every shop and tucked away in every crevice were houses and apartments for the many living in the Quarter. Valerie stopped, amused, watching a man struggle to pull a couch through a doorway that seemed much too small. What’s worse, the couch was white, and the man working alone kept scraping it against the slightly grimy door frame or the ground. Valerie shook her head and smiled, then silently crept up and took the other end of the couch. When he hauled, she lifted, and the couch passed through like magic.

“Hey, thanks! Whoa.”

The man had looked up, and caught sight of his assistant. His jaw hung open just slightly, and Valerie fought the urge to reach up and push it closed. Instead she replied, with just a bit of teasing in her voice.

“Now isn’t the time to ‘whoa,’ you’ve still got to get it to your apartment door.”

“And upstairs. Three floors,” he said with a sigh.

Like most apartments, there was actually a bit of a walk from the street door to the separate entrances. And the buildings were renowned for spiral staircases of dubious stability. Valerie smiled and cocked her head.

“Well, going to ask for help?”

“Hell, no. I’m going to ask you up to my place for a drink,” he said.

“At two in the afternoon?”

“Hey, it’s the Quarter. But, oh, woe is me, there seems to be a nasty old couch in your way.”

“Ha! Now you are back to the woe again. Well, I suppose I’m far too stubborn to let a couch stand between me and a free drink.”

“Great.”

The man jumped onto the couch, lying back and grinning up at her.

“Third floor, second door on the left please,” he said, and pretended to close his eyes and go to sleep.

Despite the narrow alleyway, Valerie managed to turn the couch enough to dump him on the ground.

“The operative word was ‘help,’” she said.

“It was worth a try.” The man laughed. “By the way, the name’s Kid Blue. I play guitar on Bourbon Street.”

“You’re a street entertainer?” Valerie said, shaking the offered hand.

“Pul-eeese,” Kid Blue said, drawing himself up haughtily. “I play in one of the clubs. I’m with a band. And you?”

“Oh. My name’s Valerie. Valerie McCandles,” she responded.

“I meant what do you do?” the man said. “What pays your bills?”

“Nothing,” Valerie said softly.

Until just now when she vocalized it, she hadn’t realized how discontented she was with that situation.