Page 22 of Keller

Carnival Royalty: Many traditional krewes select a king, queen, and royal court each year, often drawn from prominent local families or long-standing membership circles. These ceremonial roles reinforce hierarchy within the krewe, blending pageantry with quiet signals of lineage, influence, and social standing.

The last playerleaves at one forty-three. West locks the door behind him and flips the deadbolt with a solid click that echoes in the now-quiet space.

The dealers finish clearing the tables, stacking chips into trays with the soft rattle of clay on wood. One of them nods to me on her way out. I return it.

West starts the final count at the console, fingers moving across the tablet screen. Numbers settle into columns. The night's take is solid. Not spectacular, but clean and profitable. That's what matters.

I move to the bar and pour myself two fingers of bourbon. The glass is cool against my palm. I don't drink it right away. Instead, I watch the amber liquid catch the low light from the lamps we keep on overnight.

The room smells like stale cigar smoke and spilled bourbon now that the crowd is gone. The ventilation system hums overhead cleaning the air.

Table four still has a forgotten sterling silver Zippo lighter sitting near the dealer's position. I walk over and pocket it. Someone will ask about it next week.

West glances up from the console. "We're clear. Hollis transferred his balance ten minutes ago."

"Good."

"You sticking around?"

"For a bit."

He doesn't push. He finishes logging the night's transactions, powers down the system, and grabs his jacket from the hook near the office door.

"I'll catch up tomorrow. It was a good night."

"Indeed."

The door closes behind him. The deadbolt turns. I'm alone.

I pull my phone from my pocket and unlock the screen. Her message is still there, sitting at the top of my texts.

I'd like that. Interested in a run? I'm always looking for a running partner.

I do like to work out, but I'm less into cardio and more into weights. I appreciate the gesutre, but I'm thinking in another direction.

I type my reply and read it once before sending it.

I don't have any running shoes. How about cocktails tomorrow around seven? Maison Gris on Magazine.

After hitting send, I set the phone face-down on the bar.

The bourbon burns the back of my throat when I finally take a sip. I don't check my phone again until I've finished the glass and rinsed it in the small sink behind the bar.

When I pick it up, her reply is waiting.

Love that place. Seven works.

Maison Gris sits tuckedbetween a gallery and a closed bookstore on Magazine Street. The exterior is understated, just a wooden door with brass fixtures and a small placard.

Inside, the lighting is low and warm, candles on every table, dark wood paneling that absorbs sound. Benson Boone plays through hidden speakers, soft enough that conversation doesn't compete.

I arrive at six fifty and take a seat at the bar instead of a table. The bartender, a woman named Simone who knows me from other nights, pours me a bourbon without asking. I sip it and watch the door in the mirror behind the bar.

Quinn walks in at seven oh three.

She's wearing dark jeans and a cream blouse, hair loose around her shoulders instead of pulled back. No gala dress, no heels. Just her, clean and confident and real.

Our eyes meet in the mirror. She doesn't hesitate. She crosses the space and takes the stool beside me.