In the middle of the main deck was the Delta Jack’s largest card room. Oftentimes, it served as a way to catch the eye of the freshest passengers to step onto the riverboat. Tonight, it lived up to the promises made by the expensive rugs, crystal chandeliers, polished brass along the bar, and lavish dresses worn by the soiled doves who’d earned the right to patrol that space. Mason cut straight through the room until he reached a wall of humanity formed by some of the largest men he’d ever seen.
In most saloons, those hired to protect the money on the table wore their guns in holsters or stashed beneath a long coat. These carried sawed-off shotguns in plain sight and scowled at anyone in their vicinity to make their cruel intentions known. One of them, a barrel-chested fellow with a mustache that connected to his brushy sideburns, stared down at Mason as if from atop a mountain. “Find a game somewhere else,” he said. “This one’s invitation only.”
“But I have an invitation,” Mason said.
“Let’s see it.”
Mason smiled. “You won’t trip me up that easily. There aren’t any invitations printed, but that is a good way to smoke out the impostors looking to sneak into this game.”
“What’s your name?” the guard asked.
“Abner Mason.”
The guard looked over to one of his partners, who gave him a barely perceptible nod. “All right,” he said while shifting to one side.
Even though the way had been cleared for him, Mason couldn’t help feeling leery as he maneuvered between the hulking armed men. The bit of fear niggling at the back of his mind flared up when the guard spoke again.
“Not so fast,” he said.
“Oh yes!” Mason replied cheerily. “I’ll need some chips. Two thousand should be a good start. Let me just . . .” When he reached into a pocket for the money, all but one of the guards brought their shotguns to bear on him. Hammers clacked back, the sound of which caused many people in that room to take notice.
“Put your hands where we can see them,” the guard warned. “Slowly.”
“Of course,” Mason said. Once he raised his hands and it became clear that he wasn’t about to be cut down by the shotguns, the other gamblers observing from a distance went back to what they’d been doing.
The guard who’d spoken to Mason kept his eyes and aim locked on him while one of the others started patting him down.
Keeping his hands up as he was searched, Mason said, “Awfully nice weather we’ve been having. Makes for a better voyage.”
None of the guards spoke or responded in any way to the sound of his voice.
Undeterred by the situation, Mason asked, “Is it called a voyage or is that term only for seagoing vessels? Perhaps this is just a trip or . . . cruise?”
The guard patting Mason down found the Remington under his arm first and took it away. The holster was peeled off in a brusque manner that left more than a few bruises on Mason’s back and shoulders.
“Then again, I’m not even sure if bad weather affects the river the way it would hamper a ship on the sea,” Mason continued. “I’ve been fortunate enough to have smooth waters most of the time while I’ve been on the Jack.”
Mason’s belly gun was found next, along with the knife at the small of his back.
“Perhaps I’m a good-luck charm for this boat?” Mason offered.
The guard actually let out a single grunt of a laugh at that one.
After patting down Mason’s legs and inspecting his boots, the guard behind him stood up and said, “He’s clean.”
“Oh my,” Mason said as a short brunette with ample curves wrapped in a tight corset stepped into his line of sight. “I didn’t see you there.”
She showed him a pleasant smile while holding a large silver tray. On it was all the weapons that had been confiscated from Mason’s person.
“I’ll be wanting those back after the game,” he said. “And in the same condition in which they were found.”
She curtsied and turned away to take the weapons with her.
“That’s what I like about this boat,” Mason said. “Even when a man is being treated like a prisoner, it’s still done with style.”
“When you’re a prisoner,” the guard said to him, “you’ll know it. Did you say two thousand in chips?”
“That should be enough to get me rolling.”
Judging by the look on the guard’s face, it wasn’t the first time he’d heard a boast along those lines. He walked over to a small lockbox beside several stacks of clay chips. “Where’s your money?”
“In my pocket,” Mason replied. “I’m surprised your associate didn’t find it already, along with my liver and kidneys.” When he didn’t get a reaction, he added, “Just a joke, of course. Very thorough search earlier.” Finally he said, “I’ll just get it now.” The guards all had the utmost confidence in the search that had been conducted, because not one of them flinched when Mason reached under his coat this time. He removed a fat wad of cash that he’d been building since his arrival on the Delta Jack and peeled off the required amount. The rest went into his pocket, where he hoped it would remain for the duration of the game.
The guard took the money and handed over several stacks of chips in return. Having handled so much cash every night as part of his regular duties, he dumped the bills Mason gave him into the lockbox like a cook handling just another cut of pork. “Take your seat.”
“Any seat?” Mason asked.
“Sure.”
Half of the seats were already filled at the large round table. One chair was taken by a rough-looking man with a scar running down one cheek. Another by a thin young man with hair so light that it almost looked white and the third was occupied by a woman with a trim build, exotic features, and a long mane of flowing black hair.
“Don’t mind if I do,” Mason said as he settled into the chair between the two men. From that spot, he was directly across from the lady who idly shuffled a deck of cards. “I’m guessing you gentlemen are sitting at this table for the same reason I am.” Tipping his hat, Mason said, “The magnificent view.”
“Don’t get any ideas,” said the man with the scar on Mason’s left. “I saw her first.”
“Abner Mason.”
“Clint Hayes.”
“Nice to meet you, Clint. Sorry to say you’ll be quite disappointed later when I’m enjoying the lady’s company.”
“Doesn’t the lady have anything to say about that?” she asked from across the table.
“No,” Mason replied with a grin. “That’s how chivalry works. Ironically it’s mostly between the menfolk.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. I’m Maggie, by the way.”
“Do you have a last name, Maggie?” Mason asked.
“Yes.” With that, she calmly continued to shuffle her cards.
“Glad to see her treat you like somethin’ she scraped off her shoe,” said the blond man to Mason’s right. “I was worried I was the only one to get that from Her Majesty over there.”
“Comrades at the bottom of the pecking order,” Mason said before extending his hand and formally introducing himself.
“Dan Andrews,” the blond man replied. “Good to meet ya.”
Suddenly Maggie stopped shuffling and sat up straighter. “Someone’s coming,” she said with excitement creeping in around the edges of her voice.
“Did she act like that when I showed up?” Mason asked.
“No,” Clint replied. “She did have a good laugh when you were getting searched, though.”
“Nice.”
The man who arrived at the table next did so without so much as a word from any of the guards. In fact, they parted for him like the Red Sea clearing a path for Moses. He looked to be right around Mason’s height, but lighter than him by at least thirty pounds. Some of that difference came from a distinct lack of hair on top of h
is head. The hair that remained formed a ring from the backside of one ear all the way around to the other. His nose was just a bit too long and his eyebrows just a little too bushy. The clothes he wore were well tailored, however, which was something in his favor at least.
“Now I see why Maggie didn’t pay us any mind,” Mason said.
Squinting to get a look at the new arrival, Dan reached into his shirt pocket for a pair of spectacles, which didn’t seem to help him very much. “Why?” he asked.
“Because not one of the three of us sitting here owns this boat.”
As if to further prove Mason’s point, Maggie stood up and quickly primped her hair before the skinny man in the nice suit made it to the table. “Evening, Mr. Greeley,” she said.
The skinny man took the seat between her and Dan. Setting down enough chips to build a small fort in front of him, he showed the other players a crooked smile and said, “Good evening to you all. So glad you accepted my invite. Shall we play some poker?”
“It’s what I live for,” Mason said.
Chapter 6
Cam Greeley didn’t look like a man who would own something like the Delta Jack. Instead he looked more like someone who would tend bar on the riverboat or possibly own a saloon somewhere. Mason had only met Greeley on a couple of occasions before that night. One was the first time he’d boarded the Jack and the second was when he happened to find himself on the riverboat during a holiday. It was either Christmas or New Year’s. Whatever the reason, Greeley had made an appearance to raise his glass in a toast, shake a few hands including Mason’s, and then leave for some other part of the boat.
“I’ll raise,” Greeley announced.
The current game had been going for a few hours by now, which was enough time for all the players to become comfortable with one another. Mason had always thought leaders of countries and heads of state should meet over a game of cards. A felt-covered table piled high with chips was a mighty good equalizer. There, all men were judged by their actions. That didn’t necessarily mean every hand was fair or that each game ran strictly by the agreed-upon rules. Some men relied on their skill at the game itself or the fine art of bending the rules to suit any given situation. Much like a politician, the most successful gambler used a combination of both to win the most important hands.
And then there was the element of luck. Only a fool was unaware of the role luck played in any given situation at or away from a card table. Luck was an element that was always in play in a gambling den, the bedroom, the battlefield, or any other spot where more than one element came together to create a result. Luck was always present and could never be controlled, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t be swayed. That was where skill came into it.
If Mason thought about the vicious circle for too long, his head started to swim. But he had to think about it when he sat at a table. Otherwise he might become lost in the hopeless notion that he was adrift in a sea of random chance. By the time Greeley touched the mountain of chips in front of him again, the torrent inside Mason’s head had slowed to a more comfortable flow.
“Two hundred,” Greeley said before pushing in enough chips to make the pot right.
Dan was the sort of player who handed over too much of his game to luck. He had more than enough chips to cover the bet that had been posed to him, but not much more. Mason watched him from the corner of his eye while sliding one of his own chips around the tip of one finger. He guessed Dan was going to fold and all that remained was to see how long it would take. Of course, Mason was always ready to be surprised by something other than what he guessed would happen.
Surprises were good things. They kept life interesting. Dan gave him a small one when he called the bet.
“Two hundred to me?” Mason asked.
Greeley nodded.
Clint said, “That’s the bet, Abner.”
Maggie raised an eyebrow. Possibly she thought it meant something when he repeated the amount of the bet as compared to the times when he’d simply acted. The truth of the matter was that Mason was well aware of when he spoke and what words he used before making his play. It was a very careful mixture of talking or not talking when he was either betting or folding, weak or strong. To anyone looking for a glimpse into what was going through Mason’s head or a tell to let them know what he might do, it was a trail that led nowhere.
Taking another second to make it look as though he was considering his options, Mason said, “Why not? I’ll call.”
“’Course you will,” Clint said. “Raise.”
Mason wasn’t exactly surprised by that, since Clint had proven to be the sort who liked to think he had folks figured out before he’d even met them. Still, he reacted as if he was taken at least slightly aback by the development.
“What do you say, Maggie?” Clint asked.
She drew a deep breath and tapped a finger against one stack of chips. Something about her seemed mildly annoyed, but that was most likely because Clint had been trying to get on her good side since the game started. “I don’t have much to say until you tell us how much you’re going to raise,” she replied.
The tactic was a ham-handed attempt to see if he might get some reaction from the player who was next in line to act. Since it didn’t work, Clint said, “Fair enough,” and slid one stack of chips forward. “Make it another three hundred.”
Of all the players at the table, Maggie was one of the tougher ones for Mason to read. He’d be doing her a disservice if he chalked that up to her gender alone. Women did have a knack for keeping their true intentions out of plain sight, but this one had yet to get rattled by turns of misfortune or even overly excited when things went her way. Mason found that to be more than just intriguing.
“Call,” she said. When she put her money in the pot, she did it without remorse or anticipation.
It was Greeley’s turn again. For a man sitting behind as many chips as he was to overthink a raise of that size would have been posturing. From what Mason had seen, he didn’t think Greeley was the sort who did much posturing. After taking a few seconds to weigh his odds, Greeley scratched his chin and pushed in enough chips to call the raise. Mason didn’t think the chin scratch hinted at much of anything, but he wasn’t about to write it off just yet.
The game they were playing was five-card stud. It was the last round of dealing and every bet had been called, which meant there was only one more card due to each player. Clint was the dealer this time around and he got busy flipping each player his last hope for a victory.
Some might have found it odd to know how long it had been since Mason looked at any of the other players’ cards or even his own. Anyone who would have thought that, however, was most definitely not a professional gambler. Each person at that table had one down card and three faceup in front. It was a lot to take in and digest but was actually the least complicated part of the game. If it was just about the cards, figuring out what to do on each betting round would have been a simple matter of mathematics and statistics. Like any player who made a living at a poker table, Mason studied the other players much harder than the cards he or any of them had.
Now that the last cards were being dropped onto the table, it was not the time to look at them. Instead Mason watched each person’s reaction to the card as soon as the player saw what it was. Since the other players were doing the same thing, he had to pretend that he was looking at his cards so the others would actually take a gander at theirs. If there wasn’t so much money in the middle of the table, the entire charade would seem rather funny.
Mason had a pair of sevens showing in front of him and not much else. The card in his hand was a ten, which matched the ten of hearts that he’d just been given. Considering what else was out there, it wasn’t enough to get his blood pumping.
Maggie already had him beat with the set of deuces she had showing. Her fourth card was the nine of diamonds, which she barely loo
ked at for half a second. She bet her deuces by opening with fifty dollars tossed into the middle.
Next in line was Greeley. While he didn’t have any pairs showing, all of his cards were clubs. Mason hoped against hope for some sort of reaction from him when that last card was dealt. No reaction would have most likely meant that his flush was already busted. Even the slightest twitch in the corner of one eye would have been enough to let Mason in on the victory dance the other man was doing in the back of his head. Greeley gave nothing away. From a man who’d risen to his level in the gambling profession, Mason wouldn’t have expected any less.
“Raise,” Greeley said as he pushed in another fifty.
Dan had two pairs: threes and sixes. Every card he’d gotten throughout the night, no matter what it was, had been regarded with the same amount of mild disdain. It wasn’t the most original tactic but was effective enough to keep his head above water thus far. He called the hundred-dollar bet without saying a word.
That left Mason with two options. He could fold a hand that was already beat by at least one other player or he could put the rest of the table to a test. “Two hundred more,” he said. When he put his money in the middle, Mason considered it an investment. If he got anything more than another look at what the other players would do, he’d consider it a bonus.
Clint didn’t have much of anything in front of him, but there were some interesting possibilities for his hold card to put something together. If he held an ace in his hand to match the one showing, he had nothing but a pair. If he had a queen to fill out a straight, he was in pretty good shape. So far that evening, he hadn’t seemed interested in doing much bluffing. That didn’t mean that Clint hadn’t bluffed. He could just be very good at it. So far, Mason couldn’t tell which it was and he watched carefully for anything that might sway his opinion one way or another.
“I suppose I should bump it again,” Clint said. Instead of matching his previous raise, he raised two hundred. Afterward, Mason detected a glimmer of something in his eye. It looked an awful lot like a man saying good-bye to a loved one.
Ralph Compton Straight to the Noose Page 4
