The cabbie shrugged, “That’s up to Rudy. Tell him Chuckles brought you. Hop in.” Johnny got into the cab. They went a half-dozen blocks and pulled into the curb in front of a tavern with an illuminated beer ad in the window. The neon sign overhead was dark and Johnny realized it was after midnight. He handed the driver a bill. “Thanks, chum,” the driver said. “Play ‘em up against your belly inside. It’s a bruisin’ game.”
Johnny pushed experimentally at the outside door which opened at his touch. Inside, a single subdued light behind the bar framed a bartender washing glasses. “Rudy,” Johnny said to his inquiring look.
The man nodded. His hands didn’t move from towel or glasses, but a door opened in the rear of the room and a short, stocky man entered. He walked up to Johnny, dark, liquid eyes contrasting oddly with a dark, hard face. “I’d like to take a riffle,” Johnny told him. “Chuckles, the cab driver, brought me around.”
“That’s a strike less on you,” Rudy said amiably. “I don’t know you, do I?” He pursed his lips at Johnny’s headshake. “You wearin’ any iron?”
“Not an ounce.”
“You mind if I check?”
“Help yourself.”
Rudy’s capable-looking hands went over Johnny in a light patting routine. “What’s your game?” he asked as he stepped back.
“Poker,” Johnny said for the second time.
“Can you stand it?”
Johnny took out Mickey Tallant’s roll and slapped it against his palm. “For a while, anyway.”
Rudy nodded. “Right this minute it’s a full game but somebody’ll get batted out an’ make a seat for you. Come on in.” He led the way to the door through which he had entered and opened it with a key. Johnny eyed it passing through. It was a thin door. Rudy wasn’t afraid of a police shoulder against it. His question about a possible gun indicated he was more concerned about a holdup man than he was about an undercover man fronting for a police raid.
The room inside surprised Johnny. It was much larger than he would have expected from the tavern out front. It was a complete gambling layout, wheels, dice tables, blackjack tables, even a chemin-de-fer birdcage. It was quiet in the room except at the dice table. Only one blackjack table was open and a single roulette wheel spun lazily for two bored-looking customers. “Everything but live clients,” Johnny commented.
“We do our real business on weekends,” Rudy said. He nodded toward a soft-hatted group of men around a green baize table under a brightly shining drop-light. “Leave your name with the dealer for the next seat an’ take a walk around.”
“Sure. How about a drink?”
“Sorry. The bar closes at midnight.” Rudy walked away.
In its own way the prohibition probably made sense, Johnny reflected. The wide-open gambling within forty feet of the main street could be fixed locally. Liquor was state-administered and could not.
He walked to the card table. Between hands he caught the green-eyeshaded dealer’s attention, circled the table swiftly with a finger, and then pointed at himself. The dealer nodded. Johnny stood and watched the game. There was no money on the table and he didn’t know the value of the chips but the quiet intensity of the game suggested that they didn’t represent nickels and dimes. The game was straight poker with no flourishes.
After a few moments he wandered over to the dice table and looked on. There was a younger, harder-looking crowd at the dice table. Noisier, too. Johnny pushed on to a blackjack table and exchanged a twenty dollar bill for dollar chips. He climbed up on a stool and won and lost with almost religious alternation until he looked around at a touch on his elbow. “Seat open,” Rudy said.
“Fine.” He counted out a thousand dollars of Mickey Tallant’s money and shoved the rest back in his pocket. He walked back to the poker table and slid into the vacant seat. The dealer shuffled and blended cards in a blurred whirr of celluloid and set them down on the table. “Game’s jackpots,” he said briskly to Johnny. “Five, twenty-five, and fifty. Passed pots stop at four. No limit on raises at any time. You can go to the banker at any time. Any questions?”
“Coffeehousin’ go?” Johnny asked him.
“Anything goes,” the dealer replied with emphasis. “You’re not among friends.”
Johnny pushed his thousand dollars toward the dèaler. “Let ‘er rip.” He stacked up in front of him the twenty white chips, sixteen reds, and ten blues he received in return. He ran an appraising eye around the table. At five dollars for a white chip, twenty-five for a red, and fifty for a blue he could see a conservative twelve to fifteen thousand dollars in chips on the table. He drew his chair in a little tighter beneath him. His nostrils tested the familiar electricity in the air. He wished he had a cigar.
For thirty minutes he threw in hand after hand, sizing up the players in the game. He drew once to two pair after raising right behind the opener and driving everyone else out. The opener caught another pair and beat him. For the amount of money involved it was a looser game than he expected. Raises were frequent and there weren’t too many folded hands. Two or three calls were not unusual. There was only one man in the game playing as tight a game as himself, a gray-haired man with a weatherbeaten face.
On a four-time passed pot the deal came up to the man in front of Johnny. Under the gun, Johnny looked at his cards singly as they came off the top of the deck. The first three were nines, and he stopped looking. “Pass,” he said when the cards had stopped falling.
“Open,” the man behind him said. He tossed in two blue chips.
“Raise it once,” the next man said. He threw in four blues.
“Stay.”
“Out.”
“Out.”
“Up again,” said the dealer confidently. One by one he dropped six blues onto the pile.
Johnny felt the finger of excitement on his spine. Three hundred to play. He picked up his hand and spread his cards. He hadn’t made any mistake. The three nines were there.
The next card was a king.
The last one was the fourth nine.
CHAPTER VI
“I’LL STAY,” Johnny said.
“I’ll raise it again,” the opener said right behind him. His words tripped over themselves. His voice was taut.
The man who had raised originally frowned at his cards. He folded them, hesitated, opened them up for another look, and removed four blue chips from the diminished pile in front of him. “Stay,” he said.
“Stay,” the next man said. His eyes were upon the dealer who immediately confirmed his worst fears.
“Up once more,” the dealer said silkily. “Let’s make it a good one, boys.”
“Stay,” Johnny said. He pushed the last of his blue chips into the center of the table.
The opener debated. “Stay,” he said finally.
“Stay,” the original raiser said stubbornly.
“Stay,” the whipsawed man to the dealer’s right said resignedly.
“Cards, gentlemen?” the dealer inquired cheerfully.
“I’ll take one,” Johnny said. He lifted a corner of the card dealt him and looked at it. It was a ten.
“I’ll play these,” the opener announced. A straight or a flush, Johnny thought. He’s out of it.
“Two,” the man who had raised first said unhappily. The pat hand had obviously shaken him.
“One,” the next man said. “Make it the right one and I’ll burn up all your asses yet.”
The dealer set down the deck with a thump. “No cards to the dealer,” he said. “What does the opener do?”
The opener was staring at the chips in the pot. Johnny didn’t blame him. On a hundred dollar open five men had followed four raises to draw cards. With the ante money, there was over twenty-six hundred dollars in the pot already. “Opener checks,” he said huskily.
“Check,” said the man who had drawn two. He didn’t help his three of a kind, Johnny thought.
“I’ll bet,” said the man who had asked for the right card. He sai
d it triumphantly, tossing two blues into the center of the pile of chips. A flush, Johnny thought. Probably ace-king or ace-queen high.
“I’ll raise,” the dealer said immediately. He’s not afraid of a flush, Johnny decided. Must be a pat full house. Or could he have stayed pat with four of a kind?
“I’ll raise it again,” Johnny said. The bet took all but two of his red chips. Four pairs of eyes were riveted on him. They hadn’t even realized he was in the hand. He could see each in his mind’s eye reconstructing his play. Under the gun, no open, no raises, one card draw. What the hell can he have?
The opener stared desperately around the table. He played with his chips but he knew he was beaten. Reluctantly he folded his cards and flung them into the discards.
Right behind them came the cards of the original raiser, the man who had drawn two cards. “Damn, damn, damn,” he said softly.
“Call,” said the man who had been so happy about his one card draw. He said it soberly.
“Try you one time,” the dealer said with an eye cocked at Johnny. He raised again.
Johnny took the balance of Mickey Tallant’s money from his pocket and laid it on the table. “Chips,” he said.
“Don’t hold up the game,” the opener said impatiently. “I’ll mark it. What’re you doin’?”
“Up again,” Johnny said.
The one card draw cursed and sailed his hand into the discards. The dealer studied Johnny. “Once more,” he said finally.
“And again,” Johnny said. Even if the man had fours he had to have jacks, queens, or aces to win. Johnny had had a king and a ten.
The dealer wet his lips. “One card draw,” he said slowly. “One card draw.” His hand hovered over his chips, retreated, advanced again. “One more time.”
“Back at you,” Johnny said.
“Call the man,” the dealer ordered himself. His grin was feeble. “I call.”
“Two pairs of nines,” Johnny said, and showed them.
“Wins,” the dealer said miserably. One by one he turned over three queens and two fours. Johnny stuffed Mickey Tallant’s money back in his pocket and raked in the pot. He was doing mental arithmetic in his head. Twenty-six hundred in there before the draw. Three men had thrown in three hundred each afterward, plus three head-to-head raises and a call. It had to be a forty-six or forty-eight hundred dollar pot. Of course thirteen hundred of it had been his own. Still a good day’s pay.
“Best pot in the last six months,” a voice said reflectively.
“Don’t deal me any more pat straights on four-time passed pots,” the opener said emphatically. He turned to Johnny. “You caught one?”
“Had ‘em goin’ in,” Johnny told him.
“Man, man, you had to have brass-bound guts to play it that way.” He shook his head. “You sure as hell led all the little pigs right up to the trough,” he added grudgingly.
“Hell with the post mortems,” one of the noncombatants on the hand just past said briskly. “Deal the damn cards.”
In the next two hours Johnny won only three small pots but he drew cards only six times. He played ironclad poker. He had it now and he intended to get out of there with it. He threw in pairs, inside straights, double-ended straights, and fourflushes. He threw in two pairs unless he was the dealer or the man in front of the dealer. In the two hours he dropped a little ante money. That was all.
He had made up his mind to stay another thirty minutes and then to pack it in when he raised his eyes across the table and did a doubletake. Standing behind a player’s chair with his eyes fixed directly upon Johnny was Mayor Richard Lowell. Johnny half-rose, incredulous, from his chair. “Deal me out of this one,” he said harshly.
He circled the table and took Dick Lowell roughly by the arm and led him aside. “You crazy?” he demanded in an undertone. “How can a public official like you walk into a bustout joint like this?”
“I’ve got to talk to you, Killain.” The mayor’s jowls were silver-stubbled and his eyes red-rimmed. The corners of his mouth twitched.
Johnny hesitated. “Walk over to the door,” he said finally. He had to get this fool out of here. Back at the table he awaited the finish of the hand. “Cash me in,” he said briefly. He had to stuff money in three pockets. “See you later, boys,” he said to the glum faces around the table watching the big winner check out.
Rudy was at the door with Lowell. It seemed to Johnny that the gambling operator and the mayor studiously avoided looking at each other. Rudy opened the door with his key. “It’s a better game Saturdays,” he said. “Although I hear you should have no complaint with this one. Give us a return bout Saturday.”
“I just might do that.” Johnny took Lowell’s arm and hustled him outside. The bartender was gone but a man tipped up on a chair leaning back against a cigarette machine rose and let them out. On the street Johnny turned to Lowell. “Now what kind of an idiot’s trick was that, showin’ your face in there?”
“I had to talk to you.” The mayor’s words came with a rush. “After you left I got to thinking about what you’d said. Not being able to reach Mrs. Thompson, I mean. I tried to call her myself. When I couldn’t get an answer I went over there.” He gestured impatiently at Johnny’s look. “Yes, I know what time it was and I’m not drunk. There’s something going on I don’t understand. Anyway, I went to her apartment. She’s not there. No sign of her at all. The building superintendent said he hadn’t seen her for four days.”
“Four days?” Johnny echoed. Had Micheline Thompson been at the Taft with her husband after all? Johnny frowned at the dark, deserted street.
Beside him Richard Lowell drew a deep breath. “I want you to find her, Killain,” he said firmly.
“At three in the mornin’?” A thought occurred to Johnny. “How did you find me in the game here?”
“I called Daddario. He has a man on you.” The mayor said it as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“An’ I suppose the man is takin’ stenographic notes while we stand here blattin’ at each other?” Johnny said in disgust.
Richard Lowell paid no attention. “I want you to find Mrs. Thompson,” he repeated.
“Why didn’t you ask Daddario where she was? He was glued right to her when I saw them. If she’s under cover it’s a good bet he put her there.”
“I accused him of it. He denied it. Professed to be alarmed, as a matter of fact. I don’t doubt that he’d lie to me but I’d like to know why.” He tugged nervously at an earlobe. “I don’t like it. Daddario’s up to something. I’m damned if I’m going to stand flatfooted and let that—that mountebank jerk the rug from beneath me. I want to talk to Mrs. Thompson and I want you to find her.” For the first time there was a ring of authority in Lowell’s voice. “She undoubtedly knows something about Daddario’s movements in New York he doesn’t want disclosed. I want to know what it is. How long will it take you to find her?”
Johnny stared at him. “How the hell do I know? Right this second I don’t even know where to begin. An’ get it out of your noggin’ that I’m startin’ at three in the a.m. Daylight will be plenty soon enough.” He rode roughshod over the mayor’s voice as Lowell tried to interrupt. “Who’s Daddario got tailin’ me?”
“Probably one of Jack Riley’s men.”
“Is there an all-night telegraph office in town?”
Lowell nodded. “Two blocks north and a block east. Why?”
Johnny took him by the arm again. “Let’s go. It’s not every day I get a mayor as my bodyguard.” With a firm grip on the mayoral arm he towed Lowell along.
“Really, Killain, I—” The mayor subsided, evidently considering a struggle undignified. He walked along beside Johnny, hurrying to keep up with Johnny’s longer stride. At the Western Union office Johnny commandeered a table and dumped money from all his pockets upon it. Richard Lowell’s eyes widened. Johnny sorted bills swiftly and counted out Mickey Tallant’s original three thousand dollars. He made another bundle of
the rest and counted again. He had thirty-two hundred dollars in the second bundle. He divided it in two, put half in his pocket, added the other half to the three thousand, and stepped up to the counter.
“Mind givin’ me a money order for this?” he inquired of the clerk, and pulled a telegraph blank toward himself. He thought a moment and printed swiftly. YOUR MONEY WAS IN ACTION AND HITS HARDER THAN YOU DO. He signed it, inserted Mickey Tallant’s name and the address of the Rollin’ Stone above it and laid it down beside the stacks of bills the clerk was counting. He counted three times before looking up at Johnny inquiringly.
“I make it forty-six hundred.”
“I make it the same.” He waited for his receipt and put it carefully in his wallet. Outside on the sidewalk again he looked at Richard Lowell. “Who’s Rudy payin’ off to run wide open like that?”
“I have no idea.” The mayor’s tone was indifferent.
“You’re the mayor, man. You don’t know what’s goin’ on in your own town?”
“We are not a reform administration,” Lowell said stiffly. “And I’ve already told you that my followers on the city council are in the minority.”
“The minority’s not in on the take?”
“What makes you think there is a take, as you call it?”
“For God’s sake, man, you think I was born yesterday?” Johnny demanded impatiently. “Are you in on this payoff yourself?”
Mayor Richard Lowell closed his mouth firmly. “Let me know when you find Mrs. Thompson, Killain.” He turned and started to walk away.
“Just a minute, buster.” Johnny caught him by the arm. “If I find her it could be because I’ll have my own reasons. Now what the hell are yours?”
Richard Lowell freed his arm with dignity. “I thought I’d already made that clear. I think she’s being coerced into something. I don’t trust Daddario and I don’t propose to stand still while he hunts for my head.” He stalked off up the street.
Johnny stood and watched him go. Could any reasonably honest politician afford to walk into a gambling joint the way Mayor Richard Lowell had done? And if there were two crooked politicians in this town wouldn’t they almost have to be working together? Of course they could have had a falling out—
Shake a Crooked Town Page 8
