Ace High (Ben Blue Book 3) Read online

  “Not often enough.” I replied. “But I plan to remedy that.”

  “Good. This place could use more of what you bring.”

  We chatted for a bit, she said she hadn’t been watching real close, but she figured I was about ten bucks ahead. I told her that she was watching a lot closer than she thought.

  “You still do any dealing, Izzy?” I asked. “If I remember right, you were a pretty good hand with a deck back in Carson City.”

  “No,” she said, “it doesn’t seem proper for the owner of the place to be dealin’ cards. Especially if that owner is a woman. The players like to get a little naughty sometimes with their language… They don’t mind cussin’ with a girl of the line hanging over their shoulder, but as you might have noticed, I don’t get up like one of the girls. But like I say, ‘Everything I have is for sale, but it’s gonna cost you.’ Might I add that it’s all worth the price.” From firsthand knowledge of the product she was referring to, I had to agree that it was.

  “Now, that doesn’t mean, I wouldn’t take a hand in a game if the stakes were high enough and if the situation was right.” She added.

  “Do you miss it?” I asked.

  “Oh you just bet I do. I miss the thrill of the competition, the games within the games, and most of all, I miss watching the pot grow and grow… swelling up like a bloated hog, and the knowledge that I could take it all. Yeah, I miss it…” She said as her voice tailed off.

  “Maybe we can arrange a little select game while I’m in town. I’ll keep my eyes open for some players who might want to challenge a lady’s skill with the cards. Give me a little time to accumulate a good stake, and if there’s anyone willing to bark like a big dog, we may just have some fun.”

  “Do you think you can, Max? I’d love it.”

  “We’ll see.”

  Chapter 2

  The next morning, I checked out of the hotel and moved across the street to the Plugged Nickel Saloon. Delores had been moved and the room was indeed bigger and nicer than what the hotel offered. Of course, the fixins’ were a bit too feminine for my taste, but I’m sure they suited Delores just fine. One thing she left was a faint hint of lilac, which took a little bit to get used to. There was a little curtained off alcove where I found a fancy little bath tub. I didn’t know if that was part of Delores’s service or if it had been for her own personal use, but it sure was a fancy thing.

  There was indeed a door leading to the adjoining room, and that door was lockable from my side, but there was no key. I could only assume that it was not meant to be locked. But something told me that it could be locked from the other side. That only made sense because Izzy wanted access to this room in case of emergency, but her room was off limits.

  I heard the key and the squeak of hinges, and then I saw a pretty little delicate hand come through the gap and beckoned me to come inside. Following the hand as instructed, I went through the door to find the lovely Isadora leading me to a nice little table set for breakfast. As hungry as I was, I’d be a liar if I were to say the table looked better than her.

  During breakfast of cold eggs and bacon and lukewarm coffee, I told her about going to the Painted Wagon after leaving her last night and won fifty dollars toward my stake for the big game. “If we’re going to pull this off, I’ll need to be getting known around town and not tied to the Plugged Nickel. Where’d you come up with that name anyway?”

  “Oh it came with the place. I kinda liked it, and didn’t see any need in repainting the signs. I’ll send down for some hot coffee… It took us so long to get to the table that everything got cold.” She said with a little smile and a hint of color on her cheeks.

  She liked the idea of me spreading myself around, as long as poker chips were the only things I’d be getting. I assured her that I knew where home was.

  What most people don’t give much thought to is that in the saloon trade we live in the night time hours, when most normal folks are asleep. We are usually just finishing breakfast when others are getting ready for their mid day meal. That’s one of the reasons why the average working man doesn’t stand a chance in a late night card game. His mind and body are attuned to start shutting down after nine o’clock and certainly before midnight, whereas the night people are just getting wound up at nine o’clock. During the week, there are generally enough regular folk out to make it worthwhile keeping the lamps burning, but the weekends are when they burn the brightest.

  I made my rounds between the three saloons and within a week’s time I had my stake and a bit more. Along the way, I had found two or three potential high rollers, who didn’t mind taking a chance on a higher stakes game than what was offered at most local tables.

  It was soon arranged, that the game would be held in the back room of the Plugged Nickel, on Thursday night at seven o’clock, with a five hundred dollar cash buy in, and a twenty dollar high bet. When you were out, you were out. The game would go on until all remaining players agreed to quit. In some larger cities the game would go on until one person had won it all, but this wasn’t St. Louis or San Francisco, this was a cow town in New Mexico.

  We had six players, which included two ranchers, Izzy, the owner of the Painted Wagon, a merchant, and me. Izzy was excited to get back into the swing of things and it was worth settin’ this whole thing up, just to see the smile on her face. As with any such venture, there was a risk, but the rewards could mean as much as twenty-five hundred dollars. And that kind of reward was worth a little risk.

  I was pretty pleased with myself for getting everything organized and wasn’t really concentrating on the business at hand on Tuesday night before the private game. I’d been playing stud at the Double Eagle and absentmindedly watching a fella wearing a flat brimmed black hat, a white shirt, and a stained silk vest. He was a professional, but not a very good one. There was something funny about the way he fondled his hole cards. I hadn’t been paying a lot of attention because I was thinking about my potential big payday.

  Then I caught the press of his thumbnail against the edge of one of the cards. Looking around at the cards on the table I was able to spot four similarly nicked cards. One was sitting in front of me. I peaked and saw it was a king of hearts.

  “Friend,” I said, “this could be the luckiest day of your life or it could be the last day of your life… It’s your choice.”

  “What are you getting’ at, mister? I don’t much like your tone.” He sat a little straighter and his right hand inched closer to the edge of the table.

  Chairs started scraping back away from the table, and the surrounding tables went silent. “I’ve been sitting here watching you mark these cards. And I’m giving you the chance to get up and walk away. That would be your good luck… But if you don’t, then you’ll have no luck at all.”

  Without taking my eyes off his hands I said, “Bob, you’ve got a notched card in your hole pile. Mason, you have one too. I have one, he has one, and the man on my right has one… I just watched him notch one.”

  “What’ll it be, mister? If you think you want to live to play somewhere down the road, then you just leave your winnings and walk out that front door… otherwise call.”

  I heard someone say, “By God you’re right, Bell, there it is. It’s just a little thumbnail nick.” Then there were some other grumbles and not a few threats.

  I said, “No, gents, let’s give him a chance to walk out of here. I already told him he could, but he leaves the money.”

  “That’s not all from this game.” He said. “Some of that I brung in with me.”

  “You should’ve thought of that before you decided to take the path of dishonesty. Maybe you should look for another line of work because you’re not very good at this one. If a broke down puncher can spot you, what chance are you gonna have with a real gamblin’ man.”

  “You win this round, cowboy, but we’ll meet again. I’ll not admit to anything, but I don’t want any trouble.” He slid his chair back and straightened his coat as he stood up.
Then he checked his watch and put it back into his vest, but when he pulled his hand out of his watch pocket, it had an ugly little Derringer in it. I shot him in the chest right through the table.

  He lived long enough to cuss me good and proper, but he was gone when the town marshal arrived. The marshal asked a few questions, and everyone had pretty much the same account of the shooting, and that I’d given him the chance to walk away. So we divided up the man’s pile and left enough for the undertaker and some to get the table fixed. Some people just ain’t cut out for this line of work.

  The marshal warned me to go easy because he didn’t care much for gamblers or drifters. Neither one were taxpayers, and those are the folks he worked for. “So Mister Max Bell, you either find you a job and start payin’ taxes or you start thinkin’ about movin’ on.”

  “Marshal,” I said, “I’m just waitin’ for the next herd comin’ through that needs another rider. Then I’ll be out of your town.”

  “Well, see that you do. And till that happens, you just walk lightly and stay out of trouble.”

  “Would there be a widows and orphans fund that I might drop some of my winnings in, that would make me kinda like a taxpayer?” I asked, fully expecting him to ask for a donation, which he would take care of.

  “Since you bring it up, young fella, there’s a poor box in both the Community Church and the Spanish Mission. If you were to drop about five dollars into each, you’d make yourself some friends among the taxpayers… See that you don’t forget.”

  “Gladly, marshal, I’ll do it first thing in the morning, and thanks for restoring my faith in honest lawmen.”

  “An outright bribe attempt would’ve got you a couple of nights in a rat infested cell.” He said with a wry grin. “I’d have even brought in some extra rats for you.”

  The next morning found me leaving the Community Church, having already stopped by the mission and paid my due. I felt pretty good about being able to stick around a while longer, or at least long enough to take a hand in the big game. As I stepped off the last step and turned toward the main street, saw the marshal leaning against one of the church yard trees. “Good morning, marshal… checking up on me?”

  “That I am, boy. I just wanted to make sure you knew that the ten dollars you just spent don’t make you a tax payin’ citizen, but it does make you a better class of drifter. You’re still gonna have to step lightly.” We walked together into town.

  Thursday night arrived without much fanfare, since not more than a dozen people even knew about the game. But the participants were all there in Izzy’s back room, which was generally reserved for the girls and their “dates”. It was a place where a man could sit with a young lady and have a nice little drink and a little chit chat before going up the back stairs. It was decked out like a whore house parlor, which, I guess, is what it was. A poker table had been brought in along with another table set up with whiskey bottles and glasses. Everyone dropped ten dollars on the banker’s table to cover food and drinks. All side arms were also deposited at the banker’s table.

  The banker was an off duty deputy town marshal. His job was to take the buy in money and hand out the chips. I had a suspicion that he was also there to see that nobody got out of line.

  I had played cards with all but two of the participants, one being the owner of the Painted Wagon, but I’d met him and we’d talked a few times. The other one was the second rancher, a surly dark eyed man named Slack, who sat at my left. Slack was tall and lean. Actually, he was thin almost cadaverous. He dressed well enough, but his clothes just didn’t seem to fit. His dark hair was long and lank. It looked combed alright but none too clean. Nothing seemed to bring a smile to his dark visage. I’d played with a lot of sour looking people, so that didn’t much bother me… this was a business meeting, and when it came to business you had to forget about personalities.

  For the first hour or so there were no clear cut winners. It was back and forth and up and down. The players all seemed to jockeying for position, but no one could take the lead. Several players would surge ahead only to fall back. When I play cards, I stay away from hard liquor, but some of the men were hitting it pretty hard. The merchant, a fella named Miller was taking on a pretty fair load, so about ten o’clock, I suggested we take a break for a stretch and a visit to the necessary. Some of the squirmers were more than ready. Most of us only made it outside to the alley. I asked the girl who was tending the makeshift bar if she could bring in a pot of coffee and some mugs. When we all got up the deputy had moved to the table and stood behind it.

  I had a chance to talk to Izzy during the break. She was a rare beauty dressed in a white blouse with lace running around the back of her standup collar and down the open front framing just enough well rounded flesh to make a man forget what game he was playing. She had her dark auburn hair piled atop her head with a Spanish comb holding it all in place. A kind of vest of a dark blue smooth pinstriped material surrounded her middle just below her breasts causing them to stand a little taller.

  She was a little ahead of the game, but not by much. She was having the time of her life, and I was just happy to be a part of it. I asked her what she knew about Slack and Franklin, the man from the Painted Wagon.

  “Slack’s a bad actor.” She said. “I’ve never seen him smile or even seem friendly to anyone. He’s got a pretty big spread north of here. They say his herd grows every spring after the drives go through. That’s just range gossip; I suppose… maybe sour grapes. He cut a man up pretty bad a few months back. I wouldn’t mess with him if I was you…. Franklin is pretty much what you see. He runs a decent saloon. Not as decent as the Plugged Nickel but decent. Watching him play, I’m surprised that he’s still in the game. He’s shot with luck… dumb luck.”

  After the break, chips started changing hands and the game became polarized. Izzy was doing well, I was comfortably ahead, one of the ranchers, a man named Burk, was making headway, but Slack was losing ground as were Miller and Franklin. Franklin’s dumb luck was deserting him and he didn’t have the card player’s skills to make up for the loss. Miller was getting stupid drunk.

  Slack was getting nasty, and then he got nastier if that was possible. More than once, I had to clear my throat to remind him that there was a lady at the table and to watch his language. Each time, he would say, “Beg pardon, Miss Dora.” I guess I was the only one who called her Izzy.

  He was losing heavily and drinking heavily, but the only indication that drink was having an effect was in his mood. He just scowled at whoever won a pot and slammed his cards down. Some people have to blame everyone else for their failure. They love success, as long as it’s theirs and hate it when someone else has it.

  Around midnight food was brought in and more coffee. There was cold and warm meat with cheese and some fresh baked bread. It wasn’t like a meal but more like something to keep going on. Miller had been wiped out and was asleep on the settee. No one paid him any attention. Franklin was just hanging on and playing defensive. Burk was still ahead, but no more than I was. Slack was down to about a hundred dollars. Izzy was up considerably.

  The next few hours saw Franklin go broke and Burk inch closer to his original buy in. I was up about five hundred dollars. Slack was still hanging on and getting meaner. Izzy was the clear cut leader.

  Somewhere between two thirty and three o’clock there came a real battleground hand. The pot had grown due to competition between Izzy and myself. Burk had folded and was just a spectator. I didn’t think she had the queen, and she was counting on me not having the jack to complete a full house. I did. She raised twenty, I called and raised another twenty, Slack called, and Izzy called and raised again. I called and Slack wrote something on a piece of paper which he tossed onto the pile. I picked it up looked at it and said, “What’s this?”

  “God dammit, can’t you read? That’s my marker. I’m out of chips.”

  “You know the ground rules. Table stakes, when you’re out of chips, you’re out of the
game… no markers. And besides that, I don’t even know you.”

  “Look cowboy, I could have ten thousand dollars in here by noon tomorrow.”

  “Well, mister, that’s sure something to be proud of and I’m happy for you, but rules is rules.”

  He planted both hands on the edge of the table and scooted his chair back like he was going to get up. But when he came to about halfway, he turned and produced a thin bladed knife in his right hand. He was to my left, so his best move was a back handed slice, which I barely ducked under at the expense of my hat. By the time his arc was finished, his right arm momentum had carried him off balance and slightly turned. I was coming up with a short quick left jab to his throat. The blade clattered away, and Slack dropped to his knees retching and choking. If I didn’t collapse his wind pipe he’d live, if I did then he wouldn’t. I was more concerned about my hat.

  I looked over at Izzy and said, “Don’t touch them cards.”

  The deputy was coming out of his chair at the bank and pulling his pistol, but for a few seconds, he didn’t know who or what to point it at. He finally decided on the writhing coughing figure on the floor.

  “It’s alright, deputy, you don’t have to keep him covered. He won’t hurt anyone for at least a couple of days. He probably won’t be talkin or eatin’ for a couple of days either.”

  “You want me to have him jailed?”

  “Naa,” I said, “he got the worst of it. You might get a doc in here though. He might have to ram a tube down this fella’s throat to help him breathe.”

  Slack lay there kicking and coughing and choking till the doc got there and cut a hole in his throat and pulled out his windpipe. I hated to see anyone go through that kind of struggle to breathe or swallow, but I also hated to think what would have happened if I hadn’t ducked.

  “He gonna live, Doc?” I asked.