Dan Marlowe - Shake a Crooked Town

“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 said 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?”