Seven
Bump Oliver was a dapper little guy with a new haircut who played cards with his hat on. Billy met him when he sat down at the table in Nick Levine’s cellar, just under the electric meter and kitty-corner from the old asbestos coal furnace which smudged up the cellar air but didn’t heat it enough so you could take off your suit coat. New man on Broadway, Nick said of Bump when he introduced him to Billy; no more than that and who needs to know more?
And yet after Bump had dealt twice, Billy did want to know more. Because he sensed a cheater. Why? Don’t ask Billy to be precise about such things. He has been listening to cheater stories for ten years, has even seen some in action and found out about it later, to his chagrin. He has watched Ace Reilly, a would-be cheater, practicing his second-card deal for hours in front of a mirror. Billy even tried that one himself to see how it went, but didn’t like it, didn’t have the patience or the vocation for it. Because cheaters, you see, already know how it’s going to end, and what the hell good is that? Also, Billy saw a cheater caught once: a salesman who played in Corky Ronan’s clubroom on Van Woert Street, and when Corky saw he was using a shiner, he grabbed the cheater’s hand and showed everybody how he wore it, a little bit of a mirror under a long fingernail. Joe Dembski reached over and punched the cheater on the side of the neck, and the others were ready to move in for their licks, but Corky said never mind that, just take his money and he won’t come back, and they let the cheater go. Why? Well, Corky’s idea was that everybody’s got a trade, and that’s Billy’s idea too, now.
So Billy has seen all this and has thought about it, and because he knows so well how things should be when everything is straight, he also thinks he knows when it’s off center, even when it’s only a cunt hair off. That’s how sensitive Billy’s apparatus is. Maybe it was the way Bump beveled the deck and crooked a finger around it, or maybe it was his eyes and the fact that he was new on Broadway. Whatever it was, even though Bump lost twelve straight hands, Billy didn’t trust him.
The game was now five-card stud, quarter ante, no limit, and four flush beats a pair. The deal was walking and when it came to Bump, Billy gave him the full eyeball.
“Where you from, Bump?” he asked, just like a fellow who was looking for information.
“Troy,” Bump said. “Albia. You know it?”
“Sure, I know it. Who the hell don’t know Albia?”
“Well, I was asking. Lot of people know about Troy don’t know Albia.”
“I know Albia, for chrissake. I know Albia.”
“That’s terrific, really terrific. Congratulations.”
Bump looked at Billy; Billy looked at Bump. The others in the game looked at them both: dizzy-talking bastards. But Billy wanted the cheater thinking about something besides cheating, wanted him edgy. Billy smiled at Bump. Bump didn’t smile at Billy. Good.
Billy drew deuce, four, eight and folded. He was ahead $21, which was nice. He’d sat down with about $315 and change, which included his original $170, $20 from Peg, $40 from Tod, another $20 from Red Tom, and $67 from the Harvey Hess Benevolent Association. All he’d spent was carfare and the drinks at Becker’s. Roughly speaking he still needed about $455 to get straight with Martin, but he was winging it now, wasn’t he, getting where he had to go? And was there ever any doubt? Don’tcha know Billy can always get a buck?
Morrie Berman won the hand with three nines. He was a bigger winner than Billy.
“Your luck’s running,” Billy said to him.
“Yeah,” said Morrie. “Money coming in, name in the paper.”
Billy had told him as soon as they met in front of Nick’s that both their names were on the list. Morrie already knew. Max Rosen had called around supper to ask him to stay in town, keep himself on tap. Rosen was nice as pie, Morrie said. If you don’t mind, Mr. Berman. Naturally I don’t mind, Mr. Rosen, and if I can be of any help at all, just call me. What else do you tell a McCall flunky in a situation like this? Neither Billy nor Morrie mentioned the list to anybody else at Nick’s. Billy listened carefully to what Morrie said. He didn’t say a goddamn thing worth telling anybody.
“What’s that about name in the paper?” Nick Levine asked. Nick was his own house player, cutting the game. Nick would cut a deuce out of a $40 pot. Nick also had a nose for gossip when it moved into his cellar.
“Aw nothin’, just a thing,” Morrie said.
“What thing?”
“Forget it.”
“I’ll get the paper.”
“That’s it, get the paper.”
But Nick wasn’t satisfied. He was a persistent little man with double-thick glasses and he owned more suits of clothes personally than anybody Billy knew, except maybe George Quinn. But then Nick owned a suit store and George didn’t, and George looked a hell of a lot better in clothes than Nick. Some people don’t know how to wear clothes.
Nick looked across the table at Morrie and gave him a long stare while all play stopped. “They pull you in?”
“No, nothing like that,” Morrie said. “Look, play cards. I’ll tell you later.”
That satisfied Nick and he bet his kings.
Lemon Lewis was a pointy-headed bald man, which was how he got his nickname. Didn’t have a hair on his body. Not even a goddamn eyelash. When Lemon, who worked for Bindy McCall, didn’t say anything about Morrie’s name in the paper, Billy knew he hadn’t heard about the list. But Lemon wasn’t that close to Bindy anymore, not since he overdid it with kickbacks when he handled the gambling patronage. Bindy demoted Lemon for his greed and put him to work on the odds board in the Monte Carlo. Man with the chalk, just another mug.
Lemon was alongside Bump and when the deal reached Lemon, Billy asked for a new deck. If Bump, who would deal next, had been marking cards, beveling them, nicking edges, waiting for his time to handle them again, then the new deck would wipe out his work. Coming at Lemon’s deal, the request would also not point to Bump. But it did rattle Lemon, which was always nice.
“New deck, and you’re winning?” Lemon said.
“Double my luck,” Billy said.
“You think maybe Lemon knows something?” Footers O’Brien asked, and everybody laughed but Lemon. No mechanic, Lemon. Last man in town you’d accuse of cheating. A hound dog around the rackets all his life and he never learned how the game was played.
“Lemon shuffles like my mother when she deals Go Fish to my ten-year-old nephew,” Billy said.
Lemon dealt the new cards, delivering aces wired to Billy.
“Ace bets,” said Lemon, and when Billy bet five dollars, Bump, Morrie, and Nick all folded. Footers, a retired vaudevillian who sang Jolson tunes at local minstrel shows, stayed with a king. Lemon stayed with a queen.
On the third card nobody improved. Billy drew an eight and bet again with the ace. Lemon raised and so Billy read him for queens wired, because Lemon rarely bluffed. Footers called with king and jack showing, so probably he had a pair too. Footers wouldn’t chase a pair. Too good a player. But whatever either of them had, Billy had them beat.
On the fourth card, Billy paired the eights. Aces and eights now. Neither Lemon nor Footers looked like they improved. Very unlikely. Yet both called, even when Billy bet $20. We can beat your eights, Billy.
Footers’s last card was a seven, which didn’t help, and Lemon drew a spade, which gave him three spades up. The bet was still to Billy’s eights, but before he could bet them, Lemon turned over his hole card and showed the four flush.
“Can you beat it, boys?” he asked, smiling sunbeams.
“Only with a stick,” Footers said, and he folded his jacks.
“I bet forty dollars,” Billy said.
His hand, showing, was ace, seven and the pair of eights.