“Well how d’ya like that?” demanded Sabine, offended.
“I like it,” said Henri. He tapped the chip twice on the table in acknowledgment, pocketed it, squeezed Sabine’s hand as she slid her next bet forward. “Kid has class, you must admit.”
She pulled the hand back. “Are you coppin’ a feel?”
“You come sleep in my room, and you say I’m coppin’ a feel? Jesus Christ!”
“Anyone I’ve met or slept with?”
Henri shook his head as if in pity, said to Dunc, “It’s always and only sex with her. Sex with any man comes along.”
“Or with a goat. Or a dog. Maybe I’ll try a pony one of these nights.”
“You got one nasty mouth on you, Sabine.”
Dunc turned away from the nearly physical scent of sexual arousal that rose off their bantering like the too-heavy fragrance of massed funeral flowers.
“Just deal the goddamn cards, Henri my pet,” said Sabine behind him. “Save the hardnose until you’re off-shift, so I can get something stiff shoved up me tonight.”
Chapter Ten
The Gladiator’s poker room was tricked out as an old-time western saloon. Harsh yellow electric light from fake candles set around a fake wagon wheel suspended by real chains above the round deal table gave the players’ faces highlights with rich brown shadows. The wallpaper was whorehouse red flock, the ceiling was decorated tin squares.
Nitro Ned Davenport’s big left hand held his cards close to his chest as his right hand fanned them cautiously. His hulking shoulders drew taut lines in his black silk shirt. He looked up.
“The question is — who’s lyin’ an’ who’s dyin’?”
Davenport’s voice rumbled deep from the vast cavern of his chest, fuzzed like bad radio reception by countless blows to the windpipe. Scar tissue shone above his heavy brows. He was thirty-three years old, on the far slope of his career.
“You gotta show ’em to know ’em, Ned,” said Carny Largo in a lazy, insolent voice. He was a slender man with a neat, carefully trimmed mustache.
Ned slid chips into the center of the table. “Fifty.”
The door across the room was shoved open by a husky black-haired kid backing in with a tray of drinks.
“Private game, Jim,” said Largo with an unpleasant smile.
“See,” said Gimpy Ernest, pushing in chips. He was a heavy man with graying, wavy hair, full lips, a pouty chin, heavy-lidded eyes.
The kid had kept coming. Largo demanded in astonishment, “Who the fuck is this guy?” and snapped, “Rafe,” to a diminutive rat-faced man who was sitting between Gimpy Ernest and the only woman in the game. Rafe started to get up.
Nitro Ned rumbled, “We’re playin’ a hand of poker here.”
Rafe hesitated, looked at Largo, looked at Davenport, then sank resentfully back into his chair. He was barely five feet tall. Beady eyes were close-set on either side of a high-bridged nose too big for his face. His midnight-blue double-breasted suit coat hung open; it had a vertical chalk-mark design.
Dunc brought his tray into the circle of light. Ned offered a huge paw. “You the kid Lucius was tellin’ me about?”
“I guess I am. Pierce Duncan? People call me Dunc.”
“Dunc’s gonna be out to the ranch, helpin’ me train.”
Everyone looked surprised, Dunc most of alclass="underline" Lucius Breen had just said to look up Ned Davenport at the Gladiator, that he played poker there most afternoons. Nothing about the kind of job he could never have dreamed about. Excitement, powerful as an adrenaline rush, rose up in him.
Gimpy Ernest began, “Ned, we don’t know nothing about this guy. What if—”
“If Lucius sent him, he’s okay,” said Carny Largo. He chose ten chips from his stack, slid them into the center of the table. The sleeves of his crisp cream-colored cowboy shirt were rolled back two turns. “See you and bump you another fifty.”
“I can’t beat Ned, I can’t beat Ernest, I can’t beat Rafe, I can’t beat Carny,” complained the woman. “Who can I beat?”
She folded her hand and turned sideways to cross long exquisite thighs. They were encased in sheer black hose, displayed halfway to her hips by a one-piece dress of midnight-blue satin, shimmery, clingy. Her opaque nail polish and eye shadow were also midnight-blue. She was stunningly beautiful without being pretty, caught Dunc’s stare, winked at him.
“Rafe?” said Carny. “Hundred to you.”
Rafe’s glittering rodent’s eyes were locked on the woman’s crossed thighs as if they enfolded paradise. He tossed in his hand without another look at the cards.
Gimpy Ernest picked up a lighted cigarette from the closed folder of paper matches he was using as an ashtray, sucked it greedily. From what he had said, he had to be the big fighter’s manager. After studying his hand, he dropped out.
“With Artis already out, that leaves just us, Ned.”
Nitro Ned checked the cards tight against his chest again, looked over at Artis. She blew him a silent and ironic kiss. He took the kiss as reassurance; the irony seemed to escape him.
“I see you,” he told Carny.
As he was tossing another fifty into the pot, Dunc handed out the drinks. Carny was bourbon and water, as was Artis. Gimpy was the boilermaker. Rafe wasn’t drinking. The plain black coffee, not so hot now, went to Ned Davenport; a spilled previous cup had left a dark stain on the felt by his elbow.
Davenport had jacks full, but Carny Largo had a straight flush. Ned sighed and tossed his hand into the discard.
“Chicken feed,” he said.
Carny pulled in his winnings. He looked like a casino dealer, but couldn’t be: house men never bet the hands.
“Jacks full were good for any hand tonight — until this one. You never allow a margin for error, Ned.”
“Back to the ranch, Ned,” said Gimpy abruptly. His maroon raglan sport shirt had no shoulder seams and dark moons under the arms. “Tomorrow you gotta look sharp, the press’s going to be around to watch you spar with Jantzen. If they knew he’d got a decision on you once—”
“Nobody knows that,” chuckled Ned complacently. “If it had of happened, we woulda been fightin’ a long time ago and a long ways from here under two different names. Who’s dealin’?”
“And what’s wild?” asked Carny with a grin.
“Whores, fours, and one-eyed jacks,” said Artis promptly.
Dark hair was pulled severely back from her face to show small ears with dangly gold and blue-stone earrings. Her complexion and predatory eyes were dark, her nose was bold, her wide mouth unexpectedly sensuous. Dunc was still breathless.
Ned rumbled, “You know damn well there ain’t ever gonna be anything wild in any poker game I’m in.”
“Really?” she laughed, then added, “Guts,” and began dealing with blazing speed.
Ned said, “Dunc, have Nicky give you a drink on my tab. You can ride out to the ranch with me when I go.”
As he left, Artis was saying derisively, “Rah-fay-e-lay, quit trying to see up my skirt and put up your ante...”
Now the tables in the gaming room were jammed, the slots whirring and clanking, the noise level deafening. Shrieks came from a group of women playing the wheel of fortune. Sabine was nowhere to be seen, but Henri was still dealing blackjack, his bow tie now in place. They exchanged grins.
All the bar tables were taken by couples and foursomes. The fat man and Lana Turner were elsewhere. Cigarette smoke fogged the lights. Three waitresses in short, bright, sexy one-piece costumes flitted around the room like butterflies, bringing drinks from the bar or food from the kitchen.