The gambler studied the man in buckskins. He was convinced the blond man was a country bumpkin, and he was determined to show the upstart how the game of poker was played by a real pro. “You’re not bluffing me, mister. I’ll match your five hundred.”
Hickok watched the gambler slide five hundred to the center of the table.
“What do you have?” the gambler asked belligerently.
Hickok laid his cards on the table, face up. “Read ’em and weep, sucker.”
The gambler looked like he was choking. He turned crimson and sputtered, then dropped his hand on the table in disgust.
Hickok reached out and claimed the pot. “Stick around. I’ll give you some lessons on how to play this game.” He grinned at the recollection of the many hours he’d spent playing card games at the Home. Rummy. Gin.
Pinochle. Poop on Your Neighbor. Fish. Poker. Many others. The Family members never actually gambled; they played for the sheer fun of playing.
And as an avid student of the Old West, Hickok’s favorite game was poker.
“Damn you!” the gambler suddenly barked. He stood, shoving his chair backwards.
The spectators scurried away from the table.
“You shouldn’t gamble if you’re a poor loser,” Hickok remarked.
“You son of a bitch!” the gambler spat out. He swept the right flap of his coat aside, revealing a Charter Arms Bulldog revolver in a holster on his right hip. “On your feet!”
Hickok slowly rose, his hands resting on the table. “If you apologize, real nice like, you’ll live to play cards again some day.”
The gambler snorted contemptuously. “Apologize! You can kiss my ass first!”
“I wouldn’t touch your butt with a brandin’ iron,” Hickok retorted.
A new voice intruded on their dispute. “Hold it right there!” Giorgio’s right-hand man, Kenney, hurried up to the table. “Murphy, you’ve been warned about your temper before!” he admonished the gambler. “And you know the rules. No gunplay.”
“Hang the rules!” Murphy declared. “This is between him and me!”
“The Don will not appreciate this,” Kenney noted.
“I’m not backing down to this hick!” Murphy said angrily.
Hickok’s blue eyes became flinty. “Are you going to pull your iron, or are you aimin’ to insult me to death?”
Murphy went for his revolver, his right hand sweeping down and up in a practiced draw, a draw he’d employed on 14 occasions to kill a foe. He was leveling the barrel when he was shocked to see twin Colts materialize in the hick’s hands.
Hickok fired both Pythons, the Magnums thundering. The heavy slugs bored into the gambler’s face, making cavities of his cheeks, and blew out the rear of his cranium.
Murphy was hurled to the floor, his body landing spread-eagled.
Chunks of flesh and bits of hair dotted the carpet around him.
Kenney gazed at the dead gambler. “Murphy had quite a rep,” he commented, then looked at the Warrior. “And you beat him.”
Hickok twirled the Pythons into their holsters. “Piece of cake.”
“You have a knack for racking up a body count,” Kenney remarked.
“If some coyote is plannin’ to perforate me,” Hickok noted, “I don’t intend to oblige them.”
“We’ll clean up the mess,” Kenney offered. “How are you fixed? Do you want more chips?”
“No,” Hickok said, glancing at the stakes he had won. “I already have a heap.” He picked up the Henry and slung it over his back.
“Looks to me like you have over five thousand there,” Kenney said as he scrutinized the piles on the table. “Do you want me to cash them for you?”
Hickok shrugged. “Why not. I’ll mosey around the casino.” He ambled off, heading for the slot machines. What should he play next? He’d spent the afternoon at various card games, capped off by his three-hour poker match. Boredom was setting in. He couldn’t understand how folks could spend so much time gambling. Playing cards at the Home for the sheer fun of it was one thing, but gambling was entirely different. When a person played for money, when valuables were at stake, the game lost its entertaining, recreational quality. Instead, a simple, relaxing pastime became a serious business of winning at all costs. The gambler had epitomized such an attitude; to Murphy, winning was everything, even at the cost of his life.
A middle-aged couple was playing one of the slots.
Hickok stopped and watched them. He casually scanned the casino, searching for his tail.
Fifteen yards away a young mobster in a beige suit was gazing overhead at a chandelier as if the fixture was the most interesting item in the universe.
Hickok grinned and walked over to the hit man. “Howdy.”
The young mobster was clearly ruffled by this unexpected development.
He looked at the Warrior, blinking rapidly, then up at the chandelier.
“Cat got your tongue?” Hickok asked. “I said howdy.”
“Hi,” the man replied. He had black hair and dark eyes.
“Would you do me a favor?” Hickok inquired. “Would you find Kenney and get some tokens for me? I’d like to play the slot machines for a spell.”
The mobster stared at the gunman. “I’m not your servant.”
“No, but you have been shadowin’ me,” Hickok said.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the man responded.
“And I was born yesterday,” Hickok cracked. “Look, we both know you’ve been tailin’ me, and you must be gettin’ as bored as I am if you’re admirin’ the lights. Don Giorgio told me I could have anything I wanted, and I want some tokens. I promise I’ll stay right here until you return.”
Although no one was within ten feet of them, the mobster lowered his voice. “But you’re not supposed to know I’m following you!”
“Darn! Now you tell me!” Hickok said.
“If Kenney finds out you made me, I’m in hot water,” the mobster divulged.
“I won’t tell if you don’t,” Hickok pledged. “Now what about the tokens?”
“I’m not to let you out of my sight,” the mobster said.
“I’m thinkin’ of payin’ Don Pucci’s place a visit later,” Hickok commented innocently. “You certainly can’t follow me over there.”
“Mister, my orders are to stick with you like glue,” the mobster disclosed. “Where you go, I go.”
“What if I have to tinkle?” Hickok queried.
“Then I’ll tinkle too,” the mobster replied.
Hickok started to turn, pleased at the confirmation of his suspicion concerning the men assigned to shadow him. They would tail him if he left the Palace, which meant he had to lose them before leaving. And there was one more thing he needed to know. He gazed at the mobster. “I hope I didn’t do anything to get you in trouble with your head honchos,” he said with sincerity. “I know they’re watchin’ us on hidden cameras.”
The mobster glanced around nervously. “Don Giorgio and Kenney don’t spend all their time watching the monitor. Internal surveillance is conducted by Security from the Security Office. There’s a hookup in the Don’s office which he can tap into whenever he wants. But Kenney is working the floor, and the Don might not be watching.”
“Then I’d best be gettin’ along,” Hickok said. He walked off, observing the patrons, calculating. He doubted the cameras would be trained on him the whole time. The tails were expected to keep an eye on him. If he could shake the shadows, and if he could leave the casino and head upstairs without the cameras observing him, he stood a good chance of locating another exit from the building. The front entrance was too risky. The Don was bound to have it covered.
But how could he get upstairs without causing a ruckus?