“Sure thing, Judge,” I covered up with a ready grin. “But I couldn’t leave it at home, now could I? Want to give me a hat check?” I unbuttoned the coat and handed him the gun.
His blue eyes sparkled. He hefted it, examined it, balanced it, squinted along the barrel and turned an admiring eye on me.
“That’s a mighty fine item, Jack, a mighty fine item.”
“I take it you like guns.”
“Own a beautiful collection of them, Jack, beautiful. One of my items once belonged to William Bonny.”
“Bonny? Who’s he?”
“Billy the Kid, Jack. The Kid himself. I don’t believe Pat Garrett ever caught up with him, Jack. The biographer didn’t do the boy justice.” He balanced the gun again with a skilled hand. “A mighty fine item. Made in Sweden.”
“And a Christmas present,” I informed him.
“It’ll be here when you’re ready to go back downtown, Jack. I won’t forget you.”
“As you say, Judge.” I took off my overcoat and draped it over my arm. Acting on the following thought, I reached in and unbuckled the holster and handed that to him, too. The small bulge in the suit was gone.
The Judge gave out with a full smile and pushed open the inner door for me. I stepped into a well-lit, tastefully decorated gambling room about one-third filled with men. And completely apologized to the doll for my thoughts.
No one paid any attention to me.
The ceiling held great clusters of blue-white lights, while smaller and purely decorative lamps were placed about the walls. There was only the one big room occupying the full length and width of the barn. The moderately high ceiling, with probably another large room above, was laid across heavy beams ten or twelve feet above my head. Without having to ask I knew the barn was sound and light-proof.
Numbered wooden pegs for hats and coats ran along three sides of the room. A small bar, sparingly patronized, and a slim staircase occupied the fourth wall. Over everything was a pleasant drone of concentrated conversation.
I hung my hat and coat on a peg numbered 63 and looked around for a poker table.
There were several of them at the end opposite the bar. No one was using chips or silver money: all bills. The poker table nearest me had three players and two empty chairs. I stopped behind one of the chairs.
“Room for one more?”
The house man was a friendly-faced young guy dressed in a neat gray business suit and nothing to suggest the professional gambler. He glanced up at me and smiled a welcome.
“Sit in, sir. Always welcome. A dollar is the limit here. If you want to go higher, try the other tables.”
“A dollar is good enough.” I pulled out a chair and sat down. The green cloth covering on the table was smooth under my fingers. “Break a twenty?”
He counted out the singles while I was giving the two other players casual glances. They were both unknown to me although I might have seen them here or there downtown. Strictly local talent and a good deal of chump in their make-up. Their interest in me went as far as a glance into my face and into my wallet.
The house man was dealing when I sat in. He gave me a pair of sixes and three unrelated stinkers. I tossed the stinkers away, followed the opener’s example by putting a dollar into the pot, and called for three cards. This time I drew a pair of nines and a trey. I said nuts, but hung on.
It cost me four dollars more to discover one of the local chumps held a full house, and I wondered who was the chump. A half hour later I was still wondering, but in a different direction. The game wasn’t proceeding in the expected direction.
For some reason the house man wasn’t plying his trade. By that I mean he apparently had no policy, or the establishment was one hundred percent on the level — which wasn’t believable. Some of these places let you win until you have a sizeable stack in front of you plus a devil-may-care, “hell, I’m winning!” attitude in your thick skull, and then they promptly and efficiently take you to the cleaners before you can realize your mistake and get out.
The other breed prefer to play it easy, winning a hand and losing a hand, but in the course of an evening always managing to win twice for every loss. You never know what a chump you are until the night is over and your bankroll has dwindled to the point where you have just enough money left to ride a streetcar home — maybe.
This easygoing young man was practicing neither. He stayed right along with us; if anyone had an edge it was the yokel who had won the first pot. I sat on the front of my chair waiting for the tide to turn in favor of the house but it never did. And after three hours I quit, five dollars the richer. The house man said good-bye and invited me to drop back whenever I felt like it.
I said thanks.
After that I wandered around the room, just looking. I had one drink at the bar; they served good rum but asked a fancy price. The place was nearly full and a few women had appeared, mostly middle-aged and jaded creatures who had money to throw away and did it for the hell of things.
By and by I tumbled to the fact that a character was behind me. I suddenly recalled that he had been behind me for a long time but I hadn’t so pointedly noticed him.
The easiest way out was to confront him.
“Want to see me?” I asked him pleasantly.
He took it in his stride without so much as moving a facial muscle. Not that his face was any too pleasant to look it. It wasn’t; it had a knife scar from ear to lips. There was no hint of a threat and he kept his hands out of his pockets. He stood, however, between me and the door where I had parked my “item.”
“Will you step upstairs with me, sir?”
“Upstairs?”
“Yes sir. The manager’s office.”
“Trouble?”
“Oh no, sir. The manager is merely — curious.”
There was nothing to do but go up. Some doubt existed in my mind as to my being able to go anywhere else. Here and there a house man was “disinterestedly” watching us. I turned for the stairs and he followed along behind. The door at the top was standing open when we reached it. I walked through it but the knife-scarred character remained outside, pulling the door shut behind me.
A tall, robustly-built and devilishly handsome gent attired in an impeccable tuxedo arose from behind a polished, ornate desk. The desk seemed a mile wide. The devilish gentleman was all smiles and cheerfulness and actually put out a hand to shake mine.
I thought I recognized him, was certain I had seen him somewhere before. Put him in an office building downtown and he could pass for a prosperous doctor, lawyer or insurance salesman.
“Nice evening?” he asked when we were seated.
I said that it was, and mentioned the five dollars.
“That’s fine,” he agreed. “We like our guests to enjoy themselves. We want them to come back.”
“Indeed?” I put faint irony into it.
“Yes, yes indeed.” He chose to ignore the irony. “We have many regular guests here, ladies and gentlemen who come in several evenings a week.”
“That’s most interesting. And profitable.” I wondered when he was going to pop the question. He was merely prefacing now.
“Oh, very. We like to take the best of care of these customers, sir. A businesslike administration, you know. We like to treat them as our guests because they wish to feel that they are our guests. Mutual protection, you understand. We’ve even assigned our regular guests numbers by which they are known. Naturally, no names are ever mentioned. Each guest has his own number, his own peg. You follow me?”
I was away ahead of him. He had popped.