Fiction River: Risk Takers, page 9
When she’d laid down the king of spades for the banker and the seven of hearts for the punters a moment ago, she knew his copper—a token indicating that the punter had reversed his bet on a card—had been resting on the queen. But now it sat on the king, neat as you please.
She was pretty sure this blackleg had switched his copper bet at least twice in the flurry of payouts and collections after the banker and player cards were drawn. Jessamine even knew how he was doing it. However, her suspicion couldn’t interrupt the game—at least, not until she was positive. And for that, she needed another witness.
As she paid his bet off, she slid her foot, hidden under her emerald green silk and taffeta dress, over to tap her lookout’s leg twice, indicating that he should watch the second person from the left end.
Tonight, her faro lookout was a steely-eyed, bald-headed bullet of a man named Charlie Timmons, who served as a general bouncer and roustabout for the Comstock House. Well dressed in a brocaded black vest, starched white shirt, and pinstriped woolen trousers that hid his broad shoulders and corded muscles, his gimlet glare was often enough to stop impending trouble before it got out of hand. Smoothing his handlebar mustache, he tapped her foot once, indicating that he’d gotten the message.
“All bets down, gentlemen?” Jessamine asked, raising her voice to carry over the general buzz of conversation, laughter, and occasional cussing that arose after a hand was played at her or one of the other gambling tables throughout the main salon. When there was no more action forthcoming—and she noted that the man’s copper had been moved off the table—Jessamine smiled and pulled two cards.
And with every play, she tried to stay calm as she thought up and discarded idea after idea to get her brother and herself out of their current predicament.
Around her table, the Comstock House, named after the rich silver lode that had put Virginia City, Nevada, on the map almost overnight, was booming that evening, as usual. The premier saloon in the city, in a handful of years it had grown from a crude, one-room gambling house to the finest drinkery around. It was one of the few places to have carpeted floors and real wallpaper—pale green with a gold fleur-de-lys pattern—that lent a civilized air to the main room. Shining brass candelabras overhead held dozens of glass-fluted oil lamps, casting their golden glow on more than a hundred people packed into the large, hot, smoke-filled main saloon every night. The wide, mahogany bar, topped with white marble, stretched almost the entire length of the room. It was stocked with every kind of liquor created by man, and tended by bartenders that could mix any requested drink, from a whiskey sour to claret sangarees and champagne flips. They kept an eye on the often boisterous clientele with the aid of three large, gilt-framed mirrors behind the bar.
On the other side, packed two and three deep, was a veritable who’s who of the city, many who had come here to get rich off the mining, or the related activities and businesses that sprang up alongside it. Well-heeled mine owners, businessmen, ranchers, politicians, and bankers, all of whom came to drink, eat, smoke, brag, and gamble.
That last part was where Jessamine and her brother, Grant, came in. They made their living traveling from bustling city to boomtown, dealing whatever game of chance was most in demand. A sharp poker player, lately she’d been dealing faro—and it was a big part of the sticky situation they both found themselves in at the moment.
Imported from Europe, faro featured the best player odds of any game of chance around. It was simple and fast; the table held a printed spread of cards from ace to king. Any number of players, or “punters,” put their bets down on one or more cards. When all bets were in, the dealer drew two cards. The “banker’s card,” placed to the right of the shoe, meant the house won all bets on that card. The carte anglaise, or “player’s card,” was placed to the left of the shoe, and any punter who bet on that card doubled their money.
Punters could also reverse any of their wagers by placing a six-sided “copper” on a selected card, betting that it would match the banker’s card instead. They could also bet that the player’s card would be a higher value than the banker’s card. After the winners and losers were collected and paid, all other bets remained on the board, either to ride or be altered as each punter saw fit.
Simple in theory, but with a half-dozen people crowded around the table and an average of two pulls per minute, play was fast and furious, and hundreds of dollars could pass back and forth in an evening, even with relatively small table limits.
Because faro played so quickly, a table was often manned by three people. The dealer dealt the cards and collected and paid out bets. The second person was the “coffin driver” who manned the casekeep, an abacus-like device that tracked which cards had already been played, allowing the punters to plan their bets accordingly. Tonight, Jess’s keeper was Harlan Crommett, a white-haired, stoop-shouldered man who smoked abominably smelly cheroots. For crowded games like hers, a third person—in this case, Charlie—served as general lookout for cheaters and other shenanigans.
The game itself wasn’t the only draw, either. As one of the few professional women gamblers in the West, Jessamine was practically guaranteed a table anywhere she chose to set up shop, the theory being that she gave the players something else to watch besides the cards. Naturally, she was always dressed to the nines and made up perfectly, and often flirted with the men on the other side of the table to distract them. After all, given faro’s small odds, the house needed every advantage it could get.
Tonight was no different. Her elegant, deep-green dress fell to her knees, with just enough décolletage showing to ensure that the punters would have a difficult time keeping their minds entirely on the action. Her chestnut brown hair was done up in curls that swept across her head and cascaded down the right side of her face. An onyx beaded choker and matching black lace gloves completed the ensemble.
She set the drawn cards down—a pair of tens, spades for the dealer and hearts for the punters. “L’une pour l’autre,” she announced, using the French term that translated as “one for the other.” Otherwise known as a split, it was the house’s only real advantage in the game, and meant she took half of all the bets on that card, which were sizable, as they had almost reached the bottom of the deck. A groan also rose from the table as the banker, who’d bet heavily on the high card, lost a sizable stack of chips.
It had been a good night so far, with the house up about fifty percent—and she hadn’t had to resort to cheating yet, either. If the table kept running the house’s way, hopefully she wouldn’t have to. Although Jessamine knew every sharper’s trick in the book—and several that weren’t—she prided herself on playing an honest game…unless she was facing her brother.
A glance at Harlan’s casekeep showed they were down to the last three cards. “Any of you gentlemen care to call the turn?” she asked. The question referred to an optional bet on the exact order in which the last three cards would be dealt. As the odds of getting it right were five to one, that was the payout for the lucky player who predicted it correctly.
Two players bit, and the cheater was back in as well, reversing his standing bet on the queen of diamonds and placing a second smaller one on the jack of spades, which, along with a two of hearts, were the last three cards. Jessamine kept a hooded eye on the copper over the queen as she drew. The banker held the jack and the player held the deuce, with the queen the final card out.
Neither turn-caller had gotten it right, and as Jessamine swept their bets across the table, she saw the copper flit from the queen to the jack all by itself, as if by magic.
It wasn’t, of course—simply a technique of affixing a green thread to the copper by sweat or spit. With a bit of practice, a punter could move it from one card to another without touching it, and leave no evidence of rigging the bet in the first place. The copper switch was a common but risky cheat in faro—since it was fairly noticeable, a blackleg could only use it when the action around the table got heavy.
Unfortunately, this particular cheater’s run of luck had just come to an abrupt end. Charlie rose from his chair and circled around the table until he was standing behind the man, who was about to receive his winnings on the queen. But as he leaned forward to rake in his chips, a heavy hand landed on his shoulder, squeezing it in a grip of iron.
“The Comstock House doesn’t take kindly to folks trying to line their pockets at its expense,” the bouncer hissed into the man’s ear. “Now, this can go down one of two ways. The first way is you leave all your money on the table, get up right now, walk through those doors, and never come back here again. The second way is you try to do something foolish, and I haul you out back and break all your fingers so you never cheat anywhere again. So, what’s it gonna be?”
While Charlie talked, his fingers squeezed tighter and tighter on the man’s collarbone, until his knuckles were white. The man’s face had also turned pale as snow, and he was trying not to grimace by the time the bouncer finished. “All right—all right, I’ll go! Just leggo, ’fore you break my damn shoulder!”
“You got thirty seconds to get gone.” Charlie held his vice-grip a few more seconds while he pulled out his gold pocket watch. “Starting…now.”
He released the man, who shot up out of his chair so fast it almost tipped over. He shoved through the crowd without looking back, scattering saloon girls and patrons both, and leaving a trail of curses in his wake. Less than twenty seconds had elapsed before he was through the front door and into the August heat outside.
As Jessamine swept up the man’s chips, the saloon’s owner, Vincent Tigretti, appeared at the table as if by magic, his pomaded, coal-black hair glistening in the lamplight. Like the other saloon employees, he was dressed in the standard uniform of a crisp, long-sleeved white shirt with sleeve garters, double-breasted vest, and suspenders holding up his dress trousers. The owner’s only difference was that he wore a string tie around his neck instead of the standard bow tie.
“What happened?” he asked, his muddy, brown eyes sweeping over everyone, but lingering on Jessamine. Repressing her shudder, she busied herself with opening the shoe to insert the deck of cards as he stared at her.
“Caught a blackleg trying to skin the house,” Charlie said while raking the other punters with his ice-blue gaze, letting them know he was watching their play closely as well. “Gave him the huckleberry and sent him packing.”
“Good. Everything good here, Miss Hardesty?” he asked, waiting until she was forced to look up at him.
“Just fine, Mr. Tigretti,” she replied evenly. “Charlie swept that hustler out nice and neat.”
“Good. You just make sure to keep the game moving, all right?” he stated.
“Yes, sir,” she replied, dropping her gaze again.
“God damn it!” A shout from the poker table in the middle of the room turned several heads toward it. A red-faced, obviously drunk man slouched behind a small stack of chips, staring venomously at the slight, blond-haired man who had just raked in an impressive pot with long, dexterous fingers. “You have the devil’s own luck, sir!” he thundered.
The smaller man shrugged as he stacked his winnings in front of him. “Guess it’s just my night, Mr. Gartner.”
Jessamine tried not to react in any obvious way to the scene. The losing man was Chauncey Gartner, president of the Bank of California’s branch office here. The winner was her brother Grant, and a better card sharp she had never seen. The only problem was that he tended to press his luck during high-stakes games. That was how they’d gotten caught cheating three weeks ago. It was also why they were both prisoners here, working for the house indefinitely.
When operating by themselves, Jessamine and Grant had a routine they’d polished over years of dealing. One of them, usually her, would head into a town and hire herself out to a saloon for a few days or weeks to get the lay of the land. Later, Grant would arrive, often by a different conveyance, and play the part of an inept gambler or straight-up tinhorn. Once he’d lost enough to establish himself as such, he’d go on a one-night winning streak courtesy of Jessamine. Once they had taken as much as they could, they’d leave town that same evening, usually separately, sometimes together. Between them, they were able to make enough to live comfortably while traveling throughout the West. Occasionally they would take on a third man to increase their take, but they often worked alone, since a third person was often as much trouble as advantage.
But in Virginia City, their luck had gone bad the moment they’d arrived. Grant had been running his usual poker game, but had tried to cheat one of the regulars who had already been cheating the others. It didn’t take long for them to figure out that Jessamine was in cahoots with him once Vincent discerned that they were siblings.
They were given a choice: deal for the Comstock House—cheating whenever it was more profitable—or go to jail. Knowing it was easier to escape a saloon than prison, they’d agreed.
But escape had been impossible so far, as Vincent guarded them even more closely than he watched the main room. They had been stripped of their money and valuables, and were forced to give up all earnings to the house in exchange for room and board. Jessamine was so tightly watched that the one time she’d tried to palm a five-dollar gold eagle tip, Charlie had squeezed her wrist so hard her bones had creaked. It had been almost impossible to deal that night, but she’d managed. Even now, the fading bruises were visible beneath her lace glove.
“Best go see what that’s about.” Quickly turning to the remaining punters, Vincent’s calculating stare was replaced by a friendly-looking smile that didn’t even come close to his eyes. “Sorry for the interruption, gentlemen. Let me buy you all a round on the house for the inconvenience.” His announcement was met with nods and pleased agreement from the rest of the table. “Chair’s open at the faro table!” he announced to the room as he headed over to the poker table. Along the way, he caught the arm of one of the floor girls and nodded at Jessamine’s table.
“I’ll play a hand or two, if the lady permits.”
The voice made Jessamine look up, and only long practice kept her from revealing her surprise at who was standing on the other side of the table. It was her ex-partner and ex-lover, Stephen Chandler.
He looked very different from the last time she had seen him—just before he headed into Abilene nine months ago. He was to be their lead man that time, but when Grant and Jessamine came in two days later by stagecoach, they found him long gone. One of the bar girls said a big fight had broken out the night before, with Stephen apparently getting caught cheating, and fleeing town with his pockets full of cash and the sheriff hot on his tail.
They’d waited in town for three days, careful not to cheat anyone, but when the sheriff came back empty-handed, they moved on to the next town as planned and waited for Stephen. After a few weeks, Jessamine and Grant agreed that he was either dead or he’d deserted them, both scenarios dismaying her intensely. Regardless, they caught the next train west to start dealing again.
Now here he was, big as life, and her heart skipped a beat as she suppressed the urge to kiss him, or slap him, or maybe do both. He was leaner than she remembered, dressed in a rough, sweat-stained homespun shirt and patched, dusty canvas trousers, like he’d been mining. His cheeks were hollow, and covered with a three-day growth of stubble, but his green eyes were as sharp as ever, and his intent gaze brought a flush to her cheeks.
To mask her surprise, she swept up the cards and shuffled them, making the brightly-striped tiger on the back of each seem to wink at her as the cards riffled through her fingers. As she did, she wondered how he’d found them—and what he was planning to do now that he was here. For a brief moment, hope rose in her breast—did he come here for us? If so, Stephen could be the answer to her prayers. After all, it couldn’t be coincidence that he was here…was it?
As he sat down at the table, the banker to his right sniffed at his odor and frowned at him. “You sure you got the stake to buy-in, young man?”
Stephen pulled a thick roll of banknotes from his pocket and slapped them on the table. “I think this’ll be enough, don’t you, ma’am?”
The table’s drinks arrived, and the men took their glasses. Meanwhile, Jess reached for the roll and swiftly counted the large bills out for all to see—two hundred dollars. “That is plenty, sir.”
As she pushed his stack of chips over, she noticed his right hand resting flat on the table. It was a tell, part of the unspoken list of physical signals the three of them had worked out during their time together. She remembered the other things those slender, strong fingers could do, and shaking her head minutely, refocused on the situation at hand.
Is this on the level? he was asking.
As she pulled her hands back, she tucked the fingers of her left hand into a fist for a second, answering: No.
She looked up into his steady stare and smiled. “You’re going to make me blush if you keep on looking at me that way, sir.”
“Oh…” Stephen dropped his gaze to the table. “Beg your pardon, ma’am. It’s just, I don’t often get to see a lady like yourself in my line of work.” He smiled shyly and lifted his head just enough to meet her gaze again. “You’re just so pretty…if I had the money, I’d sweep you right on up and out of here if I could.”
Jess smiled demurely. “Well, sir, perhaps tonight will be your lucky night.” He was up to something—the remark about taking her away was proof. She just wasn’t sure exactly how he planned to work it.
With all bets down, Jess burned the first card and began dealing. The first half-dozen hands went smoothly, with the house losing a bit, augmented by the banker trying to recoup his loss on the high card bet and failing twice more.
The only interruption came from the poker table, where Mr. Gartner was talking more and more loudly about his run of bad luck. Stephen caught a floor girl’s eye and ordered a round for the man’s table. With a puzzled look, she did as she was told.
