Black Hats, page 23
“Thanks, honey,” Al said to her, and she smiled at him, lots of teeth and fluttery bedroom eyes, bosom half out of her dress and not a bad bosom at that, for a frill pushing forty. “I hear you put on a real good show.”
“You’ll have to catch one of my shows sometime, sugar,” she said.
She took him warmly by the arm and walked him a short distance into the little front room filled mostly with a big round green-felt-topped poker table. Every chair but the one with its back to an unlighted fireplace with a painting of a naked broad over it was already filled.
Nobody rose when he entered, but everyone nodded and said hello.
Johnny Holliday, seated dead opposite that open chair, turned to look at Al and say, “Glad you decided to come around. Welcome.”
The cocky guy, half-turned in his chair, stuck out a hand for Al to shake, which he did.
“I ain’t one to hold no grudge,” Al said. And gave his host a great big friendly smile.
In his mind, Al pictured himself slashing that thin, pretty blue-eyed puss with a razor, blood flying, strips of skin flapping. But instead he ambled around the table to the empty chair and settled in.
He recognized all but one of his fellow players, a lanky bored-looking ghee immediately to Al’s left, who introduced himself as “Mizner,” and wore a tux, looking a little like a head waiter.
To Capone’s left was Earp, in undertaker black and a black string tie, the whiteness of the man’s mustache and hair in the grooved, pale face making a striking contrast with the dark attire. For an old goat, Earp had a kind of commanding air about him.
Next to Earp was that sportswriter peacock Damon Runyon, in a green suit with a darker green necktie with emerald stickpin and lighter green suspenders against an even lighter green shirt. Maybe the dude thought all that green would attract money. Deadpan, in wirerim glasses, the columnist had a cigarette drooping in his thin lips, a tray nearby with two cigs already crushed out. This oddball had introduced himself to Capone at a fight at the Garden, and they’d spoken a few times since, though truth be told Runyon had a way of making you do all the talking.
Next to Runyon, and right across from Capone, was their host. Johnny Holliday wore a cream-color suit with a pastel yellow shirt and a rust-color tie with a diamond stickpin. He had a smirky way that was already getting under Al’s skin, though he’d said nothing disrespectful and, tell the truth, seemed friendly, or anyway that was the front he was putting on.
Beside Holliday was Masterson, who wore a dark gray suit and a black bow tie, and was wearing his derby at a tilt, the only man at the table in a hat. Al would gladly feed that fucking derby to the old man, patrons at the Harvard Inn having reported this geezer clubbing Al with his cane, after that smug prick Holliday cut him.
Finally, next to Masterson, was Arnold Rothstein, a mild-looking prematurely gray character of maybe forty, with a bland oval face and a gray pallor, though his eyes, dark brown and shining, spoke of smarts. His suit was a nice enough brown job, but was maybe off the rack, and his bow tie was the same dark brown as his eyes. Nothing impressive about the guy, on first look, a small, slim if paunchy character; that this was the city’s Great Go-between seemed not just unlikely but impossible.
Could this milksop really be the guy politicians went to, when they needed something from gamblers or gangsters? Or who the so-called underworld called on to line up protection from prosecutors and judges and cops?
Crazy as it seemed, Al knew this to be straight.
When doing business in Manhattan, Al had the habit, like so many of his peers, of stopping in at the best deli restaurant in Manhattan, Reuben’s at West Seventy-second and Broadway.
Rothstein made an office out of the place, and Al had seen him there, had had the so-called Big Bankroll pointed out to him. Runyon hung out there, too.
Al got his wallet out and bought a grand’s worth of chips, whites twenty-five dollars, reds fifty and blues one hundred.
“Two hundred raise limit,” Earp said. “So you know, I’m dealing, but I’m also playing.”
Al raised an eyebrow. “That’s a new one on me.”
“Sorry nobody told you the rules before you went to the trouble of stopping by, Mr. Capone.
Hope you didn’t waste a trip.”
“No. I came to play. What’s it, five-card stud? Seven?”
“Draw,” Earp said.
Al grinned. “You talking guns or cards?”
Earp’s smile was a cut under the white mustache, giving not a glimpse of teeth. “Cards. I’ll be anteing a white chip every round, Mr. Capone, if that takes the sting out.”
“Yeah. Why not? And it’s ‘Al.’ We’re all friends here, right?”
Mizner was lighting up a cigarette, bummed from Runyon. “Al, I liked you the moment I saw you.”
“Is that right?”
“Oh yes. You simply sparkle with larceny.”
That made Rothstein laugh—he had an easy, infectious laugh that swept up Masterson and Holliday, though Earp did not crack a smile, nor did Runyon.
“That’s a compliment, Al,” Rothstein said, still chuckling, displaying very white, perfect teeth that must have cost good money.
“Well, I hope so,” Al said, forcing a smile.
“We’re a civilized group,” Mizner said, and blew a smoke ring. “We won’t say anything bad about anyone else, until he leaves…. Ah, here’s our charming waitress.”
Al glanced up and didn’t recognize the little Kewpie-doll brunette at first, in a blue satin pajamas-type outfit with red sash, carrying a round tray with assorted drinks; then he made her: Holliday’s girl, the dish with the high pert breasts and the sweet little ass, whose praises he’d sung and got himself slashed for the trouble.
Earp said, “Everybody’s here, so it’s time to shuffle, cut and deal. Since I’m the only dealer, I’ll be alternating the cut, left and right. Any objections?”
Nobody objected, and anyway Al was preoccupied. The brunette was delivering drinks and avoiding looking at him, and he was starting to feel a slow burn rising up his cheeks. Was Holliday insulting him, or trying to embarrass him, with her presence? Goading him?
Earp was dealing and Al had two cards already, but hadn’t checked them out. He was trying to figure out why he was getting mad, and at the same time trying not to get mad, since Frankie wouldn’t like that….
Then she was standing, looming over him, having served everybody a drink (well, a cup of coffee to Runyon and a glass of milk to Rothstein) and finally, shyly, she met his eyes. “Sir?
Would you like anything?”
Was she goading him?
“Scotch,” Al muttered. “Straight.”
Holliday, opposite, was leaning forward, smiling, though the smile had a telling tightness.
“You remember Miss Douglas, don’t you, Al? From the Harvard Inn?”
Al pictured himself pounding Holliday’s face into a pulpy bloody mess with both fists; but instead, finally understanding what was expected of him, said, “I do. Uh, Miss Douglas, I apologize for my lack of couth, that there time.”
“Yes, sir,” she said shyly. “That’s gentlemanly of you to say.”
The flushed feeling left and he looked up at her, gave her his best boyish grin. “Not a good idea, a bartender sampling his own wares. I was feeling a little friendly, that night. Too friendly. Sorry, honey.”
“Apology accepted,” she said with a sweet tiny smile, and flounced off.
Johnny said, “Appreciate you doing that, Al. Takes a big man to admit he screwed up.”
Al had a gander at his five cards. “Yeah. Well, she seems like a nice kid.”
“And I hope you’ll allow me to apologize to you. For going overboard in my reaction.”
“Okay. Sure.”
“Looks like it’s healing nicely, though.”
“Yeah.” Al, having to work at not touching his scars, took a look at his cards. He had two tens and a bunch of crap.
Mizner, head tilted like a deaf guy, said, “Gives you character, Old Sport.”
“What?”
“Like a dueling scar in days of yore. And you have three of them, which is three times as much character.”
Al, not sure if his dick was being tugged by this odd duck, said, “Yeah. It’s already a real selling point in my social circle.”
Rothstein laughed at that, prompting laughter from everybody but Earp, even Al, who opened for fifty bucks. He picked up another ten and his triplets won the first pot.
An hour and several trays of drinks later, Al was winning, not big, but winning. Mizner and Runyon were both down, maybe a couple thousand each; and Rothstein was treading water, while Holliday won steadily and Earp and Masterson held their own.
Their hostess in the red sparkling gown would enter now and then, between rounds, and ask if anyone needed anything, fetching cigars at one point for Earp and Runyon, and a sardine sandwich for Rothstein, at about the two-hour point. The brunette in blue satin jammies, Miss Douglas, kept everybody’s glass full—in Runyon’s case, his coffee cup, Rothstein his milk, both guys apparently on the wagon—while Earp nursed one damned drink forever.
Holliday, about an hour in, had started asking for doubles; then at the two-and-a-half-hour point, requested Miss Douglas bring him two doubles at a time.
“Are you sure, Johnny?” she asked softly.
“Dix, I’m just trying to save you a trip. It’s a relaxing evening with friends—don’t worry your pretty little head.”
At the three-hour point, a break for everybody to stretch their legs and heed nature’s call revealed Holliday as a little unsteady on his feet. He’d been slurring his words for the last hour, and his play seemed reckless to Al; still, luck stuck with Holliday, who remained the big winner at the table.
But the goddamn guy was half cock-eyed, and Al overheard Earp taking the younger man aside and advising him to “ease up” on the booze.
Holliday swatted away the hand on his arm and said, “You’re not my daddy. Just deal the cards, and leave me be.”
When Holliday had gone off to use the john, Al wandered over to Earp, who was having a cigar near the front door. “That kid’s damn near ossified,” Al said.
“He is overdoing it,” Earp admitted.
“Don’t tell me he’s going alky on you.”
“Johnny’s been fine ever since this place opened. But his wife died last year, and he hit the bottle hard, for a time.”
“When that boy falls off the wagon, he takes a real tumble, don’t he?”
Earp shrugged. “He may be nervous about you being here.”
“Me? Why, we’re all pals now.”
Earp’s eyes trained themselves on Al; hell, were Earp and Masterson brothers or something, with those same damn spooky blues?
“Don’t con a con artist, Al. You and I both know any truce we forge is an uneasy one. Every morning, rest of your life, when you shave? You will look at what Johnny Holliday did to you. So forgetting is not in the cards.”
Al shrugged. “I’m a big boy. I was out of line, that time, and anyway, I’m a businessman.
And, as the man says, business makes strange bed fellas.”
“Does indeed.”
They were soon playing again, and Holliday kept on winning, though his eyes were half-lidded and he sat there, tie loose, weaving, like any second he might fall off his fucking chair.
When the brunette brought him a single drink on her next trip, he snapped at her.
“I said ‘two,’ Dix! Can’t you count?”
The little doll scurried out looking like she might bust out bawling.
“Take it easy, Johnny,” Earp said.
“Deal. Just deal. Quit talking to me like I’m a goddamned fool!”
Mizner, about to sip his drink, said, “Why, Johnny, do you have your suspicions?”
Rothstein laughed at that, showing off his expensive teeth again, though Al didn’t know what the guy had to laugh about. He must have been down six or seven thousand.
And, drunk or not, Holliday was winning. Al was winning, too, but the rows of chips across the table were towering, or they were until Holliday got so soused he couldn’t stack them anymore.
Mizner was the first to toss in the cards, followed by Runyon fifteen minutes or so later. The two men did not depart, shifting to the sofa against the wall, where they were attended by Texas Guinan and Miss Douglas. Mizner drank bourbon and Runyon coffee and they ate sandwiches provided by the ladies and chatted very softly among themselves, Mizner doing most of the talking. Half an hour later, Masterson—down two thousand plus—joined them.
Al might have been suspicious of the way Holliday was winning, if he hadn’t been winning himself; plus, the big loser was Rothstein, and he couldn’t imagine Earp and Holliday running a crooked game to take down the most important man in their world.
Anyway, Earp was not fancy with the cards, and if the crusty old codger was a mechanic, Al could not spot it. The dealer continued to hold steady with his own stacks of chips, a little up, a little down.
By one a.m., Holliday seemed so smashed, he was barely staying awake. Without that incredible streak—he’d routinely had three of a kind, and more straights, flushes and full houses than God should ever grant—Holliday would have gone bust in any reasonable game.
And got tossed out of most.
Al, up about seven thousand, yawned and said, “Been a lovely evening, gents, but I think it’s time I cashed these in.”
Earp nodded and said, “One more hand, Al? One more hand, everybody?”
This did not include Runyon and Mizner, the former watching and listening to the game, the latter asleep, sprawled over an arm of the couch. Texas was leaning against the open door, chatting with Masterson, who was drinking coffee, and Miss Douglas and her tray were gathering empty glasses.
Al nodded. “I’m okay with one more hand.”
Rothstein said, “Actually, fellas, I’m down fifteen thousand. I wouldn’t mind going a little longer and get a chance to catch up.”
Barely understandable, Holliday slurred, “Hell, I just hit my stride. Let’s keep at it.”
“No,” Earp said firmly, the deck tight in his right hand. “Mr. Rothstein, if you and Johnny want to play two-handed till the cows come home, be my guest. But this is my game, and we are playing one more hand in my game…and then cashing in the chips.”
Rothstein said, with a polite nod, “It is your game, Mr. Earp. I bow to you.”
“It’s my house!” Holliday said, petulant. He sighed hugely. “Well, then, deal your last hand, will you, old man? And then we’ll decide.”
Earp, his face stony, dealt.
Al had a pair of aces, and opened for a hundred, and Rothstein raised him a hundred, and Holliday raised another hundred, in the kind of free spending that often accompanies the last deal of the night.
But Al’s draw did not improve his hand, and he checked to Rothstein, who asked the dealer gently, “Since this is the last hand, is it permissible to extend the raise limit?”
“Raise whatever you want,” Holliday said with a sneer.
Earp glanced at Al. “Mr. Capone?”
“I’m out, anyway,” Al said, yawning again, tossing in his cards. “Let ’em do what they please.”
Earp, who had stayed in through the first round of betting, nodded and also tossed in his cards. “Why don’t we raise the limit to one thousand, Mr. Rothstein?”
“Fair enough,” Rothstein said, and tossed in ten blue chips.
Barely had the blues clinked into the pot than Holliday tossed in ten more, and ten more. “See it, and raise another grand,” he said unnecessarily.
Runyon had stirred Mizner to wakefulness, so he could get in on the little drama unfolding.
Rothstein wasn’t laughing, but he was smiling with those unreal white choppers. His eyes were bright and alive and his skin was gray and dead.
In a cold tone he had not used at this table, Rothstein said, “Care to make it really interesting?”
Holliday snorted a derisive laugh. “You don’t scare me, Arnie. You can’t beat me. So why don’t you just pack up and go find some doorway to hide in so you can buttonhole some poor bastard who owes you three dollars.”
Rothstein’s smile dissolved into a cold, blank mask. “I can’t beat you, huh? What is it you have, Johnny boy? Royal flush?”
“Put in another thousand and see.”
Eyes tight but flashing, Rothstein easily reached into his pants pocket and produced the biggest, fattest bankroll Al had ever seen.
Rothstein removed a rubber band from the bundle and began peeling off hundreds, counting as he went, “One…two…three….”
It took a long time, a goddamn eternity…because Rothstein didn’t stop till he got to one hundred.
One hundred thousand dollars.
Holliday was frowning; he almost looked like he might cry. “I don’t have that kind of money.
Not on me, I mean.”
Rothstein glanced around him, gestured with one hand as he put away the rest of the bankroll with the other. “You have this place, don’t you? And everybody says you have half the liquor in New York.”
“My liquor isn’t available,” Johnny muttered.
Manhattan’s mastermind sat forward and his eyes burned now, though his tone was reasonable as hell. “Then if you, say, lost this building to me…your club, your facilities…you’d still be in business. You could still supply me with liquor.”
Earp said, “What’s the bet, Rothstein?”
Rothstein flicked a nasty smile at the dealer. “No ‘mister,’ Marshal Earp? Johnny said I could bet him as much as I pleased. Well, I’m betting him one hundred thousand dollars against the deed to this brownstone, its contents to be included. It’s a fair bet.”
Runyon, who’d said very little tonight, said, “Johnny, I wouldn’t….”
Mizner, leaning forward, said, “Easy does it with Arnold, Johnny. He’s a lovely man, but he’d steal a hot stove and come back for the smoke.”
“It’s a bet,” Holliday said.
Earp sat forward. “Johnny! No. You’re drunk, goddamnit.”
