Gentleman Rogue by Matt Braun

Author:Matt Braun
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Publishing Group

Chapter 16

A fiery sun went down in a splash of orange and gold beyond the river. All along Main Street the lamplights winked to life as a cold, wintry dusk settled over the town. The Acre cranked into gear for another night of sin for sale.

Off the corner of Twelfth Street, lights flickered through the plate-glass windows of the Empress Saloon. Like most dives in the Acre, the Empress was devoted to games of chance and cheap liquor, a hangout for workingmen. A long bar occupied one wall, with a gaudy clutch of whiskey bottles reflected in a dulled mirror of ancient origins. On either side of the mirror hung paintings of frolicking women in various states of undress.

Opposite the bar were faro and twenty-one layouts, anchored by a dice table near the door and a roulette wheel at the other end. Toward the rear of the room were four tables for those who preferred poker in their pursuit of fortune. The hour was early, with suppertime still claiming the evening crowd, and three of the tables were empty. A lamp, suspended from the ceiling, cast a halo of light across the fourth table. Five men sat slouched over their cards.

Dave Miller, owner of the Empress, was dealing. On his left were three Missouri Pacific men, employed at the railyards, who worked the graveyard shift. Directly opposite him was Harry Leigh, known to friends and associates as a cardsharp of passing skill. Leigh operated in many guises, frequently changing his appearance, and drifted from dive to dive throughout the Acre. His guise tonight was that of a farmer, with filthy bib overalls and the odoriferous fragrance of hog dung. He was working in league with Miller.

“Tell you, boys,” Miller said as Leigh won yet another pot. “For a pig farmer, he’s hell on wheels. He ought to be playing up at the White Elephant.”

“Wish’t to Christ he was.” Fred Hoyt, one of the railroad men, took the deck and began shuffling. “With his luck, he’d likely take Clark over the hurdles.”

Leigh feigned modesty. “I ain’t in their class, no siree. Ten thousand just to get yerself a chair.” He mugged slackjawed amazement. “Jehoshaphat!”

Richard Clark and his run at the White Elephant was the talk of the town. In three days, he was rumored to have won four thousand dollars, some said closer to five. For workingmen, whose wages seldom exceeded fifty dollars a month, the sum was staggering. Their brand of poker was two-bit ante and a dollar limit.

Some played merely as a pastime, and others chased the end of the rainbow. Yet their universal attitude was that every game was rigged in some manner. The Acre served as a magnet to tinhorns and confidence men, ever on the lookout for an easy mark. A few worked alone, but the majority operated in league with one or more confederates. The game of choice was poker, and the wiles they employed were seemingly endless. Their craft, the ability to cheat, was brazen by any standard.

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