One-Eyed Jacks by J. D. Brink

Author:J. D. Brink [Brink, J. D.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Fugitive Fiction

Fourteen

I leave the roped-off restaurant before he can hit me up for my half of the bill and head to the cash cage. There, I get some chips, trading in the pink roulettes Edgar gave me for wider use ones, plus another three hundred bucks worth.

My first task here is the same as last night: check out the environment and get a feel for the place.

So, I casually make my rounds, observing the dealers and gamblers, winners and losers, a couple hands of cards here, a few rolls of the dice there. Demographically, there are about three times as many men here as women, the majority being of one Asian people or another. Probably quite a few of the non-Asians are American sailors who have washed over to this island just like the ones I saw last night.

I spend a good forty-five minutes like this, watching games and making casual conversation, losing more chips than I’m winning, but not breaking the bank yet. I share some laughs with three Japanese gentlemen at a poker table with no idea what we’re laughing about. Chitchat with a retired couple from Colorado, who say they wanted to try something other than Vegas this year. And they find me being an art dealer “fascinating.”

My survey also includes checking out Edgar’s candidates for Ms. Ming. The young beauty is at a craps table, her suitors all trying to impress her with their dice skills. She’s confident and self-important… but as a prom queen, not a criminal monarch.

The eldest of the three seems to be just a wife who’s got more money than spirit left. She and her unexciting husband play poker and both do quite well. Having no emotion left for life gives them impenetrable poker faces.

If those two candidates are out, that just leaves the woman holed up in the Princess Room.

My glass needs a refill and I need a plan, so I stop at the bar for another gin and tonic. My chosen seat also affords me an angle from which to peek inside the elite gambling den.

The bartender fixing me up is a tall black man with hooked sideburns, and I’m about to ask how he ended up slinging booze on a remote Pacific island when someone else speaks to me first:

“Ah, the prowling leopard pauses for a drink at the river bank.”

I turn to find a thin Japanese man in a black suit, resting his elbow on the bar rail. A steaming cup of coffee sits in front of him.

“Excuse me?” I ask. “Did you say ‘leopard’?”

“Your jacket,” he says with a casual smile. His face is friendly, but I’m getting a tense vibe from his eyes: a powerful shade of grey, like storm clouds ready to loose thunder.

I try not to let it distract me. “Oh, the spots, you mean? Suede ruins so easily.”

“It suits you,” he says. His gaze is trained on mine, holding my eyes and probing for something. “I’ve seen you stalking the floor. Did you find what you were looking for?”

Luckily my drink comes.

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