Ace in the Hole (13 page)

Late in the afternoon five men rode into Gardner, led by Tom Kent. Calhoun and Coffin were waiting—one patiently and one impatiently—on wooden chairs in front of their hotel.

“About time,” Coffin said.

“Dave, this is Tom Kent,” Calhoun said. “Tom, my partner, Dave Coffin.”

Kent and Coffin exchanged nods.

“Those are the boys I hired to help out. You boys have to share two rooms in this hotel. Split up any way you want. Tom, we got you your own room.”

Kent took this as a sign of respect from the two men.

“Why don't you boys give your horses to one man? He can take them to the livery, and then you can all check in.”

They all dismounted except one man, who collected the reins of the horses.

“When are we doin' this?” Kent asked as the others went inside.

“Let's get a meal into their bellies and tell them what it's all about,” Calhoun said.

“Without mentioning how much money is actually at stake,” Coffin added.

“Right,” Calhoun said.

“And then what?”

“They're gonna play through the night,” Calhoun said. “We rode out there and checked on security. They've got men patrolling the grounds, but it's a big ranch. We can slip through in the middle of the night and then take them.”

“The first night?” Kent asked.

“Why not?”

“If we wait, they'll be exhausted,” Kent said.

“Wait?” Coffin said. “We been waitin'—”

“Easy, Dave,” Calhoun said. “Why don't you go and see that the boys get their rooms, huh?”

Coffin opened his mouth to reply, but then thought better of it and went inside.

“I thought I was your partner,” Kent said.

“We're partners on this job,” Calhoun said. “Dave and I were partners before I went to prison. Look, Tom, I want to do this tonight and get it over with.”

“We don't know how many players there are, or who they are,” Kent reminded him.

“I'm gonna say worst case we're gonna have ten or twelve men—six playing at the table. The others will be backers and the host. Now, in high-stakes games like this, the players usually give up their guns so there are no…accidents.”

“Clint Adams is playin',” Kent said. “He ain't gonna give up his gun.”

“It don't matter,” Calhoun said. “We'll take him first. The rest will fall in line after that.”

“You hope,” Kent said. “I don't wanna have to kill all these people.”

“That's why it's actually gonna work to our advantage that Adams is there,” Calhoun said. “Once we get rid of him, nobody will stand up to us.”

“I hope you're right.”

“Go get settled in your room, Tom,” Calhoun said. “Come back down in half an hour and we'll go and eat. Then, when it gets good and dark, we'll take a ride out to the ranch.”

“Okay,” Kent said.

“Hey!”

‘What?”

“I see you got rid of the badge.”

Kent looked down at his chest.

“How do you know it ain't in my pocket?”

“You're walkin' lighter.”

Kent passed Coffin as he went in, and they exchanged a nod.

“Is he gonna be a problem?” Coffin asked Calhoun.

“Maybe.”

“What should we do about it?” Coffin asked.

“Well,” Calhoun said, rubbing his jaw, “we really don't need him.”

“But if he don't show up back in Virginia City, folks are gonna wonder.”

“Yeah, they'll wonder where he is, what happened to him,” Calhoun said, “but they'll never connect him to this.”

“So whataya wanna do?”

“Let's all eat,” Calhoun said, “see how things go, and then I'll make up my mind.”

“I'll do 'im,” Coffin said. “No problem.”

“Like I said,” Calhoun said, “we got time. Let's just see what happens.”

By the time dinner came around, the sixth player had still not arrived. Clint was once again seated to John Deal's left, with Arliss Morgan right across from him.

“There are still three hours to go before you all collect your stake from my banker, Mr. Green.”

Deal inclined his head toward the other end of the table, where Mr. Green, his Sacramento banker, was sitting. He had been introduced, acknowledged as the moneyman, but no one was talking to him. Clint noticed the man was a very fussy eater and spent most of his time with his head hovering over his plate, removing or moving something.

“Well, I hope he makes it,” Clint said. “I'd like to see a full table.”

“You wouldn't rather have that sixth stake end up in the kitty?” Deal asked.

“Where's the sport in that?” Clint asked.

“Mr. Adams,” Deal said, “you surprise me more and more.”

“In a good way?”

“In a very good way.”

They had dessert and then moved to the den for cigars and brandy. This time Clint took the brandy but not the cigar. He noticed Dick Clark did the same, and was nursing the brandy.

At one point John Deal was called from the room. Clint was standing in a corner, studying some of the books on the shelves—he noticed Deal had a large selection of Mark Twain and Dickens—and noticed that the Sacramento banker was in another corner of the room, also standing alone. The Frenchman, Marceau, was still dogging Dick Clark, who looked at Clint with pleading eyes. Clint just smiled, shrugged and toasted the man with his glass.

The Conrad brothers, Red and Johnny, were talking with Micah McCall, who tonight looked every inch the gambler who could afford a hundred-thousand-dollar buy in. A diamond sparkled from each pinky and from a stickpin in his tie.

The other two bankers, Arne Blom and Arliss Morgan, stood close together and were talking earnestly.

Deal reappeared and beckoned to Green, who set his brandy glass down and left the room to join Deal in the hallway. The two men put their heads together, had a short conversation, and then Green left and Deal entered the room.

“Gentlemen, the last player has arrived,” he announced. “Allow me to introduce Mrs. Charlotte Thurmond.”

“A woman?” Arne Blom said.

A woman entered the room, wearing a silk gown of greens and golds, her auburn hair piled atop her head. She had a slim waist and a full, firm bust. She appeared to be in her late thirties, but Clint knew for a fact she was at least ten years older than that. That was about how long it had been since she disappeared from Fort Griffin, Texas, after establishing herself as a female gambler who was a force to be reckoned with. At that time she had been in her late thirties, but looked ten years younger then, too. He had met her, known her slightly, never been intimate with her. He wondered if she'd recognize him on sight as a man who had known her as the notorious Lottie Deno.

Clint looked across the room at Dick Clark, wondering if he had recognized her as well.

If Charlotte Thurmond had heard what the Swedish banker Arne Blom had said—or the tone with which he'd said it—she did not reveal it. Deal took her around the room to introduce her to each man individually. Obviously, he had known all along that the final player was a woman.

When they came to Clint, Deal was about to make the introduction when Charlotte put out her hand and said, “Mr. Adams and I are acquainted.”

“Indeed?” Deal asked.

“I had a different name then.”

Clint kept quiet. If she wanted to mention that she had once been “Lottie Deno” it was up to her.

“Yes,” she said, “I wasn't married then.”

“I see.”

“It's nice to see you again, Clint,” she said.

“The pleasure is mine, Lottie.”

Even in her late forties she was a beauty. Clint didn't have to wonder what had brought her out into the open again. It was the size of the game.

They moved on and she greeted Dick Clark with more warmth, as they had, indeed, known each other, better than she and Clint did.

“You know her?”

He turned and saw Arliss Morgan standing there.

“I knew her years ago, when she was not married and was gambling regularly.”

“Is she any good?”

“She was always an excellent poker player,” Clint said. “I don't know what she's been doing since then. She might be rusty.”

“Let's hope so.”

“Actually,” Clint said, “I'd like everybody to be at the top of their game. Makes winning even better.”

“And more nerve-wracking.”

“Gentlemen,” John Deal said, when the introductions were over, “if you will accompany me and the lady, it's time to pick up your stakes.”

John Deal led all the players—and their backers—to a room on the third floor where none of them had ever been. It was down the hall from Clint's room, but the door had always been closed. As they entered, they were all very impressed. There was a round table with a green felt top, six comfortable wooden chairs, a bar set up in one corner, and behind the bar stood Mrs. Pyatt.

“Mrs. Pyatt,” John Deal said, “is an excellent bartender.”

Clint was more and more impressed by the woman, but still wondered what that warning was about.

In another corner Mr. Green sat behind a desk, and on the desk he had a large, black metal box. Clint assumed that the cash for everyone's stake was inside.

“If you'll all take a place at the table, Mr. Green will bring you your stake.”

The only things on the table at the moment were several sealed decks of cards. There were only six seats, so Clint assumed there would be no house dealer.

They each selected a chair and sat down. Clint ended up sitting with Red Conrad on one side and Micah McCall on the other. Directly across from him was Charlotte Thurmond.

“Mr. Green?” Deal said.

Green stood up and approached the table with the black box. One by one he placed each player's hundred-thousand-dollar stake in front of the player.

“Thank you, Mr. Green,” Deal said. The banker bowed, then left the room with the black box. It occurred to Clint only then that he'd never heard Mr. Green speak.

John Deal stood by the table and said, “This is the first poker game I have ever hosted. I have seen to every detail.”

“Except one,” Micah McCall said. “There's no dealer.”

“I assumed you would be playing dealer's choice,” the Englishman said. “Was I wrong?”

“Dealer's choice is fine with me, gentlemen,” Charlotte said. “Anyone object?”

No one did.

“Good,” Deal said. “Then that's settled.”

“Except for one thing,” Red Conrad said.

“And what is that?” Deal asked.

“Who deals first?”

“First ace,” Clint said.

“All right,” Marceau said. “But who deals ze cards for the first ace?”

“This is silly,” Clint said. “Let's just open a deck and do it.”

He reached for a deck. But before he could reach one, Micah McCall grabbed his wrist.

“Why you?” he asked.

“Somebody has to do it,” Clint said, “or we'll never get the game started.”

“Oh, dear,” Deal said, “I suppose I should have secured the services of a dealer.”

“I have a suggestion,” Johnny Conrad said from the corner.

“What's that, John?” his brother Red asked.

“Let the lady do it.”

McCall released Clint's wrist, and Clint withdrew his arm.

“Anyone object to Mrs. Thurmond doing it?” Clint asked.

They all looked around at each other and no one objected.

“Very well,” Charlotte said. She picked up a deck, opened it, shuffled it expertly and fast, and then dealt the cards out until the first ace fell in front of someone.

“Mr. Adams deals,” she said.

Tom Kent was getting himself ready for the ride out to the ranch. It was finally going to happen. Six hundred thousand dollars and Diane Morgan were all going to be his.

He checked his gun, made sure it was fully loaded, then holstered it. When the knock came at his door, he answered it, gun still in the holster.

“Tito,” he said, “are we ready?”

“I am,” Tito Calhoun said. “You're not.”

“Wha—”

Calhoun produced a small, two-shot derringer. He pushed the barrel against Kent's belly and pulled the trigger. The first shot shocked Kent and he didn't feel much pain. The second shot made his belly feel as if it was on fire.

He grabbed his stomach and staggered back into the room. Calhoun followed him in, closing the door behind him. The two quiet pops of the derringer had gone unnoticed in the hotel, just as he'd planned.

Kent's legs went out from under him, and still clutching his belly, he fell facedown on the floor, then rolled over and stared up at Calhoun.

“Why?” he asked.

“For money,” Calhoun said, “and a beautiful woman. What else is there?”