Aces Wild

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Table of Contents

Afterword

Acknowledgements

More by Taylor Lee

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Prologue

“
I hear you work for Chinks, Angel.”

Gabe smiled at the taunt from the fat little man across the table. It was an obvious tell. Shamus must not have gotten his straight hand. Damn, you’d think the fucker would learn. But then Shamus never learned. Hell, the last time they played, he almost pissed his pants in excitement and bet the pot on a four flush. He lost that time, too. Gabe took him for nearly a grand on that hand alone.

Gabe raised a brow and grinned at the red-faced man scowling down at his cards. “Think you heard wrong, Shamus. We work for any man wealthy enough to pay our fee.”

Shamus glared at Gabe, confirming that his hand busted. “Even if they’re Chinks?”

Gabe chuckled. “Hell, Shamus, we even work for Micks. Although it’s hard to find many that can afford us.”

Shamus’s florid face flushed a darker shade of red. His voice was hard, threatening. “That’s no way to talk about your people, Angel. What would your father say if he heard you talkin’ like that?”

Gabe smiled at him as he turned over his three nines, any one of which would have made Shamus’s straight. He scooped up the pot from the middle of the table and shrugged. “Probably that nothing I said or did would surprise him.”

Ignoring the disgusted grunt from the red-faced Irishman, Gabe turned to Finn with a look of false apology.

“
Hell, Finn, that was impolite of me. Should have let you show me your pair of threes before I took the pot.”

Finn’s eyes widened. He peered down at his cards and then back up at Gabe, a look of wonder spreading across his face.

“
Damn, Angel. You got eyes in the back of your head or somethin?” He looked again at his crap hand and shook his head, tossing down the pair of threes. “Hell, I ain’t never seen anything like it.”

Gabe threw Gunnar a surreptitious warning, not that it was necessary. He knew his partner could see the fury smoldering in Shamus’s eyes. They both knew the volatile Irishman wasn’t far from blowing. Gunnar tugged at the leather cord tying back his sun streaked shoulder length hair and acknowledged the danger with an imperceptible nod.

Picking up the bottle of whisky beside him, Gunnar’s dark blue eyes gleamed. “Anybody need a refill?” He filled his glass to the brim and held up the bottle to the guy sitting beside him.

A resounding series of grunts from the men at the table, enviously eying the impressive pile of chips in front of Gabe confirmed that whisky was a welcome distraction.

For the next several hands, the only sounds were muttered expletives and disgusted grunts when another bad hand hit the table.

Gabe glanced around the room thinking how familiar it was. Hell, they were half a decade away from the end of the century and in riding distance to San Francisco. Even so, every few miles, a pitiful little town like this sprang up as if to claim a piece of the west before it was gone. Gabe knew these enclaves well. It didn’t matter if fifteen people or a hundred called it home. The same four establishments anchored the dirt and provided a minimal sense of community. There was the church, the saloon, and in the bigger, better towns, a brothel above the saloon. The crap ones had a bunny hutch out the side door. The patrons were lucky if it had more than one room. The only thing you could count on were a few iron cots with dirty mattresses offering the facade of comfort. Of course, there was the graveyard. Inevitably, the graveyard had more inhabitants than the town.

Knowing that Shamus was smarting from losing a small fortune to him ten days ago, it had been easy to engineer a rematch with the swaggering little rooster. Gabe looked forward to taking Shamus’s money. Plus, Gabe had a message to deliver to his boss. He hoped this time Rory Flannigan had the sense God gave fleas and would listen up.

Typical that Shamus would pick a joint like this, Gabe thought with disgust. It was as shabby and repugnant as the man himself. But then what could you expect? In any joint owned by Rory Flannigan you could count on three things: filth, smells that made you glad you hadn’t eaten that day, and cheap booze. Despicable bastard that he was, Rory always watered his booze. You could only hope he had the decency to take the water from the pump not the horse trough or some animal piss he dredged up.

But, hell, Gabe had to admit, all he needed for his work was a deck of cards, a relatively honest dealer, and a splashy pot to lure the suckers. And all three of them were at the table in front of him.

Gabe watched as Shamus drained the last of the whisky and tossed the bottle over his shoulder. It landed with a crash inches away from the trembling woman behind him. He heaved his bulk up in his chair and jerked toward her.

“
Don’t just stand there, woman. Get your useless ass over there and bring me another bottle of booze.”

The thin woman, likely no more than twenty although she looked twice that, hugged her arms protectively across her chest and scurried to the cabinet. Keeping her eyes glued to the floor, she slid the unopened bottle in front of him, then darted back to rest against the wall. The dirt on her shabby dress echoed the streaks on her face. Her stringy hair completed the dismal picture.

Shamus popped open the bottle and filled his glass, splashing the excess on the table. He looked over his shoulder and glared at the pale woman. Turning back to the men at the table, he said, his voice thick with revulsion. “Can you believe this whore was once a decent lookin’ woman?”

Silence met his ugly words. Aiming to goad Gabe, he persisted. “How about it, Angel? I hear there ain’t a woman across the state that hasn’t warmed your sheets. And that you and your big Swede friend here don’t mind a bit sharin’ their honey pots. Hell, I hear you even share with this Injun pal of yours. He threw a disgusted look at Eagle standing several feet behind Gunnar’s chair. The cocky little Irishman missed the potent danger radiating from the enormous brown–skinned man. Gabe almost felt sorry for him. Eagle could squeeze the life out of Shamus with one hand. Hell, Gabe had seen him do it -- on more than one occasion-- to men less offensive than Shamus.

Gabe wondered how much deeper Shamus would dig his grave, when Shamus obliged him and scooped up another shovelful of dirt.

“
What do you say, Angel?” Shamus emptied the glass at his elbow and shot Gabe a wavery smirk. In a voice slurred from a mix of whisky and lust, he quirked a finger at the frightened woman pressed against the wall. “C’mere, Sadie. Wiggle that bony ass of yours over here.” Looking back at Gabe, he growled, “How about I toss in the whore and you and me play this next hand, man to man. Winner takes the pot and the bitch.” He mused, “Hell, even her name fits. Sadie, sad little Sadie!” He cracked her bottom with a hard smack when he sang out her name. The woman barely flinched, confirming that she was no stranger to the vile bully’s punishing hand.

From years of practice Gabe kept his expression impassive, refusing to let his fury shine through. Instead, he leaned back in his chair and eyed the measly pile of chips in front of Shamus.

Twisting up in his chair to get a better look, he pinned a quizzical frown on the front of the repulsive little man’s trousers. “That’s mighty big talk from a guy with such a small…small pile of chips.”

Hearty guffaws and a chuckle or two greeted the blatant reference to Shamus’s manhood.

Shamus flushed an impossible shade of purple at Gabe’s taunt.

“
Why, you arrogant son of a bitch. I’ll show you who’s got chips. Match this asshole!”

Shamus stood, puffing up like an enraged toad, his gut hanging over his belt buckle. He jerked a leather pouch out of his back pocket and threw it on the table. A splash of gold coins spilled across the torn green felt.

“
This here is Rory’s weekly earnings from the scum he protects. He’ll be pleased as hell when I double his money. Specially when he knows I took it from the biggest son of a bitch that ever sat his cocky ass down at a poker table. Put your money where that flappin’ mouth of yours is, Angel.”

Gabe quirked a brow. “What’ll it be, Shamus? Showdown? Five card stud? ” Shamus grunted his assent and added, “Last card’s down.”

Gabe gave him an agreeable smile and pushed his chips to the middle of the table.

“
Not sure those gold nuggets equal all of this, given your embarrassingly small… pile of chips,” Gabe added with an easy grin, “But I’ll spot you the difference.”

Ignoring Shamus’s angry growl, Gabe glanced at the nervous ashen faced dealer. Though he was Shamus’s stoolie, Gabe knew the frail looking man was smart enough not to mess with Angel. Gabe focused on the deck in the man’s trembling fingers, gratified that the cards were talking to him. Nodding to the dealer, he said, “I believe Shamus and I are ready, Sean. Please deal the cards.”

The tension in the room thickened. Palpable apprehension settled over the table. Shamus’s cohorts stared at the dirty felt, preparing for the inevitable explosion when Gabe won.

Gabe nodded when Gunnar’s hand eased under the table. Anyone who misread Gunnar’s golden boy good looks did so at their peril. He was a walking time bomb, as smart as he was lethal. Hell, he could even outdraw Gabe and that was saying something. Without looking, Gabe knew one of Eagle’s hands was near his holster and the other seconds away from the knife in his boot. As dangerous as he was with a gun or a knife, Eagle’s forte was his brute strength--and the simmering anger that drove it.

The first card hit the table with a soft smack. Shamus grabbed his card and didn’t hide the smile that jerked his lips. Gabe didn’t look at his card, just nodded to Sean to deal the first of the three community cards. It was the two of spades. He nodded again and the third card, the queen of spades, joined the deuce. Gabe heard but didn’t acknowledge Shamus’s hiss when the he saw the queen.

Gabe leaned back in his chair. He reached in his vest pocket and withdrew an embossed gold cigarette case. Selecting one of his custom Turkish cigarettes, he rolled it between his fingers and drank in the exotic spicy smell. In the glare of the match, he met Sean’s gaze and motioned to him to deal the final up card. Gabe smiled to himself, watching Shamus shift restlessly in his chair. Christ, he thought, the guy isn’t smart enough to try to hide his strain.

Dribbles of greasy moisture leaked from the brim of Shamus’s sweat stained hat. The pungent smell emanating from the damp circles under his arms swamped the table.

Gabe flicked an ash off the end of his cigarette and met Shamus’s glower with a pleasant smile.

Shamus barked, “You best not be cheatin,’ Angel. If you got this hand rigged in one of your fancy plays, I’m tellin you it’ll be last goddamn game you ever play.”

Gabe allowed his smile to widen. “Hell, Shamus, there’s no need to cheat when I face such piss poor competition.”

“
You smart-assed little fucker,” Shamus spit out. He rose an inch or two out of his chair, his face tight with anger. He started toward Gabe then seeming to decide against a more aggressive move, he slunk back down, clutching the corner of his hole card. His furious glare warned the dealer him to deal a good card

Shamus’s face lit up when the ace of hearts hit the table. He looked like a banty rooster ready to strut across the barnyard. If he could have crowed, he would. His eyes focused on the pile of chips in the middle of the table and he licked his moist lips, drool leaking out of the corner of his mouth.

Gabe took a lazy drag off his cigarette and nodded to the dealer to deal the last card. As Shamus had ordered, it was a down card to each man.