Hornswogglers, Fourflushers & Snake-Oil Salesmen (33 page)

“Is it not true, good sir,” the man in the blue velvet dinner jacket made a point of slowly looking to his right, a calculated casual glance, so that all at the large round table, and not just his comely companion, might see. “I say, isn't it true, Dr., ah, Bennett, that you are also known as the King of the Thimble Riggers?”

The object of his attention was a somewhat portly older gentleman with neatly oiled hair, plain but trim moustaches, and kindly, but weary eyes. It appeared the young man's revelation was something the older gent wished to have kept silent.

A titter bubbled up from the speaker's lady friend, and another joined in, somewhat coyly. And a couple of the men paused their after-dinner cigars, eyebrows raised and eyes fixed on the blushing older man.

Could it be possible that this was the legendary “King of the Thimble Riggers,” the man whose skill was such that the states of Georgia, Tennessee, Alabama, and Mississippi all banned the practice of offering games of chance with thimbles? Could it be this man was in their presence? That is what the men around the table and a good many nearby spectators all were thinking.

“Oh, dear me,” said the old dapper man. He lifted a glass of water to his lips, in a none-too-steady hand, not a few spectators noted, and sipped. “That, well, that was a long time ago. I'm nearly seventy now and . . . well . . .” He offered a limp gesture. “I'm traveling on this fine craft for no other purpose than to visit kin downriver.”

“Then your thimblerigging days are behind you?”

“I am afraid so, young man.” He stood, “Now, if you'll excuse me.” He smiled, nodded to the ladies.

The young man's female companion whispered, “What's a thimblerigger?”

He sighed. “You know, the shell game? Walnut and peas?”

Still she seemed confused.

The young man sighed again and spoke to Dr. Bennett's retreating form. “Hold on there, old-timer. I wonder if you wouldn't dazzle us a little with your skills—purely for fun, you understand.”

The old man half-turned, smiled, and slowly shook his head. “No, no, I am afraid those days are long past, as I said.”

“But if I could procure a trio of thimbles, I'd be honored to buy your drinks for the evening, purely for the sake of entertainment.” The young man leaned forward. “I'm fascinated, you see, by the dexterous abilities of men,” he nodded to the ladies at the table—“and women of your . . . former occupation. Such legerdemain!”

The beseeching young man looked about the table, nodding vehemently, his high color rising on his otherwise fair, youthful face. His enthusiasm roused the others to cheer and clap, to shout, “Please, sir!” and nod at the blushing Dr. Bennett.

He reluctantly smiled, then nodded. “All right, all right, then. I shall try. But I must warn you, as I used to say, ‘Sometimes I am severe, sometimes not so sly.' I suspect the latter is the case nowadays.”

Within moments, it seemed, a cabin boy appeared with three somewhat matching thimbles, presumably retrieved from the basket of a shipboard seamstress.

Dr. Bennett, still looking about the group with a hint of trepidation, nonetheless took the thimbles, arranged them before him on the gaming table's baize surface. He requested and was given a scrap of paper, stripped off a ragged piece, and rolled it into a pea-size ball.

All the while, his little but growing crowd watched with much interest, cigars pluming, glasses quietly filling, as the dapper old man worked the thimbles, increasingly faster, but by no means impressively.

He looked up after a few moments, as if he had just been awakened. “Oh, yes. So, young man, what can I show you?”

The velvet-wearing man smiled. “Perhaps you could let me guess which thimble the paper pea is under?”

“Of course, of course. But be kind,” Bennett smiled broadly. “I am not so sly nowadays.”

“Posh. Now,” the young man leaned forward. “You mix them up and I will give it my best guess!”

Bennett nodded, his hands sped up, twice he knocked over a thimble in his efforts and had to begin again, his cheeks flushing deeper each time. After a number of rotations and seeming obfuscations, the young man guessed correctly. This happened several times in a row. Then when it looked as if the King of the Thimble Riggers might bow out and fold up the game, with a sly smile the young man offered a suggestion.

“I would like to place a bet, Dr. Bennett. I posit that the very reason you are not playing, shall we say, up to snuff, is because there is no edge, no risk, no potential for reward.”

To the considerable surprise of the small gathering, Bennett nodded in agreement. “I do believe you may be right. I admit you have gotten my interest in the thimbles aroused, at least momentarily. And I should like to get a good leg up and over it before I hang it up for good. But only a few dollars, mind you.”

“Good, then. Only a few. Ha! Glad I prodded,” said the young man. “Now, what say we open the ball with . . .” He rubbed his hands together, a diamond ring on his little finger of his left hand catching the attention of all gathered. “$20?”

Bennett looked mildly alarmed. “Hmm, you have a keen eye. And as has been evidenced thus far, mine is far from keen these days. What say we go your $20 to my $10?”

“Fair enough for me,” said the young man.

And so they went at it anew, the good doctor's efforts redoubled with the cash laid down. The young man won two games, then with a cheer around the table, the doctor won. Relief was writ large upon his face. Others demanded a turn, the doctor reluctantly agreed, he lost more rounds, the little paper pea seeming easier to find with each turn. Occasionally he gained an edge and won. Just enough to keep him from backing down.

And as for his part, the young man could not help himself. He laid out more money, others upped the betting. Dr. Bennett appeared to have a comeback, his pink hands blurred, seeming to regain their old memories of play.

The crowd grew, pressed in closer. More strangers demanded to play, and Dr. Bennett, looking like a reborn man, could do nothing to dissuade them, seeming with each passing minute as if he loathed to turn them away. He won and won, lost here and there, but many a person—for the ladies opened their own purses too—pointed with brash confidence at the thimble they knew beyond all doubt to contain the paper pea . . . only to find they had lost.

Soon hundreds of dollars had amassed in a stack in front of the doctor. A tall, thin man, who up until then had remained silent, smoothed his gray silk waistcoat with one jewel-ringed hand. He cleared his throat, gently and slowly rubbed his hands together, and pointed at Bennett.

“I have been watching you, good sir. And wonderful amusement aside, I now know, beyond a doubt, your secret—indeed the very secret—to this game.” He raised a hand with a flourish and slapped down a healthy wad of cash. “And I should very much like to wager that amount—some $250—against the same of yours. I daresay you have that much before you. Therefore, double to nothing.”

The doctor, who for the previous thirty minutes had bloomed into the paragon of confidence, appeared to have sudden misgivings. He nibbled a lip, then nodded, a cautious smile spreading on his face. A cheer went up from the crowd. He counted out $250 of his own money and laid it out beside the other wad.

“Best of three?” he said to the bold newcomer.

To the surprise of all, the gray-suited man shook his head. “One go is all I need.”

Bennett offered a slight nod, a small smile playing his lips. “Very well. Shall we?”

The stranger nodded once, his eyes narrowed, focused on the doctor's hands. Bennett set them up, paused, lifted the left thimble, nothing. The right, nothing. The center, revealing the paper pea. He nodded to the man, who indicated he'd seen where the pea resided. Then Bennett's hands began their dizzying, mesmerizing, darting, circling, figure-eight pattern. Once, twice, three, four circuits. Then . . . he paused, palms up, revealing the three thimbles.

Whispers here and there were shushed. The thin gentleman ran his tongue tip along his bottom lip. Someone giggled. He flinched, then pointed at the thimble to the left, a sly smile raising one corner of his mouth.

Dr. Bennett's own smile drooped. He reached for the thimble, paused, his hand well away from it, as if it were throwing heat. Then he sighed and with a finger, tipped over the thimble, revealing . . . nothing beneath. The crowd cheered, and he tipped the other two, the pea sitting patiently beneath the middle thimble.

The wealthy gent in the gray silk suit stood unblinking, the crowd jostling him, a few men close by patting his shoulder. He slowly shook his head, then locked eyes with Dr. Bennett, and a weary smile spread on his face and he nodded. “Well done, sir. Now if you'll excuse me, I shall retire to the bar and lick my wounds.” He offered a slight bow and made his way through the chatty crowd.

“Well, Dr. Bennett.” The young man in the blue velvet jacket clicked the cabin door closed behind him. “It worked,” he said in a quiet voice. His high color and smile contrasted with the quiet level to which he was trying to keep his voice.

“Of course it worked,” said Bennett. “Who do you think I am, anyway?” He stared at the young man, then winked.

“King of the Thimble Riggers, yes sir.”

The old man just shook his head, his smile fading.

“Doctor, there is one thing I'm curious about. You really played up that bit about being retired. Almost to the point of exhaustion, I'd say.”

“That was necessary, as we'd discussed. If the rest of them had any inkling I'd never given up my trade, why . . . let's just say we'd have wasted our ticket money.”

“Well, sir. I would like to thank you once again. It's been an honor working with you.” The young man laid a hand on the doorknob, nodded, and turned to go.

“Not so fast, kid.”

The young man held his spot and sighed.

“I'm waiting.”

“But . . .”

“Don't play dumb on me, kid. I'm no dummy and I don't choose dummies to work with.”

“I guess I should take that as a compliment,” said the young man.

Bennett shrugged, his stony stare fixed on the younger man's face. He held out a hand, the palms and long fingers pink and clean.

The kid sighed again, pulled on a smile, and slipped a wad of bills from his coat pocket. “By my count here's five, ten, ten, and ten more makes thirty-five.” He laid the cash in the rigger's outstretched palm, which stayed outstretched.

“Your count, kid, needs work.”

“Huh?”

“You want to play it like that, eh? Okay. Thirty-five starts the ball, yes, but it was a three-to-one split, as I recall. Now I'm not so old as to be forgetful about such things. The day that happens, ol' Dr. Samuel Bennett will hang up his thimbles for good. Where's the rest?” While he spoke his voice rose from a soft, tremulous, soothing old man's voice to a hard-edged blunt thing, decades younger sounding than moments before.

“Oh, the split, yes.” The kid swallowed, lost some of his high coloring. “I'd forgotten about that.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Still the big hand hovered palm up in the air.

The kid peeled off a significantly larger number of bills, laying them on the others in the doctor's hand. He slowed, looked at the old man, who inclined his head and nearly imperceptibly nodded at the money. The kid laid down two, three more bills.

Bennett smiled, nodded, and tweezering the money with his fingers, he stuffed it into an inner breast pocket. “Been good doing business with you, kid.” Bennett offered the youth a two-fingered salute off an imaginary hat brim. “Hope you learned a little something.”

The young man offered his hand quickly, shook with Bennett, then turned to the door, opened it, and stepped out of Dr. Bennett's cabin. “I did,” he said as he closed the door. “I hope you did too.”

Dr. Samuel Bennett, King of the Thimble Riggers, stared at the closed door with narrowed eyes. “Now what could that mean?” he said. He patted his coat pocket, his jaw canted to one side. The breast pocket was empty. But Bennett smiled, holding the rest of the young man's substantial wad of cash in his other hand. “Ol' Dr. Bennett, indeed.”