Ace in the Hole (12 page)

After brandy and cigars in the den, Clint decided to call it a night and go to his room. He wanted to be well rested for the next day. As usual, he had a book in his saddlebags, and as usual it was Mark Twain. He'd decided to read everything the man had written, and this was a collection of Twain's short stories.

But before reading, he walked to the window, which overlooked the rear of the house. Below him he could see the glow of light from Arliss Morgan's room.

There was a knock on his door at that point. He had removed his gun belt and hung it on the bedpost, so now he drew the gun and carried it to the door.

“Who is it?”

“Don't shoot,” Dick Clark said. “It's just me.”

Clint opened the door, found Clark standing there alone.

“No more brandy and cigars?” Clint asked.

“I actually don't like brandy, and don't smoke cigars. Can I come in for a short chat?”

“Sure.”

Clint backed away to allow Clark to enter, then closed the door. Clark looked at the gun in Clint's hand.

“They took my gun away when I got here.”

“They tried,” Clint said. He walked to the holster and slid the gun home. “What's on your mind, Dick?”

“I was wonderin' if you knew any more than I did about this game and the other players?”

“I don't know much,” Clint said. “I didn't know you'd be here, but I did think this caliber of game might attract somebody I would know.”

“Like Bat? Or Luke?”

“But seeing you is no surprise,” Clint said.

“Well, seeing you is,” Clark said. “I thought about that, too, but your name never came to mind. How did you end up here?”

Clint gave Clark the brief story.

“I guess I just couldn't resist,” Clint said. “And there was always a possibility that all the players would be as bad as the one I had played. Now I can see that's not going to be the case.”

“Have you ever heard of this Frenchman?”

“Never,” Clint said, “but he seems very impressed with you.”

“Too impressed,” Clark said. “I think it's an act. He's a phony, and I think that'll come across in a very clear tell. We just have to find it.”

“Well,” Clint said, “we'll meet the rest of the players tomorrow. We'll know more then.”

“I just wanted to check in with you, see if you had any insight you could give me.”

“There's some insight I'd give you,” Clint said, “and some I wouldn't, Dick.”

Clark laughed and said, “That's fair enough, Clint.”

They took a few moments to compare notes about mutual friends, then Clark said, “Well, I see a book on your bed. I'll let you get to it.”

“Mark Twain,” Clint said. “He goes everywhere with me these days.”

“I can understand why,” Clark said. “I've read him myself.”

Clint walked to the door with Clark, opened it for him.

“Oh, I did get a tip,” Clint said, “but I don't know what it means, and I don't know how interested you'd be.”

“Oh? What is it?”

“The housekeeper, Mrs. Pyatt.” Clint said. “One of the hands warned me to not be alone with her.”

“She looks harmless enough,” Clark said. “And not unattractive, I might add.”

“Well, that's what I heard,” Clint said, “for what it's worth.”

“Interesting,” Clark said, “but it has nothing to do with the game, so I'll set it aside.”

“Good night, then.”

“Good night. See you in the morning. I understand breakfast is at eight sharp.”

“Kind of late for a working ranch.”

“This fella Deal doesn't strike me as your typical rancher,” Clark said.

“Ever hear of him?” Clint asked.

“Nothin',” Clark said. “What about you?”

“Only what I got from Arliss Morgan,” Clint said. “The man likes to watch high-stakes poker games.”

“Not play?”

Clint shook his head. “Apparently he doesn't have the nerve to play.”

“Well, I guess we'll find out what kind of game he hosts,” Clark said. He gave Clint a little salute and stepped out into the hall. “I'll say good night again.”

Clint watched as Clark walked to the front stairway and descended, then Clint closed the door.

The next morning they were all at the table for breakfast, which was anything they wanted. The table ended up covered with steak and eggs and bacon and flapjacks, and everyone took what he felt like taking. Clint tried a little of it all, and noticed that Arliss Morgan stuck to steak and eggs, as did Arne Blom. Must be what bankers eat, he thought.

He found the food more than edible, and the coffee was good and strong, but was obviously easier to take for Morgan than the trail coffee Clint had prepared.

“Gentlemen,” Deal said, standing as the breakfast plates were being cleared by two black men wearing white gloves. “You have the day to yourselves, but tonight we begin play at ten p.m. sharp. Hopefully, all of the other players will be in place then.”

“What about the moneyman from Sacramento?” Dick Clark asked.

“He arrived earlier this morning, while we were having breakfast. He is in his room.”

“Why not eat with us?” Arne Blom asked.

“A tray was taken to his room,” Deal said. “You will all meet him tonight when he gives you your stake.”

All the men stood, preparing to leave the table.

“If anyone gets hungry, just tell Mrs. Pyatt and she will have something prepared for you. If not, dinner will be served at six sharp. Please be there. I'm sure we'll all be here and assembled by then.”

As they all walked away from the table, Clint noticed the Frenchman, Marceau, move up alongside Dick Clark and start talking to him. Maybe he wasn't such a phony after all and he actually did admire Clark. If that was true, it would be easy for Clint to understand.

As Clark left the dining room, Marceau was right alongside, and Clint had the feeling that Dick Clark had a new friend whether he wanted one or not.

Suddenly, Arliss Morgan was next to Clint.

“Can you beat Clark?”

“I don't know,” Clint said. “He's one of the best in the country, maybe the world.”

“That's not what I want to hear,” Morgan said nervously. “Can you beat the Frenchman?”

“Oh, yes,” Clint said.

“Just like that? You're sure you can beat him but not Clark?”

“Anybody can beat anybody if the cards fall right, Arliss,” Clint said. “We'll just have to wait and see.”

“Aren't you the least bit nervous about playing for all that money?” the banker asked.

“No,” Clint lied.

As the banker moved away to engage their host, Clint knew that he was, indeed, nervous, even though he wasn't playing with his own money. Oh, he was in for a piece of the action, but if he lost, Arliss Morgan would be out a hundred thousand dollars. Playing for that much money, no matter who it belonged to, made a man nervous.

Unless it was a man like Dick Clark. For him this was just business as usual. It wasn't even about the money. He made plenty of money from his gambling halls and saloons. For him it was all about the action—and finding the edge.

Clint decided maybe it wasn't going to be the Frenchman sticking to Clark all day, but the other way around. By the time they started playing, Clark might be deep inside the Frenchman's head.

Calhoun had managed to keep Dave Coffin out of trouble the night before. He did that by paying two saloon girls to take Coffin back to his room and fuck his brains out until he fell asleep.

“What do we do then?” one of them asked.

“Why, darlin',” Calhoun said, “then you come to my room.”

So Calhoun woke lying between a comely brunette and a chubby blonde. It was a hell of a long way from the way he used to wake up in prison.

He looked over at the blonde, who was lying on her belly, her chunky butt hiked up just slightly—but enough to make him hard.

He got behind her, straddled her and reached between her thighs to finger her pussy. She groaned, grew wet even before she woke up. That happened when he slid his hard dick up and into her. She gasped, came awake and quickly got to her hands and knees. As he drove himself into her, she pushed back against him. The sound of slapping flesh—not to mention the moaning and groaning—woke the other girl, who propped herself up on an elbow and watched while she touched herself.

The blonde had so much golden pubic hair that Calhoun could feel it close in around him when he slid all the way into her. It excited him even more. He'd missed pussy when he was inside, missed it badly, and he loved when there was a lot of hair around it.

The brunette herself had quite a black thatch of hair between her legs, and he looked over as she delved into it with her own fingers.

“That's it, sweetie,” he said, “keep it warm. I'll be over there as soon as I finish here with your girlfriend.”

“Don't worry, lover,” she said, “I'll be ready.”

He could smell that she was already wet and ready for him, so he began to fuck the blonde harder and faster.

“Don't spend yourself, lover,” the brunette said. “That bitch can keep you goin' all day.”

“Don't worry,” he gasped, as he felt his release building up in his legs, “I've got plenty for both of you.”

He exploded into the blonde with a loud groan, then pulled himself free of her and moved to the brunette, who rolled over onto her back.

“Jesus,” she gasped, as he drove his hard dick into her.

The blonde was trying to catch her breath, but her eyes widened as he started to fuck the brunette, and she asked, “Wow, where've you been, handsome, in prison?”

Since the entire house was open to them, Clint decided to simply have a seat on the porch and await the arrival of the other players. This way he'd find out right off who they were.

They began to arrive shortly after breakfast. John Deal had actually come out onto the porch to sit with Clint. He asked a lot of questions and gave away nothing during a short conversation, and then two men on horseback rode up. Clint wondered if that was another banker with a proxy player.

Deal stood up and said, “Time to greet my guests.”

“Mind if I join you?”

“Not at all.”

They both moved to the edge of the stairs as the men rode up.

“Do you know them?”

“Actually, Mr. Adams,” Deal said, “I don't know any of you. This weekend will be the first time I meet you all.”

“Nice of you to open your home to strangers, Mr. Deal.”

“I'm a rich man, Mr. Adams,” Deal said. “I can afford to do whatever I want, whenever I want, with whomever I want. Right now I want to watch some high-stakes poker.”

The two men reined in their horses and dismounted. Neither was dressed like a banker. Only one was dressed like a gambler. As they started up the steps, Clint thought he knew who they were.

“Which one of you is Mr. Deal?” the man in the black gambler's suit asked.

“I am,” Deal said. “Welcome to my home. You are…”

“I'm Red Conrad,” the man said. “This is my brother, Johnny.”

“I'm pleased to meet you, Mr. Conrad,” Deal said. “This is—”

“Clint Adams,” Red said. “I recognize you. I saw you once in Abilene.” Red put out his hand and Clint shook it. “Are you here as security?”

“No,” Clint said, “I'm playing.”

“Really?” Red said. “That's interesting.”

Clint had been right. Red and Johnny Conrad never went anywhere without each other. Johnny was basically Red's security against being attacked or robbed. Johnny was supposed to be very good with a gun—almost as good as his brother was with cards.

“This is my brother, Johnny,” Red said to Clint. The two men nodded at each other. Johnny looked to be in his late twenties, while his brother looked mid-thirties.

“Mr. Conrad,” Deal said, “we are asking players to give up their guns.”

“It don't seem to me that Mr. Adams, here, has given up his gun.”

“As I said,” Deal replied, “we're asking.”

“Well,” Red said, “I don't carry a gun.” He held his jacket open so they could see he was telling the truth. “My brother does that for both of us. But I'm afraid he won't give his up. Not with Adams armed.” He looked at Clint. “No offense.”

“None taken.”

“If my brother has to give up his gun, I'm not playin',” Red said.

“You understand that your deposit is nonrefundable?” Deal asked.

“I do understand that,” Red said. “But if Johnny can't wear his gun, we ain't even goin' in the house.” He looked at Clint. “You understand.”

“Perfectly.”

“All right, then,” Deal said. “Your brother may hold onto his gun. Come with me and I will get you situated.”

Red nodded to Clint, and then he and Johnny followed Deal up the stairs. As they went into the house, Clint heard Red say, “My brother and me will need to be in the same room.”

Clint was still on the porch when the next player rode up to the house alone. The horses the Conrads had ridden in on had been taken to the livery, and John Deal was still somewhere inside the house. Clint decided to walk down the stairs and greet the man.

As he reached the bottom step, the man dismounted. He was tall and had obviously ridden a long way. He turned and locked eyes with Clint.

“You Deal?” he asked.

“No,” Clint said, “he's inside. I'm Clint Adams.”

The man's eyes narrowed. “They got the Gunsmith for security?”

“No,” Clint said, “I'm playing.”

“So am I,” the man said. He extended his and. “Micah McCall.”

Clint didn't know the name. He shook hands with the man, who didn't look like he could afford to put up a hundred thousand dollars for a poker game. Everything he was wearing had age to it—not old and worn out, just…well-worn. Even the horse.

“Somebody take care of my horse?” he asked.

“Yep, somebody will take it. Come inside and I'll introduce you to our host.”

McCall tied off the horse and followed Clint up the stairs.

“Is everybody here?” he asked.

“I think we're waiting for one more payer,” Clint said. “He's got till ten p.m. to get here.”

“Then what?”

“Then his hundred grand goes into the kitty.”

“More for us.”

“That's the general feeling.”

Clint opened the front door, and as he did, John Deal appeared in the entryway after coming down from upstairs with Mrs. Pyatt behind him.

“Ah, another guest?” he asked.

Clint made the introductions, and Deal instructed Mrs. Pyatt to take Micah McCall to his room. McCall exchanged a nod with Clint and followed the woman up the stairs.

“You'll need to have someone take care of his horse,” Clint told Deal.

“I will tend to it. Is he a proxy player?” Deal asked. “And for whom?”

“I don't think so,” Clint said. “He just said he's a player.”

“Micah McCall,” Deal said. “Yes, I was expecting him.”

“And the sixth and last player?”

“Will be arriving this afternoon.”

“Why can't we get started as soon as they arrive?”

“I appreciate your eagerness to start playing, Mr. Adams, but we will have dinner and then everyone will be able to repair to his room to get ready. At nine all the players will come downstairs and collect their stakes from my banker. At ten sharp, the game will begin. It's all settled.”

“Okay,” Clint said, “it's your show. You call the shots.”

“Indeed,” John Deal said.