Rapture's Rendezvous (39 page)

Alberto felt a tearing at his heart at having to speak further of her, but he forced an ugly laugh and said, “My sweet innocent Maria? Seems she's not so sweet and innocent any longer.” He poured himself another glass of port and swallowed it in fast gulps, then added, “When a woman marries Nathan Hawkins, she's no
longer sweet and innocent, wouldn't you say?”

Michael glowered. He reached inside his suit jacket pocket and pulled out a cigar. He thrust it between his teeth and lighted it, tilting a brow as he continued to watch Alberto. “You appear to be a bit jealous, Alberto,” he snarled, laughing hoarsely. “Why is that?”

Alberto lunged from the chair, anger making his eyes bulge. “You just shut your damn filthy mouth, Michael,” he said. “And what the hell brings you here bumming in these parts?” He laughed loudly, taking another fast gulp of port. “Your luck run out? Huh?” His eyes raked over Michael's attire of flannel shirt and faded breeches. “Play one too many games of poker? Lose your life's savings?” He laughed once again, settling back down onto a chair opposite Michael. “Do you even have enough money to play me a few hands tonight? I feel my luck is a-rolling.” He lowered his eyes, then murmured, “With . . . uh . . . cards, that is.”

“Sure. I'd like to play you a few hands, Alberto,” Michael said, picking up the cards from the table, shuffling them. The door opened and two more men entered and settled down around the gambling table, now making a total of five men ready to be dealt a hand to.

Michael continued to shuffle the cards, puffing eagerly on his cigar. “So you say Maria married up with a Nathan Hawkins, eh?” he mumbled, furrowing his brow. He had to act as though he didn't know. He couldn't take the chance of arousing Alberto's curiosity. Alberto had only just suspected that Maria and himself had been intimate anyway, he thought to himself. He must never know that only last night he had held her in
his arms, made love to her. Oh, how he ached for her now!

“You don't seem a bit upset about Maria,” Alberto growled, slamming the glass on the table, scooting the wine bottle away from him. “Is that because you had only thought to use her on the ship? Just like I thought? Once we had arrived in America, you knew that she wasn't good enough for you? Huh?”

Michael's face paled. He looked anxiously around him, seeing eyes on him. He knew what the men had to be thinking. What ship? They had to be wondering what
he
would have been doing on a ship that had carried this immigrant called Alberto and his sister Maria to America. They had to know by his appearance that he was American, not Italian, and would have no cause to be aboard such a ship.

Damn. Would Alberto cause his cover to be exposed? Could one of these men even be a representative for Nathan Hawkins? Hadn't Maria warned him that Nathan Hawkins was suspicious . . . ?

“Let's just play cards, Alberto,” he grumbled. “I don't wish to talk about Maria, nor anything else this night. I've come to earn a few dollars. Not toss words idly around. Most of the time words come from between your lips that don't even make sense And these men at the table will soon know that is because you are only a half-wit, with only a portion of a mind.”

Michael stopped shuffling for a brief moment and glowered toward Alberto. “You see, I don't know what ship you are talking about. I've never been aboard any ship. I've never even had enough money to travel much further than the city of Creal Springs. Only recently
have I had enough money to purchase me a fine cigar and be able to come to these card games. No, Alberto. I only know you and your sister from the streets of Hawkinsville.”

Alberto's brows raised in confusion. What the hell kind of a game was Michael trying to play? Alberto knew that he should be raging because of Michael's words about his being a half-wit. But hearing all this other garble confused him to the point of speechlessness. He pushed his chair back and tipped it to rest on two legs, still studying Michael. There had to be a reason behind Michael's drab clothes. There had to be a reason behind this story he had just made up. Damn. Alberto had to know. After the poker game, he would follow Michael from the house and confront him. Maybe then he might even knock the hell out of Michael for talking so casually of Maria, as though he had never even known her, and for speaking so loosely of Alberto's mind not being right.

But now Alberto was ready to play poker. His insides were glowing, thinking to have those cards in his hands once again. He could even forget his brief moment with Ruby, and how he had failed once again at becoming a full man. He pulled his chair back to the table, feeling his heart thumping wildly against his ribs.

“And what's your pleasure, gents?” Michael said, straightening the cards, ready to deal them.

A dark-skinned man, attired in a brown woolen suit with an initial of “B” sewn on his suit pocket leaned forward and said, “The usual.” A diamond stickpin twinkled in blues and golds from his silk cravat and his dark hair was slicked down with pomade and parted in
the middle. His dark eyes moved from man to man as his fingers worked with his neatly trimmed moustache. “Five card stud. Jacks or better to open,” he added. He placed two one-dollar bills in the center of the table. “And an ante of two dollars should suffice,” he grumbled further.

Michael watched this man's eyes. Was he one to be trusted? Could he be one of Nathan Hawkins's men? Then his eyes moved to the next man. He was being much too quiet. This man's blue eyes traveled from man to man, almost suspiciously, then he placed his ante in the middle of the table, saying, “Suits me fine.”

Alberto laughed gruffly, placing his own ante atop the other bills. “Just beans,” he said. “When this night is over, you'll see just who is the greatest at playing this game of poker.” He looked at Michael, sneering. What luck to have run into him this night. Alberto's other problems had quickly dissolved from his mind. He had been anxious to play Michael a game of poker. He had been anxious to beat him all to hell. If not by fists, then in the next best way—with the skillfulness with which Alberto now knew how to play this game with cards. So far, luck had been with him.

Alberto knew that Maria hadn't been the only one to play games with the Lazzaro family. Since Alberto's first night at Ruby's, he had been winning at poker and had been hiding his money away from the rest of the family. At times, he had felt guilt for this, but mostly he had felt hope for the future. His future. He had plans. He was going to be able to move from Hawkinsville. He was going to have his own place of business in Creal Springs. Then he could take his Papa away from this
hell hole of a town. But he could only do this by saving his winnings. If his winnings were used for household expenses, he would go the way of all the other immigrants. The household expenses would be paid … but nothing else. No. He couldn't let himself feel guilty for what he was doing. Maria had hidden her own jar of money. Why couldn't he?

The other ante was placed atop Alberto's money, then Michael began to deal the cards until all were holding five cards apiece in their hands. Low grumbles surfaced from all around the table, and even Alberto joined in. Damn. He hadn't gotten openers. He glanced over at Michael. Had he?

Michael clenched a fist on his lap, studying his cards. Damn. No openers. He glanced over at Alberto. Had he any?

“Well?” Michael finally said, looking all around him. He placed his cards on the table, face down, and lit a fresh cigar. The man next to him lit a cigarette, scowling. “Check,” the man said, slapping his cards face down onto the table, looking at the next man.

Many grumbles of “check” floated around the table, then all threw their cards onto a pile in the middle of the table and anted again. The cards were dealt a second, then a third time, then Alberto smiled broadly. He had drawn better than openers. He had drawn four of a kind. He looked the cards over once again, then glanced around the table, his gaze stopping at Michael. He tensed. Didn't he see something in Michael's eyes? A glimmer of sorts? Had Michael also drawn something as great as Alberto? Damn. Alberto so wanted to beat the hell out of Michael. He had waited so long for
such an opportunity. He would never forget the way Michael had kissed Maria on the ship. . ..

Michael's pulsebeat quickened. He glanced first at the outspread cards in his hand, then with a furrowed brow, looked quickly at Alberto. He chewed on his cigar, studying Alberto's expression. In his dark eyes, Michael could see something similar to triumph. Damn. What the hell had Alberto drawn? Michael wanted to beat the hell out of this bastard who had caused him nothing but trouble since the first time he had laid eyes on him on that death ship.

Michael glanced back down at his cards, seeing that he would be drawing into a straight flush. If only he could be dealt an eight of Clubs. Then he would have it made!

The dealer looked toward Michael. “What's your bet?”

“One dollar,” he mumbled. He would try to bluff his way through this. He didn't want anyone to suspect such a great hand.

The bet moved around to Alberto. “Okay. I'll call you,” he grumbled, feeling a twitching of his cheek, knowing that bluffing was the best way. Yeah. That's what he'd do. Bluff. He glanced toward Michael and saw Michael's eyebrows tilt in surprise. Alberto wanted to laugh, but instead glanced on around the table to the next man who was the next to bet, then the next, until it was time to discard.

The dealer took a deep drag from the cigarette that was hanging from the corner of his mouth, blew the smoke out, then asked, “How many cards, Lazzaro?”

Alberto straightened his back and said, “One.”

All faces quickly turned toward him, making Alberto smile smugly. He knew that his bluff was fast coming to an end.'But it was time… .

“How many cards, uh, what did you say your last name was?” the dealer asked, looking toward Michael. He moved his cigarette around with the tip of his tongue, then puffed on it once again.

Michael ran a hand through his hair, then mumbled, “I didn't say.” He eyed the man suspiciously, then added, “But you can call me Michael. And how many cards do I want?” He laughed a bit throatily, glancing toward Alberto. “One. I need one.”

Alberto's face drained of color. Damn. Could Michael. .. ? He placed his cards face down on the table in front of him after throwing in his discard. When the dealer dealt him his one requested card, Alberto shuffled it into his other four and picked them up; continuing to shuffle them in his hands, almost afraid to look at them. If Michael had only needed one card, Alberto knew that his own chances weren't so great. He continued to shuffle the cards, watching Michael's expression as he lifted his dealt card before his eyes. Alberto's heartbeat faltered when he saw Michael's light up in various colors of blues, and his face flush a rose color. Then when the bet was passed on around to Alberto, he tossed in ten one-dollar bills, knowing he would have even bet more if ten hadn't been the limit set down on the first bet passed around the table.

Then when all the men dropped out and Michael was the only one left to call Alberto's hand, Alberto grumbled, “I'll raise you ten more dollars.” He threw
out ten more one-dollar bills.

All grew silent in the room. It seemed that even the three men who were now only observers had ceased to breathe. The continuation of spiraling smoke in the air was the only indication that there were more in the room besides Alberto and Michael.

“Okay. I'll call you,” Michael said, slapping his money on the table. He glanced down at his cards, seeing his three, four, five, six and seven of Clubs. He had hoped for an eight, but having been lucky enough to be given the three, he knew that had been just as good. His heart pounded wildly. He chewed and puffed on the cigar, waiting for Alberto to reveal his hand.

Alberto glanced downward at his cards, trembling inside. It was at times like this that he was reminded of the weak side of himself. He felt as though he might retch from the excitement. His four twos and Jack of Spades normally would be a winner for sure. But he had to remember that Michael had also drawn only one more card.

“Well? Alberto?” Michael prodded, growing impatient. He placed his cigar on an ashtray, spreading his cards out face down, close to the middle of the table, letting Alberto and the rest of the men see them.

“Ah hell,” Alberto grumbled, then spread his cards out onto the table, face up. He felt the sickness at the pit of his stomach increase in intensity when he heard a low, throaty laughter emerge from deep inside Michael. I'm beaten, Alberto thought to himself. Or why the laugh . .. ? He watched as Michael flipped the cards over, face side up, one by one, until all five were revealed to the staring eyes of all the men, who had
grown even more stone silent.

“Well, I'll be damned,” Alberto said, hitting his fist against the table top. “I'll be damned. A damned straight flush.”

“Got cha beat,-Alberto oP boy. Four of a kind just isn't good enough,” Michael laughed, scooping the money over in front of him. “Ready for another hand?”

“You bet,” Alberto said, already counting money, placing it in the middle of the table. “You'd better know I am. I'm going to beat your pants off, if I have to play you all night.”

Michael laughed, scooting his cards to the gentleman next to him. “Deal,” he said, fitting his fingertips together in front of him, still watching Alberto.

The card game went on for hours. Michael would win one hand, then Alberto, with an occasional win from one of the other men at the table. When midnight was drawing nigh, Michael and Alberto had won an even number of hands. And when they were the only two left at the gambling table, Michael slapped the cards down on the table and scooted the chair back and said, “Well, I guess that's all for now.” He watched Alberto amusedly, seeing that he appeared to be upset by this night's cards.

Alberto slammed his cards on the table, then placed his winnings inside his front breeches pocket. “None of this turned out the way I wanted it to,” he grumbled.