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Authors: J. Roberts

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BOOK: The Hunt for Clint Adams
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“It was given to me by a friend.”
“And who might that be?”
“A man named Black Jack Mulligan.”
Orchid laughed, looked at the bouncer, then back at Clint.
“Ah, yes, the colorful Black Jack Mulligan. Why didn't he come himself?”
“He was shot.”
“Oh, no,” Orchid said. “He's not dead, I hope.”
“No, he's recovering, but not quickly enough to come here. So he gave the card to me.”
“Why you?” Orchid wondered aloud.
“I was with him when he got shot. In fact, we were both shot at, but he was unlucky enough to be hit.”
“So you've come here to see if your good luck holds, then?”
“I don't usually rely on good luck at the poker table,” Clint said.
“I see. But you rely on your gun?”
“All the time.”
“Well,” Orchid said, ostensibly to the bouncer, although he was still looking at Clint, “I guess this is where we ask the gentleman his name.”
“Adams,” Clint said, “Clint Adams.”
Orchid stared at him for a few moments, then said, “Well, I guess we know why the gent wants to hold onto his gun, don't we, Dennis?”
“Yes, sir,” the bouncer said.
Orchid stepped aside and said, “This way please, Mr. Adams. And welcome.”
TWENTY-FOUR
The next room was dominated by a large round table covered with green felt. Against one wall was a bar with a pretty woman behind it, playing bartender. In front of the bar were a collection of men vying for her attention.
“Help yourself to the bar,” Orchid said. “We're waiting for one more gent.”
“I'll introduce myself.”
“You do that,” Orchid said, slapping Clint on the back. “I'm sure they'll all be thrilled that the Gunsmith is replacing Black Jack Mulligan.”
Clint wasn't sure if he was kidding or not. He walked over to the bar, but the lady bartender was still holding the attention of the five men standing there.
“I couldn't possibly have dinner with all of you,” she was saying.
“Forget about them,” one of the men said. “By the time this game is over they won't have enough money to buy you breakfast.”
“Ho, that's what you think, mate,” another man said in a British accent.
One of the men noticed Clint and said, “Hey, we got a new shooter.”
All five men turned to look at Clint. He didn't know any of them.
“Would you like a drink?” the woman asked.
“Just a beer, if you have it there,” he said. “Thank you.”
“Comin' up!”
Apparently she had a keg behind the bar and quickly drew him a beer. The other men were all holding whiskey glasses. He was glad to see that. He hoped they drank during the game, too.
“I'll make the introductions,” one of them said. “Better than everybody talkin'.”
“Go ahead,” one of the others said.
“These are Eddie Cipriot, Billy Boyington, Jeff Stinson, Danny King, and I'm Louie Mannix.”
“Edward,” Cipriot said. Cipriot, the Brit, was in his forties and impeccably dressed in an expensive black suit with a flower on his lapel. “Edward Cipriot. Why is it, Mr. Mannix, then when you give someone's name it always as an
ee
on the end?” Cipriot stepped forward to shake hands with Clint.
“Except for me,” Jeff Stinson said. He pointed at Louie Mannix. “Don't call me Jeffy.” He shook hands, as well.
“I prefer Bill,” Boyington said, raising his glass.
“Just call me a winner,” Danny King said.
Boyington looked to be fifty, which was probably why he didn't want to be called Billy. Stinson, King, and Mannix all looked like they were in their mid- to late thirties. Clint wondered how they had money for a big private game. Probably rich boys.
“And your name?” Mannix asked.
“Don't think you can put an
ee
on the end of mine,” Clint said. “It's Clint, Clint Adams.”
“Clint—Clint Adams?” Louie Mannix had been leaning on the bar. Now he stood straight up.
“I say,” Cipriot said, “you wouldn't be that chap they call the Gunsmith, would you?”
“I'm afraid I am.”
They all stared at him.
“Well,” King said, “I hear you're not a bad poker player.”
“Who told you that?”
“Him!” King said, pointing past Clint.
He turned and saw that the final player had arrived.
“I saw him earlier today,” King said, “asked him a lot of questions about people he'd played with. He talked about you. Did he know you were coming?”
“No,” Clint said, “and I didn't know he was coming, either.”
The man walked across the room and extended his hand to Clint.
“Didn't know you were gonna be here,” the man said.
“I didn't know you were going to be here, either, Bat.”
They shook hands, then Clint turned to the others and said, “Gents, meet Bat Masterson.”
“Welcome to you all,” Harry Orchid said moments later. “The game will begin in a few moments. I just need to collect all your bank drafts.”
All the men stepped forward and handed over their bank drafts. Clint and Bat were standing by the bar.
“I didn't know how much to bring,” Clint said.
“Don't worry about it,” Bat said. “I'll cover you if it comes to that.”
Orchid approached them.
“Gents.”
“Don't have a bank draft,” Clint said. “Mulligan didn't tell me about that part.”
“I can cover him,” Bat offered.
“No problem,” Orchid said. “Mr. Adams's reputation speaks for itself. What bank are you with?”
Clint gave him one of the banks in which he had an account. “First National Bank of Chicago.”
Orchid smiled and said, “That'll do. Have a seat, gents.”
Bat handed over his bank draft.
“How much are we starting with?” Clint asked.
“A thousand each.”
Clint whistled low. “Times seven?”
“It's good money.”
“I'll say.”
“It's all stud,” Bat said. “Five- or seven-card. Orchid doesn't play. He's just the host. He gets a small percentage at the end of the night.”
“Did you know him before this?”
“No, never heard of him until he contacted me. The game sounded too good to pass up.”
“What was your invitation?”
“Half of a king of spades. Yours?”
Clint told him.
“I got it from a man called Black Jack Mulligan.”
“Never heard of him,” Bat said. “And I never heard of any of these fellas.” Bat looked at him. “Should be you or me at the end.”
“Or you and me,” Clint said.
“Wanna split?”
“Nope,” Clint said. “Every man for himself.”
Bat grinned and said, “Agreed. Let's go.”
As all the men took their seats Harry Orchid stood behind the dealer. “One last thing,” he said.
“What's that?” Bat asked.
“No watches,” he said. “They'll be returned when you bust out, or when the game is done.”
They all put their watches in the center of the table. The dealer raked them in like a winning pot.
“All right,” Harry Orchid said, taking the watches from the dealer. “Good luck to you all.”
TWENTY-FIVE
Bat sat directly across from Clint at the table. The pretty bartender turned out to be more than that. She was the dealer.
She sat down, cracked a fresh deck, expertly discarded the jokers—tearing them in two—and mixed the cards up.
“The first session will be two hours,” she said, “followed by a fifteen-minute break. Each player is allowed one three-minute break per hour. There is a room down the hall with indoor facilities to relieve yourselves.”
“Can't do much in three minutes,” King said.
“Pee and button up,” Mannix said. “That's good enough.”
“We'll play dealer's choice,” she said. “Each of you will have the right to choose five- or seven-card stud. When one player is eliminated, we can then include five-card draw.”
“Good,” Cipriot said. “Stud will get boring, soon enough.”
“Only if you lose,” Bat Masterson said.
“Gentlemen,” the dealer said, “first deal.”
“Hold it,” Louie Mannix said. “What's your name, sweet thing?”
She looked at him and smiled. The woman looked about thirty, with clear, pale skin; blue eyes; and light brown hair tied back in a ponytail. She wore black pants and a crisp white shirt.
“As far as you're concerned,” she said, “I'm the dealer.”
At the end of two hours, all the players were still in the game, but two of them only just. Clint and Bat were both ahead.
The bar remained open, but while the girl was dealing she wasn't the bartender, so each man got his own drinks. Three of them—Mannix, King and Stinson—drank steadily during the game. Their drink of choice was whiskey. Boyington drank beer. Cipriot, Bat, and Clint didn't drink anything except some water.
They broke for the fifteen minutes and the dealer became the bartender again.
As Clint was standing next to Bat, Harry Orchid came up next to them.
“How's it going?” he asked.
“Good for us,” Bat said, “not so good for everyone else.”
“Who are these fellows, anyway?” Clint asked.
“I'll bet you have them figured,” Orchid said. “Rich boys who wanted to play poker with real gamblers.”
“And the real gamblers were Bat, Cipriot, and Mulligan?” Clint asked.
“Supposed to be,” Orchid said, “but now they got a bonus: you.”
“What's the girl's name?” Clint asked. “She won't say.”
“She's the bartender, and the dealer,” Orchid said. “That's all you need to know.”
“Okay,” Clint said.
“At least until the end of the game,” Orchid said with a smile.
 
When they sat back down at the table the dealer said, “Another two-hour session, same rules.”
“Deal,” Mannix said, slurring his words. “I got money to win back.”
Twenty minutes later, Louie Mannix was out of the game. Orchid walked him out.
“Draw poker is now in play,” the dealer said. “Mr. Cipriot? Your turn to call the game.”
“Good,” Cipriot said, “then we shall go with draw poker.”
“Cards comin' out,” the dealer said.
At the end of the first hour, Danny King was gone. They were down to five players, and only Stinson was drinking.
By the end of the second session, he too was gone, and they were down to four.
 
“They're dropping like flies,” Bat said.
“The ones who are drinking, anyway,” Clint reasoned. “Now we have four players who will be concentrating.”
“The game should get better,” Bat said.
“Four hours,” Clint said. “Even drinking, most men would last longer than that.”
“They weren't very good,” Bat said.
They were standing together at one end of the bar. The other two—Cipriot and Boyington—had gone down the hall in turn, and were now standing at the other end.
“Mr. Orchid needs to host some better games if he wants to keep this going,” Bat said.
“You could give him some advice,” Clint suggested.
“If he'll take it,” Bat said. “I guess we'll have to wait and see.”
“Gentlemen,” the bartender said, “the third session is about to start.”
“How about some food?” Boyington said.
She looked at him. “All you had to do was ask. We'll have some sandwiches brought in. You can eat while you play.”
Clint caught her eye and said, “Coffee?”
She smiled at him. “You bet.”
TWENTY-SIX
Sandwiches and coffee were brought in, and the players ate while the game continued. Harry Orchid was in and out during the night, but Clint figured he must have gone to bed at some point.
The dealer was replaced for two hours by another dealer, also a pretty woman, but then the original one came back in.
There was one window in the room. At the first sign of light, Boyington busted out of the game, and they were down to the three real gamblers. Well, Clint thought of Bat and Cipriot as the real gamblers. He never considered himself anything but a talented amateur.
“When do you turn in?” Clint asked the dealer during another break.
“I had a two-hour nap,” she said. “That's all I need.”
No one was drinking, so there was no further need for the bar, or a bartender. More coffee appeared in the morning, along with some bacon-and-egg biscuits.
Clint felt the effects of being up all night. Bat looked a little worse for wear. Remarkably, the Brit still looked impeccable.
Harry Orchid appeared later that morning, in time to watch the end of a hand.
It was five-card stud. There were four cards on the table. Clint had a three, a six, and an eight showing, all different suits; Bat had a nine, king and a jack, different suits; and Cipriot held a queen of hearts and two black sevens.
“Mr. Cipriot bets,” the dealer said.
Cipriot was third on the table in cash, and decided he better push. He had about fifteen thousand.
“Five thousand,” he said.
Bat said, “Call.”
BOOK: The Hunt for Clint Adams
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