Tom
Little
Beale said Sole was nothing to worry
about. Beale said he had enough troubles of his own, seeing as he
was asking questions about the Black Wave. Beale, however, has half
of New York City in his pocket. There’s a lot of people who just
can’t afford to have ‘the Ratface’ die and his personal papers go public.
I, on the other hand, don’t have that kind of protection, and I tend to
consider anyone who could break me in half without breaking a sweat something
to worry about.
There was no telling just what he knew. He might not see things in the same light as I did – he might not understand that a guy has to look after himself first no matter how he feels personally – which is why I split with him and Pucelli at the first opportunity.
“Little!” I turned to Beale. I swear, Manny gets positive glee out of calling me by my last name. Granted, there aren’t many Beale can call ‘little.’ He packs more ego into fewer inches than anyone since Napolean. “Practicin’?” he smirked, watching me shuffle a deck of cards.
“Who says I need practice?” I retorted, irritated that I hadn’t seen him enter. I never show anyone my back if I can help it. That’s just plain good sense.
“Dere’s a high player downstairs,” Beale replied. He sucked his lip thoughtfully, a habit which never failed to make me cringe – the amount of dirt that clung to Manny Beale, I was surprised he hadn’t caught cholera and left the world a little cleaner. “Young,” he said thoughtfully. “Desperate,” he added approvingly. “An’ he’s on yer table.”
“My table ain’t open until midnight,” I reminded him testily. I didn’t like to have my time wasted; I preferred to wait until the riff-raff had been culled out.
“He’s on yer table,” Beale repeated. “He’s a good one.”
I shot him a scalding look, but got up. The Ratface got under my skin like no one else, but I couldn’t afford to annoy him. That, of course, was why he got under my skin. Half of New York may have been in the same boat, but I didn’t have to like it.
I saw the kid as soon as I came downstairs and I had to agree with Beale’s assessment. Nineteen or twenty, I estimated, taking in ragged, dark hair, wide blue eyes, and the hint of a shadow around his chin that suggested he needed to shave. From his pinched expression and the way he rocked on the balls of his feet and tugged at the frayed cuffs of his sleeves, I could tell he was on edge – which in this context meant he needed fast money and would be willing to take risks for it. But what made Manny peg him as a high player, I couldn’t tell. The desperate are more likely to be low on cash, not less. Since, whatever he thought, Beale was not the brains of the partnership, I concluded the Ratface had dirt on the kid.
Welcome to the club.
I held out a hand. When you’re about to clean a guy out of cash, the least you can do is be polite. “Tom Little.”
One didn’t get into the Nickel without knowing who ran the place, but if the kid was impressed, he didn’t show it. That irritated me. He could show a bit of respect, at least.
Two or three spectators drifted over, having cleaned out already. They wanted to see who the big timer was who’d brought Tom out an hour early. I didn’t mind. An audience never bothered me, and if the kid was disturbed by it, well . . . too bad for him.
“Let’s play.”
The kid beat me. The kid beat me. Beat me. Beat the house at the Silver Nickel. I stared at the cards on the table. He’d introduced himself as Roger McCoy, which I doubted, but they say it takes one liar to catch another. My name isn’t Tom Little.
That was all beside the point. He beat me.
“I want a job,” he said.
He what?
“I want a job,” McCoy repeated, as though I'd somehow been stricken deaf. “I want to play for the house. Split my winnings fifty-fifty.”
I was still too busy nursing the shock to my pride to answer him, but I didn’t need to.
“Ya’ll take thoity,” said Beale. He wasn’t bargaining. He meant it, and McCoy knew it. So there, over my head, was hired the only poker player on the face of the earth to beat Thomas Little.
“Stewin’ ovah DeSole?” Beale asked later, smirking.
I glared at him. I don’t like losing. Then again, that was right. I had been worrying about DeSole. I might not have realized it, but he must have been on my mind. I was distracted. There was no other way a fresh-faced kid like that could have beaten me.
Beale chuckled, an annoyingly smug sound. "If yer dat worried, get yaself a place in da River Cats an' watch 'im."
Get into the River Cats. Well, thank you, Beale, for your brilliant suggestion. “And jus’ how do ya propose doin’ dat?”
The Ratface snorted at my response. “Ya wanna know what DeSole’s up ta, dat’s wheah ya go. I told ya ta leave well enough alone.”
“Yer hide ain’t at stake, heah,” I retorted. “Sole won’t touch you.” Actually, I wasn’t so sure about that. There was no telling what Sam DeSole would or wouldn’t dare when his temper was roused.
Much as I hated to admit it, the Ratface was right. But so was I. Gangs like the River Cats didn’t exactly have a personnel office for walk-in applications. Pickpockets might be drafted in, but I was no pickpocket. Society scams, poker games and ladies’ bedrooms were my preferred territory – with the occasional heist on the side when I was strapped for cash. I don’t like break and entries – they have no class.
So, somehow, I thought the next night, dealing in the Widow, a girl named Sidestep, and a kid named Zachary with a disturbing eye for the ladies, I had to get myself enlisted into the gang and make it look purely accidental on my part. A robbery maybe – who could be blamed if two parties just happened to pick the same mark on the same night? I’d have to ask Beale for help, distasteful as that was, but he owed me a favor for once.
It was a good game. Challenging enough not to be boring, but easy enough that I never had any doubt of winning. I glanced at McCoy’s table. Beale had to have helped him. Slipped in a new deck with different markings, maybe. No one, beat Tom Little. That’s just all there was to it.
to be continued . . .