Читать книгу Selectively Lawless - Asa Dunnington - Страница 9

Chapter 1

Emmett Guy Long was born in Pottsboro, Texas, in the middle of Grayson County in 1904. That was also the year Henry Ford set a new land speed record of just over ninety-one miles an hour on a frozen lakebed in Michigan, Teddy Roosevelt was reelected president of the United States, and New Year’s Eve was celebrated in Times Square for the very first time.

Pottsboro was home to fewer than four hundred people back then, and it’s barely more than 2000 now, so most things change a lot more slowly there, as was true in the many small towns in which Emmett lived during his formative years.

He was the fourth of nine children, almost all of whom lived to adulthood, born to itinerant sharecroppers who moved from farm to farm and crop to crop, working the land with their children in exchange for food and shelter and a hardscrabble existence while attending whatever church was nearby (but preferably a Methodist one).

His father, John, would offer to preach at any church with a vacant pulpit and a hankering for a layman’s stem-winder, making sure Etta Lee and the kids were all lined up in the very front pew, their faces freshly scrubbed and their clothes always homemade.

At the age of fourteen, while the rest of the family was hunkered over in a blazing Texas cotton field, Emmett suddenly rose up from the dirt between the endless rows of cotton, stretched his back, and handed his burlap collection sack to his sister Carmen.

“Carm,” he said. “I picked my last.”

Carmen, who was a hard worker, barely looked up. “What are you talkin’ about?” She laughed before turning more serious. “Better get back to work ’fore Daddy catches you.”

“I’m leavin’, Carm.”

“Leavin’?”

Now Emmett had his sister’s undivided attention. “Next time you see me, I’ll be drivin’ a brand-new car with a fistful of cash in my pocket.”

Before Carmen could pick her jaw up out of the dirt and respond, Emmett had stridden away, his back as straight as a carpenter’s edge. He later said it was not just the backbreaking fieldwork but also the Methodist upbringing that finally got to him. “If we’d been Baptists, I’da left two years sooner.”

Emmett had seen how hard his father worked to support his family and how hard the family worked in return, and he decided at a fairly young age that while the benefits of “honest labor” were many, he wasn’t averse to searching out a few shortcuts on the road to prosperity.

And that road, on that day, left Pottsboro and turned due south through Grayson County, leading to his cousin Decimer Green’s place. Decimer Green had a reputation in Grayson and several other counties as either a card shark or a card cheat, depending on how much the person had lost and how amenable they were to losing at cards to a woman.

The fact was that Decimer was such a good poker player that she didn’t have to cheat, although the general rule with cards is that the better you play, the more you understand how to win—both legitimately and illegitimately.

If you want to know how to get away with murder, just ask a homicide detective.

So, Cousin Decimer took Emmett under her wing and taught him everything she knew about stud poker, draw poker, blind poker, and every other kind of poker, none of which she considered “gambling,” which was lesson number one.

“Emmett,” she said, “always remember: there’s no such thing as gambling. There’s only winning.”

Well, maybe Cousin Decimer did occasionally mark a deck or two.

Emmett never forgot those words or their meaning, and for the rest of his life, he dedicated his efforts to winning as much as he possibly could, one way or another. No one he played cards with went very long before hearing him repeat Decimer’s words, usually after losing another hand to him.

Emmett took to cards like a duck to water, and after only a couple of months, he rivaled his mentor in ability, so she sent him packing with an entire case of brand-new decks.

“There’s only room for one of us in Grayson County,” she told him, only half joking, but Emmett didn’t mind.

He had plans for fistfuls of cash and brand-new cars, and he suspected those things would come a lot more quickly elsewhere than in tiny Grayson County, although later in life he’d learn there was always money to be found, no matter where you traveled.

Now he had the wherewithal; it was just a matter of where.

Emmett hit the road, hopping trains and hitching rides, taking odd jobs when he had to and making his way west, just as Horace Greeley had advised that young fella some fifty years before. He was bigger than most fourteen-year-olds but not yet the imposing figure he would later become, with a shock of thick black hair and a strong, pleasant way about him.

By the time he made Benson, Arizona, he was itching to make some real money, so Emmett checked into the nicest hotel in town, which was also the only hotel in town, Benson being little more than a rail junction between Tombstone and Tucson. But he’d seen a vast herd of cattle a few miles outside town, and Emmett was sharp enough to know that where there were cattle, there was money. He might have quit school after the third grade, but he would eventually earn a PhD in life, and that more than made up for what he’d missed in the classroom.

Emmett buddied up to the desk clerk as soon as he settled in.

“S’cuse me, sir. Can you tell me about this hotel?”

The clerk looked him up and down. Emmett seemed a little young to be on his own in a place like Benson, but he shrugged it off. “What do you wanna know?”

“You offer any extra . . . amenities?” Emmett asked innocently.

“‘Amenities’?”

“You know. Food, games . . . maybe a little gambling.”

The clerk gave him a sly smile. The kid was young, but he knew what he wanted. He leaned across the counter. “Got a game in back. Straight poker.”

Emmett smiled. “Who plays?”

The clerk was more impressed with each question Emmett asked. “Local ranchers.”

Emmett nodded. He didn’t say anything for a moment, waiting for the desk clerk to offer him a spot at the table, but the older man was sharp, too. He knew better than to offer up a favor for free before it was even asked.

“Think you could get me into that game?” Emmett asked.

“I reckon I could.” Unspoken was, If you make it worth my while.

Emmett took out a couple of bills, nearly the balance of his stash from his last job building a fence for a farmer outside Douglas. But if the game was all local ranchers, he had a feeling there would be plenty of money to replace his “entry fee.”

He slid the money across the counter, and it vanished in a practiced motion so quickly Emmett figured the clerk could moonlight as a magician.

Which was a very good sign.

If the clerk was used to being bribed for a seat at the table, that meant the table was worth spending money on. On the other hand, Emmett himself could be the mark. As the saying goes among card players, “If you look around the table and don’t see the sucker, that means the sucker’s you.”

He’d soon find out.

“Tell me about these ranchers,” he said.

After the clerk gave him a rundown on the various personalities who would be playing that night, Emmett went back up to his room and returned with several of his “special” decks. “When I run my fingers through my hair like this,” he said, demonstrating for the clerk, “bring in these.”

The clerk chuckled. This kid is something else. But he remained noncommittal, so Emmett slid another bill across the counter, his last, and it disappeared as quickly as the other two had. The clerk smiled. “You got it.”

Emmett made sure to walk in a minute or two past seven o’clock that evening, not wanting to seem too eager and knowing the players would probably engage in a little small talk before they sat down.

Sure enough, the players were all standing around the table chatting and smoking cigars when Emmett walked in the door, immediately quieting the room. Emmett knew the moment was very important, since you never get a second chance to make a first impression.

He smiled amiably at what appeared to be a very prosperous assemblage of farmers and ranchers who had no idea the young kid who had just walked in was about to pick their pockets. “Hey there, fellers,” he said. “Sorry I’m late.”

One of the men laughed. “Where you from, son?”

“Emmett Long from Pottsboro, Texas,” Emmett answered and stuck out his hand.

The big man shook it and laughed. “We’re just gettin’ started,” he said, and everyone relaxed. “Grab a chair, boys. Emmett Long from Pottsboro, Texas, has arrived.”

The big man settled in and started shuffling the cards. “Name’s John Mackey,” he said. “Game’s straight poker.” He suddenly stopped what he was doing and looked across the table at Emmett, staring intently. The entire room was silent for a very long moment. “Straight poker all right with you?”

Emmett grinned. “Looks like it’s my lucky night, fellers,” he blurted. “That’s all I know how to play!” The entire room burst into laughter.

“Oh, we’re gonna get along just fine, Emmett Long from Pottsboro, Texas!”

And for the first hour and a half, they did. The winning hands were distributed fairly evenly, with Emmett watching the other players carefully without appearing to do so, memorizing their “tells,” which were apparent almost immediately across the board. The big man, John Mackey, would actually give his cards a tiny nod when he had a winning hand, which told Emmett he was either none too sharp or had so much money he didn’t mind losing it or both.

A quiet farmer in overalls who told Emmett to just call him “Bud” would always steal a glance at Mackey when his cards were promising, which Emmett took to mean there was some sort of personal rivalry between the two.

Sometimes the “tells” were about not just the cards themselves but personalities. A man who wanted to beat one player more than another might bet more recklessly when that player stayed in, for example, which was good to know. Emmett had a natural instinct not just for poker but for human behavior, which is what separates the good players from the great ones.

Emmett looked at the clock. A quarter to nine. He figured he’d better make a move, since farmers and ranchers would no doubt make it an early night.

He ran his fingers through his hair and glanced at the clerk.

The man was dozing in the corner!

Emmett cleared his throat and ran his fingers through his hair once more, and this time, the clerk noticed. Bud took the next pot, and the clerk leaned across the table, intercepting the old deck, which was being passed to Mackey. “You fellas about ready for another deck?”

Everyone either nodded or grunted their assent, and Emmett sat up slightly, sharpening his concentration.

A gambler never knows when he’s going to win. A winner always knows, Emmett always said.

By ten o’clock, Emmett had won nearly a thousand dollars. He took care to fold early once or twice, but he won the majority of the hands for the rest of the night. He also took care never to show any emotion, no matter how large the pot.

As the game was breaking up, Mackey suddenly bellowed, “Hell’s bells, Anderson, what kind of cheatin’ cowboy did you let in here?” The big man was staring intently at the clerk, who, to Emmett’s horror, completely froze.

Emmett knew immediately that John was playing with the clerk, basically doing the same thing to him that he’d done to Emmett when he’d stopped shuffling the cards at the beginning of the night.

The clerk was about to blow the whole thing with that guilty look on his face, and as one second of silence stretched to three and then four, Emmett knew he had to do something himself.

So, he answered the question.

“Emmett Long from Pottsboro, Texas!” he said, in a passable impression of the big man’s earlier exclamations.

The entire table looked from the clerk to Emmett, and then Mackey busted out laughing again, followed by the rest of the men.

“I like this kid,” Mackey said. “Even though he’s one lucky son of a bitch!”

As the men filed out of the room, Emmett nodded slightly to the clerk and went outside for a smoke, waving to the men as they left.

He didn’t notice Mackey wasn’t among them.

Emmett went back inside. The hotel was quiet, and the clerk was nowhere to be found, so he went upstairs to his room, savoring a successful night.

He unlocked his door and entered the room, which was dark except for a sliver of moonlight peeking through the tiny separation between the curtains. Emmett walked over to the bed and then froze. Someone was in the room with him.

“Turn around nice and slow, cowboy.”

Emmett’s mind worked furiously as he turned around in the darkness, assessing the distance to the window, which was unfortunately shut, and the door, which was closed as well.

Two dark figures slowly moved toward him. Emmett tensed and balled his fists. He was never one to back down from a fight, and he wasn’t about to start now.

Then the light went on, and Mackey was standing there with a serious look on his face. Behind him, the desk clerk looked slightly sheepish, because he’d obviously let the big man into Emmett’s room.

“You can go, Anderson.”

The clerk turned and left the room quickly, not meeting Emmett’s eyes.

Emmett relaxed his fighting stance and waited. He figured the big man was armed, although he didn’t show it. A man like that wouldn’t go up to a stranger’s room, particularly a stranger who’d just cheated him out of several hundred dollars, without the odds stacked in his favor.

“I got a proposition for you, Emmett Long from Pottsboro, Texas.”

It just so happened that Mackey had known Emmett was cheating as soon as the decks were switched, but he couldn’t figure out how, and that impressed him. Emmett accepted the compliment warily. He was pretty sure by now that Mackey hadn’t come up to his room to do him harm, but he was still on guard.

When Mackey finally revealed his purpose, Emmett couldn’t have been more surprised.

The big man wanted to hire Emmett as a ranch hand.

“Uh, no thanks, Mister Mackey,” Emmett said. “I’ve had my fill of that kind of work.”

The big man shook his head. “I don’t want you to actually work, son. I want you to play poker.”

The cowboys who worked Mackey’s ranch typically played poker every night, and their boss had gotten an idea about how he could take back some of his payroll while watching Emmett fleece the table of ranchers, himself included.

Emmett thought about it. “How does it go?”

“I hire you on, make sure you’re ‘in training’ with an easy job so you don’t have to work too hard. You stay fresh for the games, and you win as much from those cowboys as you can. Fifty-fifty split.”

“What about your men?”

“Hell, son, they’d just blow it on girls and liquor, anyway. You’ll be savin’ ’em from the evils of alcohol and a case of the clap!” he said, laughing.

“You can buy liquor out here?” Emmett asked. Prohibition had been passed earlier in the year.

Big John put his arm around Emmett and walked himself to the door. “Son, this is America. You can buy anything you want if you have the money. Pick you up first thing in the morning. Don’t disappoint me and run off, now.”

Emmett got the distinct feeling that Big John Mackey would be a little more than just “disappointed” if he didn’t cooperate.

He stayed put, and for the next six weeks, Emmett “worked” all day and played poker all night, winning several thousand dollars until the well ran dry and the cowboys were ranch bound without the money to spend on liquor or women or, more importantly, gambling. So Emmett decided to take his stake even deeper into the Wild West. This was fine with Mackey, as Emmett was leaving him with the equivalent of several weeks’ free labor from his ranch hands.

“Where you headed, son?” Mackey asked.

“Always wanted to see the ocean,” Emmett answered.

“California, huh? If I was a younger man, I’d tag along.”

Emmett laughed at that, and Mackey joined him. They both knew there were probably lots of places not big enough for the two of them.

They shook hands, and the big man took Emmett to the bus station, and he rode out to the West Coast in style, with a fistful of cash in his pocket.

Now all he needed was a car.