Читать книгу Woman in Ambush - Rex Beach - Страница 7

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AUTUMN had come and Jimmy the Lark was heading south. He and Ronnie had put in an entertaining though financially profitless summer, and had finally reached Cairo, Illinois, where they were awaiting the arrival of a passenger steamer. Jim knew the captain, and declared he would welcome them as his guests on the downriver run. Ronnie was skeptical.

“If the captain won’t take us on as passengers, we could work our way down,” he suggested to Jim. “We could wash dishes, peel potatoes, wait on table.”

“And rob some hard-working crew hand of his livelihood?” The Lark was shocked. “That’s selfish and inhuman. I’m surprised at you, Ronnie. If the Law was after us and we had to move, I’d consider it. But we’re as clean as a couple of robins. Something will turn up.”

That evening, starting with nothing, Jim made a modest winning in a barroom poker game. Then, feigning mild intoxication, he amused some of the patrons by boasting of his fleetness of foot. Perhaps they wouldn’t believe it, but in spite of his size and weight, he was a gazelle, he declared. As a child, he had roamed the prairies. He had been called the antelope boy.

“It took seven cowboys on fast horses to catch me,” he asserted. “They ran me up into the foothills and they wouldn’t have had me yet if I hadn’t stepped into a bear trap.” Eventually one of his listeners offered to run him down to the corner for a round of drinks. With dignity, Jim refused. Instead he asserted his willingness to run entirely round the block but not for the benefit of the bartender. If he were to exert himself at all, it must be for real money.

Ronnie was astonished at the offer, for the distance around this particular block was sufficient to tax the endurance of any athlete. The bet was accepted and there was a scramble on the part of the patrons to offer odds against the boaster. Jim actually bet his last dollar on himself and Ronnie felt his heart sink. It was evident that they would have to spend the night on a park bench.

It proved to be a hilarious contest. The Lark got under way slowly, his abdomen heaving like a pudding, but he gained speed and was not far behind his opponent when they disappeared around the corner. Still laughing, the onlookers turned and strolled in the opposite direction expecting to meet their champion. To their astonishment, however, not their man but the Lark first came into view. It cannot be truthfully said that Jim was running easily or without effort. On the contrary, he ran at the cost of prodigious exertion and at the expense of sufficient energy to drive a locomotive, but the power was his when he needed it. Ronnie felt that he could have run even faster than he did, if he had been forced to extend himself.

As Jim sprawled in a chair, panting, heaving, mopping the sweat from his face, some of the observers decided that this ungainly giant used his corpulence as a come-on. That oversized paunch, which he ostentatiously paraded, must be a part of his stock-in-trade, a false front behind which he contrived ingenious shenanigans. It must be a straw belly and no handicap whatever. But Jim demonstrated its reality by a thwack on his own stomach, which resounded like a bass drum.

That midnight foot race solved the transportation problem and the wanderers traveled southward in style.

* * * * * * * * * * *

At the time when these incidents occurred, early in the century, New Orleans was the lustiest and most colorful of all the Mississippi River ports and the largest and liveliest of Southern cities. The colorful town was a revelation to strangers. Its water front, stretching in a vast crescent, was unlike any other in the country. Here, confined within one mighty channel, flowed the rushing waters from all of the Middle West, and here, along the lofty earthen levees which protected the metropolis moved a tremendous torrent of traffic. Here flotillas of river steamers and shallow draft barges met the ocean-going steamers from the Seven Seas.

Upon the silt-soiled bosom of this prodigious, sullen stream flowed a vast traffic in goods. It was still tremendous if not as huge as it had been in the flush days of steamboating, when the total tonnage of freight moved each year exceeded all of England’s sea-borne commerce. In those early days, the lower Mississippi had been aptly described as “a broad and teeming avenue of commerce, a dark and mysterious highway down which goods and men raced, singing, to the outer world.” The railroads had cut deeply into this traffic, to be sure, but fast, luxuriously appointed steamers still shuttled back and forth, and deep-breathing, stem-wheeled tow-boats pushed flotillas of scows ahead of them. These rafts of barges were heavily loaded and they were acres in extent. At New Orleans, amid the complaints of groaning tackle, the rumble of wagons and trucks, an army of shouting darky “rousters” unloaded and reloaded the mountains of freight and sped them on their various ways. Docks and warehouses, stretching for miles, thundered to a ceaseless din. Tall-masted, low-funneled ocean freighters lay bow to stern, flanked by every sort of river craft. The high, vertical stacks of towboats and wood-burning steamers belched smoke that blackened the slender spars and white canvas of square riggers from all parts of the world.

This noisy, roistering river front was a world to itself and quite distinct from the city proper; it had a smell of its own, a smell of rum, tobacco, raw sugar, and hides, all blended with the spicy odors of foreign lands. The city itself, long a thriving market place and a melting pot, had acquired a distinctive atmosphere and local color. Its stately residences housed an aristocracy which took a fierce, unbending pride in its peculiar social codes and way of living; its hard-working, hard-playing merchants and professional men were as fun loving and as extravagant as their social betters. So were the visiting traders, cotton factors, and plantation owners from upriver. These latter came to the city to amuse themselves and to fling their money broadcast.

New Orleans, an open city and tolerant of anything that profited it, was a favorite playground for free spenders. It was a horse-racing mecca and gambling center as well as a center for the stage and opera. Life went gaily, swiftly, and not too decorously. It was a city whose sins were as beguiling as its virtues. Naturally it had an underworld, populous, prosperous, and well organized, and this underworld boasted an aristocracy of its own, made up of the overlords who ran the night life and amusements of the metropolis.

Typical of these citizens was Tom McPhee, proprietor of McPhee’s Palace, a commodious eating and drinking place with gambling rooms upstairs. In those days, most people who could afford to gamble did so, and proficiency at games of chance was considered something of a social accomplishment. Even professional gamesters whose hands had never known a callus were regarded as sportsmen rather than idlers or undesirables. So, too, the proprietor of a popular establishment of good reputation like the Palace enjoyed the esteem and the patronage of the best people.

There were other sporting men like McPhee—men who exercised weight and influence in the business affairs and the political life of the city. Perhaps the least known and most unobtrusive, but at the same time most powerful of these personalities was a woman, Madame Angela Rondo.

Even among her associates, Madame Rondo was recognized as a unique character, quite different from the rest of them. She was a dark, buxom creature of about forty. Her upper lip was faintly shadowed with that suggestion of a feminine mustache which is not uncommon among certain Latin women. Not pronounced enough to be disfiguring, it lent her a certain air of masculinity which went well with her forceful manner and her flair for business. Madame Angela carried herself with a conscious air, for she claimed to trace her lineage back for many generations, to those famous “Casket Brides” who had been shipped out from France to satisfy the hungry yearnings of the city’s hardy pioneers. She was vain of her good looks, too. Her skin was really lovely; it was as soft and smooth as the finest satin and of a delicate olive shade. Her lips were full and sensuous and beneath her dark eyes lay sooty shadows which accentuated their size and luster. Madame Rondo was rich; she overdressed and loved flashing jewelry. She affected a peculiar perfume of her own and she smoked cheroots.

Like all fashionable women she wore snug corsets but in no other respect could she be characterized as tight-laced. She was completely indifferent to social conventions: she did what she pleased and went wherever she chose. Her slender fingers were in many pies. At her handsome old home in the French Quarter she entertained in fabulous fashion, and her guest list often included men high in public office. It was an open secret that she was a silent partner in their political activities and shared in their profits, as she did in the winnings of Tom McPhee and other notables of his kind.

It was at McPhee’s Palace that Ronnie Le Grand made his debut in the sporting world of New Orleans. He introduced himself by winning two hundred dollars from the proprietor himself and he did it in a manner to excite the respect, if not the approval, of the latter.

Early one evening—in fact on the day Jim and Ronnie arrived in New Orleans—McPhee noticed a young stranger who seemed to be amusing himself by idly cutting a deck of cards into three piles.

“What have you got there, son?” McPhee inquired.

“Just a little game I invented for my own amusement. I call it ‘Ace, Knave, or Nine.’ ” With a disarming grin, the speaker added, “It’s my own magical combination and it brings me luck.”

“Yeah? What’s magic about it? How does it go?”

“The aces, jacks, and nines are my cards. The rest are my opponent’s. He shuffles and cuts the full deck three times. That constitutes a hand, you might say. If, during the three cuts, he exposes one of my cards, an ace, jack, or nine, I win and we start another hand. If he doesn’t cut one of my three cards, I pay him. In other words, I back my three lucky cards against the other ten.”

“And I’d say you’re on the losing end,” said McPhee.

With a shrug, the pleasant young stranger inquired, “Won’t you try it? I mean for fun? No money involved?”

“This is a gambling house,” the older man declared. “Fun don’t pay the rent. No game is worth playing unless it’s worth betting on.”

Ronnie laid a gold coin on the bar. “Five dollars says you’ll cut one or the other of my cards in three attempts.”

McPhee looked at him in quick suspicion. “Is this a deadfall? In my own joint?”

“Figure it out for yourself. The cards are yours. Shuffle them with your own hands and cut them. I won’t touch the deck.”

Still eying the speaker distrustfully, the older man cut and lost. He repeated the operation and won. Nevertheless after a few minutes Ronnie had fifteen dollars of his money.

“I thought I had seen everything,” McPhee said. “Now you try it.”

The boy declined. “The cards are yours, but the game is mine. I bank it but I don’t buck it.”

McPhee was not a bright man and he was nettled at his own apparent stupidity. He doubled, then trebled the stakes. Finally Ronnie told him, “That’s enough, sir. I’d own your place if we played long enough.”

He then explained the odds in his favor but by this time McPhee was more interested in the speaker himself, it appeared, than in the explanation.

“I only took this means to get acquainted with you, Mr. McPhee.”

“And why?”

“I’m a friend of Jim Larkin’s. We just got in. He thinks I’m a pretty good cardplayer. So do I. I believe I could make it pay but I’ve never had much chance to try. I’ve never been able to play for heavy stakes. I need a backer.”

“Hunh!” the proprietor grunted without enthusiasm. “I have my own men and I know ’em. None of ’em ever nicked me for two hundred dollars in my own bar. Maybe they’re dumb or maybe it’s just me. I don’t know that I want a guy like you on either side of my tables.”

Ronnie laughed. “That’s a real compliment, Mr. McPhee, and it’s more than I deserve. I hope you don’t mind my being here.”

McPhee shook his head. “This is a public place with welcome on the door. The games are open to anybody who wants to sit in. And any stranger’s entitled to any part of it that he can take home. That’s why I have to know the guys who deal my cards and rack my chips. Just now, I’m not in need of another dealer.”

Patrons of the Palace who came to eat or drink usually went upstairs to seek other entertainment afterward but there was also a side entrance to the place, a so-called “family entrance,” through which passed the carriage trade or patrons who were not interested in food or drink. That included many discreet businessmen who chose not to advertise their presence.

Women, too, frequented the gambling rooms; not all of them were members of the underworld. There were, in fact, a good many women of social standing in the New Orleans of that day who shared the passion of their menfolk for playing. These came, usually with escorts, gratified their love of excitement, then left unobtrusively.

Late that evening, Madame Rondo came in, seated herself at one of the café tables and sent for McPhee. When he greeted her, she waved him into the chair opposite hers.

“How’s business?” she inquired, indicating with a lift of her elaborately curled, dark head the premises upstairs.

“It’s been fair lately but it’s off tonight.”

“I know. I just came down. It’s the same at the Elite. Four of Andy’s dealers were playing solitaire.”

“Business is slow this time of year. But the tracks will be open soon.”

“Is that why you’ve gone in for chess?” Madame Angela inquired. “Why don’t you put in a nice reading room with the latest fiction?”

McPhee looked blank. “Chess? What do you mean?”

“There’s a chess game going on in one of the poker rooms. That blackjack dealer De Garmo is playing with—”

“Oh, him. If De Garmo ain’t working, he falls asleep.”

“He wasn’t asleep when I went in. Nor were the boys who were looking on. He was playing a kid in a blindfold.”

“He was—what?” McPhee’s bewilderment was evident.

“A lad with his eyes bandaged. Nice-looking youngster. A friend of Jim Larkin’s. De Garmo’s good, I guess, but the kid beat him blindfolded. The Lark is all swelled up. Says he’s the smartest character he ever threw in with—a college boy and a genius with cards. Jim says he’s terrific.”

“He’s a genius all right,” McPhee admitted sourly. “He took me for two hundred dollars like I was a levee hand. A game of his own that looked like a sure loser.” The speaker recited his experience earlier that evening. “It doesn’t make sense: three cards against ten but—there it is. It isn’t every green punk that can nick me.”

“De Garmo called out his moves and the kid carried them in his mind. I’ve heard about chess players who could do it but I never saw one. It made my head ache to watch the game.”

“He asked me to put him on. He thinks he’s a big time cardplayer, or would be if he had the experience. He asked me to back him.” McPhee uttered a sound and shook his head. “Some guys are too smart. I’m the brain of this business and—”

“You?” The dark woman raised her brows. There was a hint of a smile on her full lips.

“Well, anyhow, I don’t want a superman around the place. That kid could probably figure out the combination of the safe by hearing the tumblers fall.”

“Put him on,” said Madame Angela.

“What?”

“Give him a chance. Stake him and let’s see what he’s got. I like that kid.”

Ronnie Le Grand never forgot the surprise he experienced when he removed the blindfold and met the gaze of Madame Angela Rondo. He hadn’t dreamed that any except a few of Jim Larkin’s professional acquaintances were watching his stunt. And stunt it was—an accomplishment his father had encouraged him to practice as a memory exercise. Tonight he had consented to show it off because Jim insisted but to discover that he had excited the rapt attention of a magnificently bejeweled woman, a strange woman with a thin black cigar between her carmined lips, had been a shock and an embarrassment. She was the most extraordinary person he had ever seen; there was something attractive and yet repellent about her. He had been the more embarrassed by the boldness and almost hypnotic quality of her scrutiny. When she smiled at him, then rose and left the room without a word, he felt as if he had seen an apparition. Later he listened with interest as the Lark explained who she was but he had no reason to suspect that she was responsible for the change in McPhee’s attitude or that it was due to her intervention that he became a regular member of the Palace staff. To the boy, it seemed only natural that his unsuspected talents should be recognized by a man of McPhee’s perception and experience.