Killer Poker

Chapter 13





Conrad sensed the excitement in the Palace when he walked in a short time later. Players in the tournament, along with a few employees of the gambling parlor, were the only ones who would be allowed into the private room once the games got underway, but everyone knew what was going to take place. A lot of people were talking excitedly about it. The tournament was the biggest thing to hit gambling circles in a long time.

Because of that, a large crowd had shown up to wait in the main room and catch bits of news about what was going on in the chamber where the games were taking place.

Bat Masterson was holding court, surrounded by a number of newspaper reporters scribbling notes on their pads with stubby pencils. Conrad heard him talking about sporting blood and the gallantry of competition, as if instead of a poker tournament it was the old-fashioned kind held between knights, with lances and swords and shields. The sort of tournament where blood might be spilled . . .

With so much money at stake, it might come to that, Conrad thought.

Masterson caught Conrad’s eye and winked. When he was through talking to the reporters, he came over and pumped Conrad’s hand.

“Ah, the fourth estate!” he said with a grin. “What would we do without them? The thought’s crossed my mind that I might try my hand at journalism myself, one of these days.”

“I’m sure you’d be good at it, Bat. Is everything ready for tonight?”

Masterson nodded. “Absolutely. In fact, you’re the last of the players to arrive. That’s why I was so glad to see you. I was afraid you might have changed your mind, or that something had happened to you.”

Something had indeed come close to happening to him, Conrad thought. Close enough he had heard the bullet whipping past his ear.

But he didn’t say anything about that. “Did you get my buy-in? Ellery Hudson was supposed to have the bank send it over with some armed guards this afternoon.”

Masterson nodded again. “Yes, it’s locked up securely in the safe, along with the rest of the money, and there are half a dozen men with shotguns guarding it. Tough men, and I trust them completely. I know that sort of loot might be a very tempting target.”

Masterson opened his coat a little to reveal he had revolvers in shoulder rigs under both arms. “I’ll be on hand to help protect it myself if need be.”

Conrad didn’t think most would-be robbers would want to go up against the famous Bat Masterson, even for that sort of money. “What about the players? Is it all right for us to be armed, as well?”

Masterson grimaced. “I’m sorry, Conrad. But if you’re packing iron, you’ll have to surrender it before the games start. It wouldn’t do to have somebody take offense over the way a hand turned out and start shooting.”

“As long as it’s that way for everybody, I can go along with it.” Conrad shrugged, even though he didn’t like the idea of being unarmed. Especially with the way things had been going since he arrived in Denver. “Just make sure nobody tries to sneak anything in.”

“Don’t worry. The only weapons in there will be cards.”

A short time later, Masterson rounded up all the players and herded them toward the double doors leading into the private room. Conrad spotted Rance McKinney among them. The rancher had abandoned his town suit and wore range clothes: black trousers, black shirt, and a black-and-white cowhide vest. He had never looked comfortable in fancier duds, and Conrad had a hunch McKinney thought he might play better if he was wearing his normal clothes.

Those things didn’t matter to Conrad. He was in black trousers and jacket, white shirt, and string tie. He’d been wearing his black Stetson with the concho headband when he came in, but had handed it to one of the Palace’s beautiful hostesses to take care of.

Masterson collected guns and knives from the players before they were allowed to enter the room. He had quite a few pocket pistols, derringers, and even a few long-barreled hog legs before he was through, along with a number of knives of different sizes and styles. Conrad took off his holster and handed over it and the .32. If he wasn’t going to be carrying the gun, he didn’t see any point in putting up with the discomfort of the holster.

“All right, gentlemen, gather around,” Masterson said when all the players were in the room and the doors were closed, shutting out the noise from the main room. One of the hostesses joined him, holding a huge, white, ten-gallon hat. Masterson continued, “Inside this hat are numbered chips. You’ll draw one at a time for seating assignments. Thad Harper, you go first.”

The man Masterson had picked stepped forward and drew a chip from the hat. It had the numeral 3 on it. Masterson pointed out which table was the third one. The other men went up one by one, and drew chips as well, spreading out across the room to the tables they had drawn. Once they had chosen their seats, hostesses appeared and asked if they wanted anything to drink. Most of the men declined, preferring to keep their heads clear, at least for a while.

Conrad drew Table 5, feeling a twinge of disappointment as he did so. McKinney had already drawn Table 2. Conrad had been hoping to be at the same table as the rancher right from the start, but knew he couldn’t ask anyone to switch with him without arousing suspicion.

That meant in order to play against McKinney, he had to emerge as the big winner at Table 5. There was nothing he could do about it, so he might as well get at it, he thought.

After he had taken his seat, a lovely, smiling hostess leaned over him and asked, “Would you like a drink, sir? Wine? Brandy?”

Conrad shook his head. “No, thanks.”

“A cigar?”

“Never picked up the habit,” he told her, returning her smile briefly.

“If you do need anything, please let me know.”

“I will,” he promised, but knew what he really needed, she couldn’t provide.

He glanced over at Table 2, where Rance McKinney was arranging stacks of chips in front of him. More than ever, his instincts told him McKinney knew more than he had admitted about Pamela’s plans.

Conrad would be betting more than money in that tournament. The real stake was the possibility that McKinney could tell him where his children were.

While he was waiting for all the players to get settled in their seats and ready for the games to begin, Conrad looked around the room. It was quite large, maybe half the size of the main room, with thick carpet on the floor that muffled the steps of the hostesses as they moved around. The eight tables were arranged in a grid that took up most of the space in the center of the room. Around the walls were overstuffed divans, comfortable armchairs, and smaller side tables, places where men could relax while taking a break from the competition. Gas chandeliers over the tables provided plenty of illumination, while the lighting around the edges of the room was more subdued. Paintings, mostly sedate landscapes, hung on the walls. It was a comfortable room that felt like wealth, just the sort of place where rich men would gather to play high-stakes poker.

When everyone was in place, Bat Masterson stood up and addressed the group to explain the rules of the tournament. Each man had an assortment of chips in front of him representing his ten thousand dollar buy-in. In addition, each man would be allowed to purchase up to another ten thousand dollars in chips as the games proceeded. Breaks could be called whenever all the players at a table were in agreement. Players who were cleaned out and had to leave the game would be required to leave the room as well, although there was nothing stopping them from waiting in the main room outside until they found out who the big winners were. The big winners from each table would be allowed to remain in the room while the other winners were being determined. There would be an eight-hour break between the end of that round and the beginning of the next.

“Is everyone clear on the rules?” Masterson asked. “Any questions?” When no one spoke up, Masterson grinned and said, “All right, gentlemen. Good luck to you all. Start the games whenever you’re ready.”

Conrad didn’t know the other five men at the table with him, although a couple of them looked vaguely familiar to him. He supposed he had seen them during previous visits to Denver. They took turns introducing themselves. Conrad took note of the names—Hal Roberts, Bernard Church, J.D. Wilson, Fred Montgomery, and Edgar Pennyworth—but knew he probably wouldn’t remember them in a week. They were just obstacles between him and Rance McKinney.

On the other hand, he had to beat them all in order to move closer to McKinney, so he took a little time to study them. Roberts and Wilson had the staid look of successful businessmen. Bernard Church was a little harder to read, which told Conrad that he was probably a professional gambler. Fred Montgomery was a rawboned railroad magnate; Conrad recognized the name. Edgar Pennyworth was an older man, probably sixty, with a mild, round face and a shock of white hair, who looked like he could have been a small-town preacher. He was probably the most dangerous opponent of them all, Conrad mused, simply because he didn’t look like much of a threat.

When Conrad gave them his name, Montgomery said, “I thought I recognized you, Browning. Didn’t you own some stock in my railroad at one time?”

Conrad nodded. “I did. Maybe I still do.” He chuckled. “I don’t really know. My lawyers handle everything like that.”

He saw the scorn in Montgomery’s eyes. He didn’t think much of a man who didn’t manage his own business affairs. If that led him or the others to underestimate Conrad, then so much the better.

They cut cards to see who would have the deal first. It fell to Hal Roberts, who took the deck, shuffled, and dealt with reasonable deftness after announcing that they were playing simple five card stud. That was fine with Conrad. He watched the cards fall in front of him, not touching them until Roberts had finished dealing. Then he picked them up and expressionlessly looked to see what sort of hand he’d been dealt.

The game was underway.