May 1918
Smoke filled the back room of the Beale Street Tavern and cast a thick blue haze over the six men seated around a table covered with green felt. It was barely one o’clock, and already the army suckers were lined up to hand over their mustering-out pay. These fellows were barely old enough to shave; it would be like shooting fish in a barrel. Avery Benedict smiled to himself and shuffled the cards one more time. The stuffed shirts at the bank were right: war was good for the economy—especially his.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he said in a voice as smooth as oil. “I’m Avery Benedict. Welcome to the Beale Street Tavern. You’ve all got your drinks, I see, and we’ve got Violet here”—he pointed toward the well-endowed barmaid in the corner—“to keep us supplied. The game is five-card draw. Who’s in?”
“We’re all in, Benedict,” one burly sergeant growled. “Just deal the cards, will you?”
Avery knew the fellow—a no-neck, no-brain gorilla who went by the name of Sligo. He had been at this table yesterday, a loser every hand. Today, however, he was not alone. At his side sat a younger man, badly scarred, and evidently uncomfortable with being in an establishment such as this.
“Sligo, let’s get out of here,” he urged, even before the first hand was dealt. “You can’t win; you know that. And you’re nearly broke as it is.”
“Shut up, kid,” the sergeant growled. “I feel lucky today. Lend me a few bucks, and I’ll pay you back. Half of whatever I win.”
“I don’t think so,” the young man hedged. “I’ve got to pay for my train fare, and—”
Sligo turned to him, and his tone softened. “I know, kid. Just twenty bucks. You’ll get it back, with interest.”
Reluctantly the young man handed over the money and shook his head.
“Now, just go sit over there, out of the way. Amuse yourself with the barmaid. In a coupla hours we’ll both be rich.”
Avery looked at the clock. It was nearly four, and things weren’t going well. Sligo’s luck had changed, as he had predicted, and Avery was nearly tapped out. The gorilla had turned out to be a shill.
Avery could have kicked himself. Grandy, the owner of the Beale Street Tavern, was always warning him to watch out for guys like Sligo. Grandy didn’t gamble himself, but he had agreed to a tenuous partnership with Benedict. Avery got the room and conducted the game with his own money, and Grandy got 10 percent of the winnings.
Avery should have seen it coming—Sligo had lost too much too easily the day before. He had been far too certain of sending this ape home with empty pockets. Letting his vanity get the best of him, Avery had let down his guard. Now his money was almost gone, Sligo was staring him down over the last hand, and everybody else around the table sat in silence, watching to see what he would do.
Sligo’s massive thumb rippled over the stack of bills that lay in front of him. “It’s my draw,” he muttered, laying two cards facedown. “Two.”
With a rush of relief, Avery dealt out two cards and looked at his own hand. He held two pair, jacks and eights. If Sligo was drawing two, he couldn’t have much of a hand. Besides, Avery had a jack and an ace stashed behind his french cuffs—insurance for just such an occasion. He had Sligo where he wanted him now. Avery couldn’t lose. “One for me.”
“Where’d you get a name like Avery, anyway?” Sligo drawled, giving him a leering grin.
“It was my mother’s maiden name,” Benedict answered as he made his draw. He toyed with the card, leaving it facedown, while his mind spun. The idea had come to him in a moment of panic, when he was asked for his name and couldn’t use his real one. Avery, from his mother’s family, and Benedict, from that stallion he had purchased and then lost in a faro game before he ever had a chance to get it home.
“Sissy name,” Sligo was saying, trying to rattle him. “Pansy name.”
At the word Pansy, the bottom dropped out of Avery’s stomach. Just the mention of the name sent a chill through him. “Let’s just play the game, shall we?” he suggested, forcing a smile.
“I ain’t the one who’s taking all day.”
Avery peered at his draw card. Another jack. He suppressed a chuckle. It was much more satisfying winning in an honest game, especially against a guy like Sligo. “Your bet.”
Sligo eyed him. “How much you got left, prissy-boy?”
Avery looked down at his full house. “Don’t worry about my pot, Sligo. Just place your bet.”
The sergeant pushed his stack of bills to the center of the table. “Three hundred.”
A gasp went up around the table.
“You know I don’t have that much,” Avery protested.
“Call or fold.”
Avery looked into Sligo’s eyes and held his gaze for a full minute. At last he put a hand into his pocket, and Sligo braced as if he expected a gun. “Easy, man,” he chuckled. “I’m just getting this.” He displayed a heart-shaped amethyst surrounded by pearls, then tossed it on top of the stack of bills. “That should cover the bet.”
“What’d you do, Benedict? Knock off your old lady?” Sligo laughed, and everyone else joined him. Then Sligo said, “No deal. I ain’t got no use for that. Besides, one of them pearls is missing.”
“Sell it, then,” Avery answered. He knew, of course, that Sligo would never have a chance to sell it; the brooch had been his good-luck charm for ages. He had lost it and won it back a dozen times, but always it ended up where it belonged, in his pocket, his little piece of security when the money ran low.
Sligo narrowed his eyes. “You calling me, then?”
Avery straightened his vest. “I am. Show your cards.”
Sligo put down three tens and held the other two cards in his hand.
“Sorry, pal. The luck of the draw.” Avery spread out his full house and began to rake in his winnings.
But Sligo stopped him with a meaty paw. “Not so fast.” He twisted his face in a one-sided grin and laid the fourth ten faceup on the table. “Guess it ain’t your day, A-very,” he laughed, emphasizing the name with a mocking drawl.
He lifted his glass in salute, downed his drink, and tossed the amethyst brooch to his buddy. The young man got to his feet and came over to the table.
“Let’s go, Sarge.”
“I told you, didn’t I?” he gloated. “Stick with old Sligo, and you’ll end up a rich man!” He clapped his friend on the back and stuffed wads of bills into his pockets.
Avery winced as the fourth jack, still stuck up his sleeve, cut into the flesh of his left wrist. If only he hadn’t been so quick to put down his cards, so eager to scoop up the pot. If only he had been a little more patient, a little less arrogant. . . .
But all the what ifs in the world couldn’t help him now. He could only watch in silence as both his money and his good-luck charm disappeared through the back door of the Beale Street Tavern.