Less than an hour later, Mason was again stepping out of his room on the upper deck. This time, however, stubble no longer covered his chin and his hair was neatly arranged. The suit into which he’d changed wasn’t only pressed, but was a darker shade of blue and his vest bore narrow horizontal stripes. A lively tune was on his lips as he walked down the hall and went to the outer walkway that skirted the entire middle deck. Once he could feel the damp air against his face, he slid one hand jauntily inside his jacket pocket and kept the other free to tip his hat to anyone he might meet on his way to the Missouri Miss Restaurant.
Since the Delta Jack had stopped briefly while Mason was changing his clothes, there was a good amount of activity on her first two decks. A few of those bustling about were workers putting away supplies that had been acquired, but most were men and women taking in the riverboat and trying to decide which comfort they would sample first. Mason could recall being one of those setting foot on the Jack for the first time, but just barely. Since he was more interested in his next meal than surveying potential targets, he maneuvered as quickly as possible through the milling crowd until he arrived at a long room toward the aft end of the boat.
The Missouri Miss wasn’t the fanciest restaurant on the Delta Jack, but it was preferred by most gamblers who called the riverboat their home away from home. There were no tables. There was just a single aisle between two counters that ran the length of the place and a door at either end. One counter was lower than the other and had several chairs where customers could sit to enjoy their meal while looking out the window toward the starboard side of the boat. The other counter was the same height as a saloon’s bar. Behind it was a pair of stoves and a chopping board where food was prepared. Any customers sitting there did so on stools, which was where Mason planted himself as soon as he walked in.
Less than half the seats were occupied at the moment, which meant he didn’t have to wait long before a tall woman with her hair tied back into a long braid acknowledged his arrival with a familiar smile. “You just wake up or just about to go to bed?” she asked.
“Just up,” Mason said.
She turned to the cook, who was a tall fellow wearing a greasy apron. Judging by the lack of meat on his bones, the man didn’t sample much of his own food. The woman with the braid said to him, “Bacon, grits, and burnt toast.”
Only then did the cook look up from the stovetop he was scraping clean to ask, “That Mason?”
“Sure is.”
The cook gave Mason a curt upward nod before wiping his hands on the front of his apron and stooping to retrieve a few strips of bacon from under the counter.
“Have any luck last night?” the woman asked.
Mason took off his hat and placed it on the counter to his left. “You weren’t with me, Bea. How could I get any unluckier than that?”
“You could’ve spent all day with her like I did,” the cook said.
Bea turned to look over her shoulder at the man standing by the stove. “Nobody asked you a thing!” Turning to Mason, she dropped her voice to something of a purr and said, “Go on.”
“I could go on all day long,” Mason replied. “But I doubt it’d get me anywhere with a beauty like you.”
“Never know until you try.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Right now all I can tell you is that I’m useless before I get my breakfast.”
She scowled at him before walking down to the other stove where a kettle was brewing. “Let’s start with coffee. After that, we can continue with all the sugary lies.”
“My pleasure,” Mason said.
After pouring him his coffee, Bea went around to top off the mugs of other customers before settling back into her regular spot a bit farther down the counter from where Mason was sitting.
When he looked down at his mug, Mason found that a single egg had been placed on the counter beside it. Picking it up, he looked over to Bea and was given a knowing smile along with a nod. Mason placed his other hand over his heart as his way of silently thanking her before cracking the egg against the rim of his mug and mixing the raw egg into his coffee.
Ever since the morning after he took his first sip of whiskey when he was fifteen, Mason had heard plenty of supposed cures for the headache following a night of overindulgence. Most of those cures involved consuming something that was so disgusting that it made a man consider forsaking liquor altogether. Some were nothing more than concoctions sold from the back of a crooked salesman’s wagon. All of them, however, had someone who swore by them, and the only one that Mason could swear to was the one he drank now.
Bea had introduced him to it on the same night he first introduced himself to her. Mason could carry his headaches well, but she’d had no trouble spotting the pain behind his eyes. Without any explanations needed, she’d given him some coffee and cracked an egg into it.
“Drink it,” was all she’d said.
When Mason drank it, he nearly spat it right back up again. “That is horrid!” he’d exclaimed. “It tastes like it’s at least a day old and . . . there’s egg in it!”
“Of course there’s egg in it. You watched me put it in there. And it’s not a day old. It’s three days old. Just drink the rest down and stop your whining.”
For some reason, Mason had done what he was told. By the time the mug was empty, he thought for certain he would vomit all over the counter. A minute or two after that, he was right as rain. From that point on, he swore by the unusual cure for his headaches.
Mason was still stirring his coffee when another man walked into the restaurant and took the stool beside him. When Mason lifted the spoon from his mug, a viscous string of egg connected it to the thick tarlike brew.
“Whatever that is,” said the man beside Mason as he pointed to the egg concoction, “don’t try to serve it to me.”
“What would you like?” the cook asked.
“Steak. Rare.”
“You want steak?” the cook replied. “Go to the steakhouse on the first deck.”
“How about some beef stew?”
“Fine,” the man grunted. “Just make it quick.”
Mason took a long sip of his brew, swallowed it down, and then forced himself to have some more. “You want some advice?” he asked while letting that last gulp slide down his throat.
The man next to Mason looked over to him and said, “Yeah. I’ll take some advice.”
“Have a more cordial tone when you’re speaking to the man who’s fixing your food.”
“Thanks. I’d like something else while you’re at it.”
Mason took another drink and set the cup down. He’d recognized the man next to him as a player from one of the many card games the previous night. Propping an elbow on the counter, Mason shifted on his stool to face him.
“I’d like the money you owe,” the man said.
Squinting as he concentrated a little harder, Mason was still unable to come up with anything more than what he had done the first time. “Money? If I recall, both of us walked away from that table on the square.”
“You were drinking like a fish.”
Holding up his mug, Mason said, “I’ll admit to that much and am paying for it in spades.” When the other man didn’t crack so much as a portion of a smile, Mason said, “I’ll also admit to forgetting your name.”
“Winslow. Dave Winslow.”
“Pleased to meet you, Dave. Meet you again, that is.” Once more, Mason cracked a joke and laughed at it. Once again, Winslow stared back at him as if he were watching a patch of weeds sprout in his garden.
The cook broke some of the tension by stepping up to the counter directly across from Winslow and setting down a bowl of stew. He then dropped a spoon into it before grunting, “Anything else?”
“Not from you,” Winslow replied without taking his eyes off Mason.
The cook wasn’t about to be intimidated by the gruff tone in Winslow’s voice or the fire in his eyes. He simply grunted under his breath and got back to the pot that was steaming on the stovetop.
Now that Winslow’s food had been delivered, Mason thought he’d be granted at least a moment or two before having to resume the awkward conversation. Apparently that was setting his sights just a little too high.
“You owe some money,” Winslow said. “A healthy amount of it too. I reckon a man like you would remember as much, no matter how many whiskeys he tossed back.”
After downing the last of his thick, yet effective headache remedy, Mason put the mug down and said, “You’re absolutely right. I would remember something like that. If I have debts to pay, I pay them. Just ask anyone who knows me. As for you, however, I know for certain that I don’t owe you a thing.”
“You got me there, mister. You don’t owe me.”
Mason was taken aback by that, but more than a little relieved. “Oh. Well, then, I suppose that’s cleared up.”
“Not yet, it ain’t.”
“Of course not,” Mason sighed as he stared down at the dark muck coating the bottom of his mug. “Nothing’s ever that easy.”
“The money you owe is to a friend of mine,” Winslow said.
“Then tell him to find me and I’ll be sure to straighten this out.”
Winslow used his spoon to poke at his stew. After lifting a dripping portion to his mouth, he dribbled some onto his beard and then used the back of his hand to wipe it away. “You’ll deal with me.”
Mason shook his head and looked around. One of the things he normally liked about being on the Delta Jack was that most of the people on there with him were other gamblers who all lived by the same code. Unfortunately part of that code was that a man was left to tend to his own business whether it wound up good or bad. If things with Winslow took a turn for the worse, Mason would be on his own.
“At least tell me the name of this supposed friend of yours.”
Lifting the spoon to his mouth, Winslow said, “Ed Gifford,” and then took a bite of his stew.
“Ed Gifford?” Mason scoffed. “I never heard of . . . oh, wait. Does he go by Giff for short?”
“He does.”
Mason held back a wince as he recalled that he not only owed that man some money, but had won it from him under somewhat dubious circumstances. Keeping a straight face, he said, “This matter is between me and Giff, then. I’ll have a word with him later tonight and settle up with him myself.”
“That ain’t gonna happen. He was put off the boat at the last port.”
“Sorry to be callous, but that’s really not my concern.”
Winslow stood up and peeled back his jacket to reveal the gun strapped around his waist. “That’s where you’re wrong.”