Expect the Unexpected

by John A. Broussard

  Supper came promptly, and it was nicely served by a pretty little thing. Blonde, her hair in a long braid, blue eyes, and a pair of dimples to match. She couldn’t have been much more than in her late teens, but there was an air of efficiency about her one would have expected in a much older woman. The food was remarkably good, also. As I ate, I watched the players gathering at the table across the room. I wasn’t particularly surprised to see my fellow guest from upstairs pull up a chair. McHenry sat across from him, with a short blonde man on his left and what looked like twins on his right. He broke open the pack and did a long shuffle, after which he handed the deck to the blonde man to start the first deal.

  Even from where I sat, I could tell they were playing seven-toed Pete, a game I rather liked and was successful at, since I had a retentive memory. The game favored such a talent. The dealer handed out two cards to each player, face down. Four cards followed, one at a time, face up, with the bidding beginning on the first card up. The final card was face down. The best poker hand out of any five of the seven cards would win, assuming the holder persevered to the end. The nature of the game tended to produce good poker hands, and led to heavy betting and large pots. It often took a full house to win a hand. Four of a kind was not unusual, and I’d even seen a royal flush on one occasion.

  By the time I’d finished my meal, the deck had made one round and, all in all, it sounded like a quiet game. When the waitress came out to pick up the dishes, I told her, “My compliments to the cook. The meal was excellent.”

  The blush made her even prettier. “The cook appreciates the compliments,” she said.

  I moved to the bar where a couple of customers had bellied up. True asked me about the meal, and I was lavish in my praise. He glowed. “My wife did a good job of teaching her. I don’t know what I would have done last year when Agatha passed on, if it hadn’t been for Suejane. She pretty much runs the hotel—cooks, cleans, keeps the books. Too bad we didn’t have three more like her.”

  I didn’t press about what his other children were like, if indeed there had been any. Instead I brought the conversation around to the poker game. I asked about the players, telling True it would be nice to know something about them before joining in. He grinned. “Knowing your opponent improves your odds. Right?” He didn’t wait for an answer before ticking off their backgrounds.

  “You’ve already met McHenry. He’s probably the reason Marcus sent you out here. McHenry has a nose for gold, I hear. He staked out a successful claim in Georgia. Another in Arkansas. He’s been nosing around here for the past couple of months, but you can bet he isn’t saying where. I doubt he’s found anything yet, but he may be on the track of something.

  “The blonde feller’s one of those Norskies who drifted in from Minnesota. Kinda small for a Scandinavian, but I guess they come in all sizes, too. There must be about a dozen families of them homesteading up the river. Nice, quiet people.” He paused and laughed. “They drink a lot, I hear tell, but don’t come in here much. Just a matter of time before the home brew runs out, though. His name’s Leif Blume. Pretty much a regular at the card games. The fancy feller next to him is…” He went over, picked up a pad with names on it, and said, “John Smith. Suejane’s the one who insists I keep a register. It really doesn’t mean much, since we seem to get a lot of John Smiths. I don’t know anything about him except he got in here last night, turned in early, and I guess ran into McHenry today. Seems like he’s at home with cards.”

  I watched John Smith shuffle and deal the cards. I agreed with True. Smith had spent a lot more time with the pasteboards in his day than I ever had, and he looked probably a half-dozen years older than me, probably in his mid-thirties.

  True resumed the tally. “The next two sharing the spittoon are Abel and Seth Thornton, in that order. I know they look like twins, but they’re really just brothers. They’re farmers, or used to be. Ever since those few grains showed up in the river, they’ve been letting the family farm go to rack and ruin while they’ve been out prospecting.”

  I figured I knew enough now to have some idea about what to expect from the game, or at least all I could learn from True. Besides, I had no intention of spending the entire evening at the table. Todd McHenry gave me a hearty welcome, pulled a chair up between him and Leif Blume, then did the round of introductions, making it a point to call everyone’s attention to the fact I was the Fargo assayer.

  It took only moments to find out that, though they were playing table stakes, the betting was light, the pots—at least so far—small. Able dealt me in. I was much more interested in checking out my opponents than I was in the particular hand I’d drawn. I folded early, and surveyed my companions. It was too soon to tell much about how they played, with one exception. I immediately spotted John Smith not only as an experienced player, but also as a professional gambler, and perhaps more than that. The fact the knuckle and end of his index finger on his right hand was missing alerted me.

  Just possibly it was a war wound, but that seemed unlikely. Conceivably, it might have been self-inflicted, since a defective trigger finger was one of the few acceptable reasons for not being drafted by either the Grey or the Blue. Somehow, I didn’t think even that accounted for the shortened digit. Far more likely, it was the professional card shark’s sacrifice for the uncanny ability it gave him to deal from the bottom of the deck. The ring on the index finger of his left hand was another tip-off. I’d seen how that, with a slightly raised pinpoint on it, could be a marvelous instrument for marking the cards from a new deck while they were in play. It was then I realized I wouldn’t get rich off of this game, no matter what the stakes.

  When Seth dealt out the next hand, I stayed in long enough to check a few cards. An ace showed the telltale bump signifying Smith had already been at work. The scenario then seemed obvious. By the end of the game, the big winner would be the man with the missing finger joint. But it all still seemed a bit strange. Why would someone with his obvious skills abandon the Mississippi river boat or New Orleans casino and come all the way to this obscure community to fleece these poor lambs? My curiosity was sufficiently aroused to make me change my mind. I was going to stay in until the scenario played out.

  It wasn’t easy to see where things were going. Nothing spectacular happened until Smith’s turn to deal. His face, in true professional tradition, was impassive. My two down-cards were aces, both marked of course. I was dazzled by his skill. How he could slide them off the bottom so easily was incredible. How he had gotten them placed there in the first place was even more so.

  I stayed through the four up-cards, and the betting was unexceptional. Leif and Seth had folded early. McHenry and Able had nothing much showing and dropped out at the fourth up-card. Smith flicked a card across to me, my last card—down. He took one, put the deck aside, didn’t bother to check what he had but simply pushed out a sizable stack of coins. I looked over at his hand. I had three aces down and one up. Just possibly he had four of a kind, but they couldn’t beat four aces. Colors of the up-cards, four different suits, prevented him from having even as much as a flush. My hand was a sure winner. I didn’t hesitate. Instead of raising his bet or even calling, I turned all my cards face down and pushed them into the pile of discards. “It’s all yours,” I said.

  I do have to give him credit. His face didn’t register even a hint of surprise, but I knew he was trying to figure me out. Either I was a stupidly conservative player who somehow mistakenly thought I had a losing hand, or he had slipped up in dealing me one of those aces. As the game resumed, it seemed fairly obvious he’d assumed the former. The assayer I’m sure, in Smith’s estimation, was just not much of a poker player.

  It looked then as though the rest of the evening would be uneventful. After a couple of hours play, I was slightly ahead, I was reasonably certain Seth and Abel weren’t doing any better than I was. Smith was actually losing, but not by much. I couldn’t tell with McHenry and Blume, but certainly they weren’t either winning or losing ba
dly. So what was Smith up to? He’d marked a few other cards, including the kings, but not many. He didn’t have to, since once he had the deck he could deal himself a winning hand with comparative ease on the basis of just those few cards. The only thing I could envision was a grand pot near the end of the evening, with Smith raking in the proceeds.

  Even that seemed to be a pittance. Both Able and Seth were playing as cautiously as I was. Blume was erratic and, the way he fingered his coins, obviously concerned about the amounts he occasionally risked. McHenry generally played carelessly, but he wasn’t risking much. Then things heated up as Smith’s turn to deal came around again.

  A pair of unmarked queens were my down cards and I had a six up. Able passed. Seth bet. Considering his mode of play, it indicated a pair down as well. McHenry raised. I stayed. Blume stayed. Smith raised and might have had nothing. Able dropped out, but Seth stayed. McHenry raised again. It occurred to me this was the long awaited hand. I decided to tough it out. The pot grew at an amazing rate. Seth finally dropped out, which left me, Blume, Smith and McHenry—the latter two bumping each other, and me staying while Blume clung on for dear life. I could see he was hurting.

  The last card I received impressed me. I now had three queens down and one up. A good hand by any standards. I checked Blume. He had a pair showing, so he undoubtedly had a high full house. I’d remembered all the up cards, and it was impossible for him to have four of any kind. Smith had nothing. No possible combination worth anything. A straight at the very best. Why was he staying? That’s when the first inkling of what was really going on struck me. McHenry was in the same situation as Blume. He was undoubtedly sitting there with a high full house—a small pair showing. I couldn’t tell for sure from where I was sitting, but I was ready to make a sizable wager his down cards were three marked aces. Since I also had a pair of sixes showing, and McHenry and Blume each had the other sixes up, I was sure they had me figured for a third-in-line full house.

  I might as well have not existed. Smith folded and sat back, shrewd eyes switching back and forth between the major contestants. Blume and McHenry played against each other, and I simply called their bets. Another raise by McHenry brought Blume to a standstill. That’s when he asked, “You folks mind carrying me for a call?” Before I could answer, McHenry said, “We’d like to, Leif, but you know how it is. Now if you had some security, why sure. I wouldn’t mind.” No one even looked in my direction.

  It was pretty evident Blume had only one bit of security which would satisfy McHenry, a section of proven-up homestead housing his farm, family, livestock and whatever other meager earthly possessions he might have had. They haggled. Finally, in desperation, Blume started looking for a piece of paper. It so happened Smith had one handy, and he called to True for pen and ink. Laboriously, Blume wrote out the property designation, signed his name, left blank the name of the new owner—if any—dated it and pushed the paper into the pot. The paper wouldn’t have replaced a regular deed back in St. Louis or Chicago, but in the territories it certainly would if witnessed. Smith caught that.

  “Better someone not sitting at the table,” he said, announcing the need. McHenry called to True.

  “You sure you want to do this Leif?” True asked, a worried expression on his face.

  Leif nodded impatiently; hardly able to take his eyes off the imposing pot sitting in the middle of the table. True signed. Leif’s voice was plaintive. “The farm should get me at least one more bet.”

  A shrug from McHenry. “Sure, why not.” At point he remembered me. “OK, with you?” he asked, not really listening for an answer. I nodded. Leif matched the stakes. McHenry called. I had just enough to do the same. Leif turned over three kings to go with his pair of tens. McHenry smiled, flipped over the three aces to accompany his pair of deuces. Leif gagged. McHenry reached for the pot. I turned over my four queens.

  The game broke up immediately. Leif headed for the door. I barely had room in my pockets for the transfer deed and all the coins. True refused to look at me as I started up the stairs, and I had the feeling I was being followed. A knock on my door, after I had barely entered the room, informed me I’d been right. McHenry came in at my invitation. He closed the door quietly behind him. He was the first to speak. “that section of land is worthless. Just a rock outcrop, but I’d kinda like it for my grandkids someday. Nice view.” He went on to offer me a small sum for the deed. I shook my head. The offer increased, up to the point where it became evident to him I wasn’t about to sell at any price he was willing to come up with.

  It was an unhappy McHenry who left the room, but I was sure his head was spinning with schemes for obtaining ownership of a section of land I felt certain was up at the headwaters of the Red River. If there was a mother lode anywhere, it had to be there. Importing the professional gambler had probably seemed like a cheap price to pay for a potential fortune. I doubted he’d give up easy.

  Moments after he left, I went back down to the lobby and managed to corner a reluctant True. I had rather hoped to have a chat with his lovely daughter before going out into the night, but the only glimpse I had of her was in the back kitchen, and there was no trace of a smile on her face.

  “You going out to inspect your winnings?” A tightlipped True asked, when I inquired about how to get out to the Blume farm. I was non-committal and did finally receive directions, which were simple enough, since there was only one road out to where the Norwegians had settled.

  The hotel was dark when I got back, with only a kerosene light to guide me up the stairs. I was careful to slip the back of a chair under the doorknob, but the precaution was unnecessary. I had a night of undisturbed sleep.

  The atmosphere was entirely different when I went downstairs the following morning. True greeted me with a wide smile, even before I ordered breakfast, so I invited him over to my table. “I hear you gave Leif back the deed to his property last night,” were his first words.

  “It wasn’t a gift,” I said. “I got something back from him.”

  “What?”

  “I got a promise from him never to gamble again.”

  True looked surprised, then guffawed. “That’s like asking the wind not to blow.”

  I returned the laugh, asking, “Ever met his wife?”

  He shook his head.

  “She’s twice his size, and mean looking. She was there when he promised. Said something to him in Norwegian. He listened.”

  “You must have also told him he was set up.”

  It was my turn to look surprised. “What makes you think so?”

  “McHenry got a free wagon-ride to the train station last night. His escorts were several big Norwegians. He wasn’t too damaged, but I doubt he’ll be coming back.”

  “How about John Smith?”

  “They gave him a ride, too. He must have fallen out of the wagon on the way, because he broke a lot of fingers. It’s going to be a long, long while before he’ll be dealing out cards again.”

  Just about then Suejane came out of the kitchen, a big smile on her face, and an even bigger platter in her hands. The eggs, and hash browns and bacon looked delicious, but I knew I’d never be able to eat all of it.

  True got up, “Take your time. That’s on the house. Meantime, maybe Suejane can sit and keep you company—if you don’t mind.

  I didn’t mind at all.

  SPECIAL ASSIGNMENT

  Death was annoyed at agent Aleph 22R74rho069, but he had recently learned the futility of annoyance. Death Agent Aleph’s scythe bore two large nicks. Even from his black throne, Death could also see spots of rust. Aleph’s hood, completely shadowing where his face should be, showed large stains which might be grease, could be blood. There was no excuse for such carelessness, but the Superintendent’s new policies made disciplining more and more difficult—forms to fill out, reports to submit, board hearings to attend—none of it worth the effort.

  “The Super wants you to take on a special assignment, Boss.”

  Boss! T
here would have been no such gross familiarity in the old days. Aleph had always been an irritant. Yodh77L14omicron666 had reported how Aleph had been carrying on a dalliance with one of the angels who accepted their deliveries. Well, such matters were the Superintendent’s problem. In the old days, the most casual contact with even the downstairs workers, to say nothing of hanky panky with those above, just wouldn’t have been tolerated. Of course, Yodh was a notorious snitch and couldn’t be trusted. Death sighed. In the old days he would have rid himself of both of them.

  Aleph was droning on. “Yeah. It’s one of those high muckamucks. The Super doesn’t trust one of us peons to do the job right.” Death detected the underlying sneer. Aleph was getting altogether too big for his britches—so to speak.

  Death shifted on his throne and waved a dismissive bony claw. Aleph shrugged and sauntered off into the mists. Death wasn’t about to act on a rumor being spread by a minor minion. If the Superintendent wanted him to go out on a special, He’d damn well better use the regular voice mail. Even then, Death decided he’d ask for hard copy confirmation—a satisfying thought. There was no reason why some of the new rules shouldn’t be used to advantage.

  There was also an excuse, a very legitimate one from Death’s viewpoint. The population explosion was already pushing his crew to the limit. He’d have to order a whole new contingent of agents, and he’d get the usual stalling from above.

  And then, of course, there were those interminable committee meetings. What was the agenda for the next one? Oh yes! The question of second trimester fetuses. It had become obvious the Superintendent wanted to add them to the workload. At the next meeting He would probably try to foist them off on Death’s department, and the committee was already primed to go along. Now, if they did add this burden to his department, Death would not only need new agents, but the entire numbering system would have to be supplemented and revised. What a pain in the coccyx!