by Ed McBain
“What gave you that idea?” Ed asked, surprised.
“Don’t try to snow me, friend. I’ve been through the mill already. Who gave you the idea? That’s what I’d like to know.”
“That’s a secret,” Charlie said. He smiled in the light of the dashboard, and I looked at the silhouette of his profile. “But there’s no beating attached. Relax.”
“This is a party,” Ed added. “Didn’t you understand?”
“Who are the guests?”
“You.”
“And the host?”
“We’re the hosts. Me and Charlie. It’ll be a nice party, don’t worry. No rough stuff, believe me.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why the kidnap? That’s a federal offense, you know.”
“Kidnap? Who said anything about a kidnap? Was someone kidnaped? Hell, Mac, this is just a party. You’ll see.”
“Sure. Why?”
“Because you don’t want to go to that other shindig. It’ll be dull.”
Very dull, I thought. Just a little contract-signing, that’s all. Just several thousand dollars riding on it, that’s all. Very dull. The thought was not an entertaining one. I lapsed into a sullen silence.
Charlie kept driving, and Ed lighted a cigarette, offering me one. I refused with a curt shake of my head. Ed put his package away, and smoked leisurely and contentedly.
Becker, Rutherford, or Stewart.
This crazy stunt had been hatched in one of their lucid minds. Crazy was the only word for it. It smacked of insanity—sheer, babbling, incoherent insanity. Did they really think this would make any difference? All right, so they’d go ahead and sign without me, but didn’t they know I controlled the rights? Didn’t they know I’d sue the pants off them? It was nuts, all right, and I couldn’t understand it.
I couldn’t understand a lot of things. And if this stunt was nuts, how about trying on the death of two people for size? How did that stack up in the Hall of Blame? If It was insane to kidnap a guy, how much crazier was it to kill someone?
I kept my silence. I still wasn’t convinced that the boys weren’t measuring me for a coffin. I kept my silence as the car nosed its way through the rain.
“Here we are,” Charlie said, swinging the car onto a dirt road. “Right up ahead.”
I looked through the windshield. The rain had slowed down, and I saw a brightly lighted house up ahead. The boys were certainly not being cautious about this, and I began to breathe a little easier. Maybe there wasn’t a bullet or a beating in the offing. With all those lights, maybe this was just a delaying action. The boys probably figured on sticking to their “just-a-little-party” story if they were caught. Just a little party. Yeah.
They both got out of the car as soon as Charlie had parked it, and I followed them reluctantly. Ed fell in behind me as Charlie unlocked the door to the house. The rain was coming down half-heartedly now, and I knew the storm would soon be over.
“That’s a nice coat,” Ed said.
“Thanks.”
“Very nice.”
“Thanks.”
Charlie opened the door, and we all went into a spacious foyer.
“Ah,” he said. “Feels good to be inside again. Take off your coat, Blake.”
I took off my coat, and Charlie opened a hall closet, put it on a hanger, and then did the same for Ed’s and his own coat. Ed locked the door, and we all went into the living room, and I had my first good look at them.
Ed was short, but built like a bull. He had close-cropped hair, and a massive jaw. He had a pudgy little nose and thin eyebrows. His eyes were blue and almost guileless. He looked like a butcher in the A & P.
Charlie was an affable-looking guy, too. He blinked whenever he spoke, and he squinted through thick glasses that covered his brown eyes. His teeth were bad, but there was a smile on his mouth. He had a long crooked nose that he rubbed occasionally with the back of his hand. He looked like a stockroom boy in the A & P.
“Well,” I said. “Here we are.”
“Sit down,” Ed said genially. He waddled across the room on his short legs, stopping alongside the liquor cabinet. “What’ll you drink, Blake?”
“What’ve you got?”
“Anything.”
“Vodka,” I said, just to be mean.
Charlie laughed and rubbed his hook nose. “He thinks we’re kidding, Ed. We’ve really got everything, Blake. You’ll see.”
Ed nodded and pulled a bottle with a multi-colored label from the cabinet. He fished out a sparkling glass, filled it to the brim, and brought it over to me.
“Vodka,” he said. He sniffed at it, handed it to me, and added, “I think I’ll try some of that. You, Charlie?”
“Okay. It can’t kill me.”
That reminded me of something. “You the boys who took some shots at me earlier tonight?”
Charlie looked up, surprised. Ed turned from the liquor cabinet, a hurt expression on his face. “Us?”
“Yes, you.”
“Gee, Blake. I’m sorry you think that. I really am sorry.”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah.”
“It wasn’t us,” he said, seriously concerned. “Someone shoot at you?”
“Never mind,” I said.
“That’s a shame,” Charlie said, shaking his head. “Where’s that vodka, Ed?”
Ed brought him the drink, and we all clinked glasses and then drank.
“Ah,” Charlie said. “That was good.”
Ed smacked his lips. “Powerful, though.”
“Good and powerful. I’ll have another.” He handed his glass back to Ed. “How about you, Blake?”
“I like it slow,” I said.
“Okay. You like poker, Blake?”
“Yes.”
“Want to play a little? While the time away.”
“Listen, are you guys serious?” I asked.
“About what?”
“Do you really intend keeping me here all night?”
Ed looked hurt again. He poured two more glasses of vodka and said nothing.
“Yes, we do,” Charlie said, a surprised tone in his voice.
“Just keep me here?”
“That’s all.” Charlie leaned forward eagerly. “No hard feelings, Blake, honest. Why don’t you just relax? Hell, we can have a good time here. You won’t even miss the other party.”
I sighed heavily. “Okay, break out the cards.”
Ed smiled from ear to ear. “That’s the spirit. By God, that’s the spirit!” He brought the vodka to Charlie, and they drank together, and then Charlie went for the deck of cards. I sat on the couch and waited, finally knocking off the vodka. Charlie had been right. It was good—and powerful.
“A new deck,” Charlie said, splitting the seal on a fresh pack. “So you know this is on the level.”
I looked at the cards dubiously, but I didn’t voice a comment. Ed shoved a chair close to the couch, and then moved a table over. The table pinned me effectively, and I admired the graciousness with which Ed had accomplished this simple maneuver. He was indeed a most genial host. He brought over the half-full bottle of vodka, together with a bottle that was still sealed. “Fresh supply,” he said, beaming. He went into the kitchen then, while Charlie stayed with me, his gun in his shoulder holster. The gun was a .38, I noticed. When Ed came back, he was carrying a bowl of peanuts and a box of potato chips. “Food,” he said, grinning.
He put these on the table alongside the vodka bottles, and then pulled his chair up. Charlie sat down and began shuffling the cards.
“Dealer’s choice?” he asked.
“Fine,” Ed said, nodding his stubbled head. “Fine.”
“A penny and two,” Charlie said. “No two-cents bet unless a pair is showing, okay?” He nodded in agreement with himself. “No check-raising, okay? In a wild-card game, only a legitimate poker hand counts. No calling five aces or anything like that, okay?”
“Okay,” Ed said.
“Okay,” I said.
“More vodka?” Ed asked.
“Okay.” I extended my glass, and Ed poured, and Charlie began dealing after I declined to cut.
We played a few rounds of straight draw poker, and I copped three hands in a row with two pair, a flush, and three jacks.
“We’d better watch this guy,” Charlie said, reaching for the vodka bottle and pouring himself another drink. I was still on my second one, and keenly aware of the fact that this stuff was potent.
“He’s a regular shark,” Ed said. He picked up the cards, remembered it was Charlie’s deal, and handed the deck to him. “What’ll it be, Charlie?”
“Seven-card stud. Here we go.”
Charlie shuffled, shoved the deck to me for a cut, and I sliced it close to the top. He put the deck together again, and dealt two hole cards rapidly. Then he began dealing the face cards.
At the end of the third round, I had three kings showing, and both Charlie and Ed dropped out.
Ed took the cards and said, “Now we’ll play some baseball.”
“Some what?”
“Baseball.”
“In here?” I said. “The room’s a little small, isn’t it?”
Ed laughed heartily and poured himself another shot of vodka. “It’s a poker game,” he said. “I’ll explain it.”
“Go ahead,” Charlie said. He downed his glass and poured another. I sipped at mine and stuffed my mouth full of peanuts.
“You’re not drinking at all,” Ed said, a scold in his voice. “Come on, now. Don’t be a party pooper.”
I downed the vodka, felt it burn a hole clear to my stomach, and watched while Ed poured another glass.
“That’s better,” he said. “No sense spoiling the evening.” I could have told him the evening had been spoiled already. Instead, I listened patiently while he explained baseball.
“It’s just like seven-card stud,” he said. “You get two down cards, and the rest up. You’re allowed to use your best five cards for a poker hand.”
“Okay,” Charlie said. “That sounds fair.” He lifted his glass and poured the contents down his throat. “Phew,” he said.
“Where does the baseball come in?” I asked.
Ed grinned amiably. “Here’s the difference,” he said. “Nines and threes are wild. So you can use those for whatever you want.”
“This commences to be a bastard game,” Charlie said.
“No, it’s good, it’s good,” Ed insisted. “Nines and threes are wild. However…”
“Here it comes,” Charlie said. “A bastard game.”
“…however, if you get a three, you have to match the pot.”
“What do you mean, match the pot?” I asked. I drank a little of the vodka, and Charlie made a bottoms-up motion with his hand. I drained the glass.
“Match the pot,” Ed said. “That means if there’s twenty cents in the pot when you get a three, you put in twenty cents.”
“A bastard game,” Charlie said. He lifted his eyeglasses, wiped his eyes with forefinger and thumb, and then put the glasses back on his nose again. Then, with no loss of motion, he reached for the vodka bottle.
“Now, you got that?” Ed asked. “A three matches the pot. A nine doesn’t match anything. But nines and threes are wild.”
“I got it,” I said. Charlie filled my glass, too.
“Now, when you get a four…”
“Fours are wild, too?” I asked.
“No.”
“What then?” Charlie wanted to know. “You sure this is baseball? It sounds like Chinese checkers.”
“This is baseball. When you get a four, that means you get an extra card.”
“A what?”
“An extra card. At the end of the round, the dealer gives a down card to anyone who got a four.”
“Jesus.”
“Suppose I got a four in the hole? Do I get an extra card then?”
“No. It has to be showing.”
“That’s not fair,” Charlie said. “Suppose I got a three in the hole? Do I have to match the pot?”
“No. Only if it’s showing.”
“All right,” I said, “let’s play a few hands. Where’s the vodka?” I drained my glass and extended it, and Charlie reached out with two bottles, it seemed, to fill the glass.
We played two rounds of baseball, and we all had the knack of it by that time. Ed broke the seal on the second bottle of vodka, and we began working on that one. I thought of the Connecticut party, but I was beginning to have fun here, and I really couldn’t remember very well why I wanted to go to that other party in the first place.
“Pass the vodka,” Charlie said heavily.
I passed the vodka, and then I said, “Deal.”
Charlie filled his glass. “Le’s try another round of baseball, okay?”
“Okay,” I said.
“Okay,” Ed said. “Hey, do we need more p’tato ships?”
“No.”
“No.”
“Okay, deal.”
“Ante, first.”
We all anted two cents, and Charlie started dealing, giving us our two down cards. He gave Ed his face card then, and it was a three.
“Whoo,” Charlie said. “You got to match the pot.”
“S’nothing,” Ed said, waving his hand grandly. “Hardly nothin’ in there. Hardly nothin’ at all. How mush is in there, Blake?”
I looked at the pennies on the table, knowing full well we’d each anted two cents, and that should have made a total of six cents.
“Jus’ a minute,” I said. I leaned over close to the table, and began counting the pennies. There were a lot of them. They were all over the table. “This’s gonna break you, Ed,” I said. “Y’better drop out.”
Ed sat upright, dignity in every line of his face. “I c’n match it,” he said. “How mush’s in there?”
“Forty-seven cents,” I said.
“Fifty-two cens,” Charlie corrected.
“Jus’ a minute, jus’ a minute,” Ed said. He poured another glass of vodka, downed it, and then counted the pennies we had anted. “I get forry-eight,” he said.
“Le’s split the difference.”
“Okay. Between forry-eight and fifty-two.”
“That’s eight cens,” Charlie said.
“An’ split that, makes it four cents,” I said, nodding my head vigorously. “Where’s the vodka?”
“Right here,” Charlie said. He filled my glass and I thanked him profusely and then swallowed its contents.
“So, add four cents to forry-eight, that comes to fifty-two.”
“Sure, that’s what I said,” Charlie said.
“Sure,” Ed agreed. He put a fifty-cent piece and two pennies in the center of the table.
“Big pot this trip,” Charlie said.
“Yeah. Deal.”
Charlie gave me my card. Another three.
“I’ll be damned,” Charlie said. “Another three. How do you like that? Say, this deck must be jinxed. Say, how you like that? Two threes in a row. Say, how’s that?”
“Stinks,” I said. “Where’s the vodka?”
“Le’s all have another li’l drink,” Ed said. We filled all the glasses, clinked them together, and drank.
“Now,” I said. “I gotta match the pot.”
“Tha’s easy,” Ed said. “Jus’ twice fifty-two.”
“How much is that?” Charlie asked.
“Lemme figure it,” I said. “I’m a l’rary agent, I figure p’centages all day long. Le’see now.”
“Two times fifty-two. Tha’s a hard one.”
“No, s’easy. Le’see.”
“Put in three dollars,” Ed said. “Call it square.”
“Sure,” Charlie said. “We’ll give you a break.”
“Thanks, fellas,” I said. “Thanks a lot.”
“Don’ mention it.”
“Not at all.”
I put in the three bucks, and Charlie dealt himself a card. A nine.
“Match the pot!” Ed squealed.
“No,” Charlie said. “S’a nine. That means an extra card.”
“Three means a extra card,” I said.
“No, three is wild. Four matches the pot.”
“Where’s the vodka?”
“So, match the pot.”
“This’s a nine, not a three.”
“Then make it wild. Do something.”
“Where’s the vodka?”
“I’ll take an extra card.”
“Okay, take two.”
“No, one’s enough.”
“Go ahead, take two. What the hell. Go ahead.”
“Okay, I’ll take two. But I insis’ you all take one, then. Go ahead. Here’sh…here’s one for you, Ed, and you Blake…say, what’sh your name, Blake?”
“Blake.”
“Oh, sure.”
“I mean your firs’ name.”
“Oh. Joshua. Joshua.”
“Josh-yuh fit the battle of Jericho,” Ed said, and we all laughed. We kept on laughing while Charlie dealt Ed his next card, a jack.
“Jack. What’s a jack do?”
“Nothin’.”
“Has to do somethin’. Ma’shes the pot, I think.”
“No, doubles the pot.”
“Okay, put in a five, we’ll call it square.”
“Sure, but gimme an extra card.”
“Okay.”
“Here, have some vodka.”
“Thanks.”
“Shoot.”
“A deuce. A deuce does somethin’, I know. A deuce gets somethin’, I think.”
“A extra card.”
“No. We each give Josh a nickel, that’s it. Deuces get a nickel. Jesus, thi’sh a good game, huh?”
The deck ran out before we’d completed the fourth round. By this time, Ed had eleven extra cards, I had seven, and Charlie had thirteen. There was, according to our last count, thirty dollars and fourteen cents in the pot. We showed our hands.
Charlie had a royal flush and five aces.
I had six queens and a high straight.
Ed had nine queens and two pair, aces and jacks.
We couldn’t decide who won, so we split the pot between us and started another round. We also killed the bottle of vodka, and when Ed discovered there wasn’t another bottle in the cabinet, we opened a fifth of gin. We forgot the cards at about midnight and began singing all the old songs we knew, most of them dirty. Charlie was a fine baritone, and Ed had a nice tenor voice. We sang and we drank, and by one-thirty we were all on the floor, and none of us could lift the fifth of rye which we’d opened after the gin ran out.