Two in the Field

by Darryl Brock

  “Thanks for sharing that.”

  She slid close to me, the tops of her breasts visible above her low-cut dress. “I might know a little more to tell you,” she said coyly. “For a kiss.”

  “Look, I told you—”

  She took hold of my ears and pulled my face to hers, her lips and tongue moving against mine. I started to pull away, then thought what the hell, information probably had to come at a price. When things started to get too steamy I pushed her gently back.

  “Time to go,” I said. “Do you really know more?”

  “Lots of things,” she said sweetly, then pouted when I got to my feet. “Very well, here it is,” she said. “I suspect that Jim sold Ham Baker worthless stock.”

  It didn’t take a rocket scientist to guess what that stock might have been. “Thanks,” I told her, and moved toward the door.

  “One more kiss?” she said. “For goodnight?”

  I closed the door behind me.

  Dear Cait,

  Several weeks have passed since your letter arrived with Andy’s. I posted my answer to yours on that same day, and now I wonder how long it will take to reach you—or if it already has and a response from you is on its way. I would like that very much. As for my efforts here, I’ve placed myself in position to bring the colony’s interests to a favorable resolution, and am waiting for the right set of circumstances to do so. Suffice to say that it is a delicate business …

  I went on in that semi-formal vein and finished by saying I hoped she was well. I refrained from using the L-word, although I wanted to. So far I hadn’t bothered to tell her that I worked in a casino. And I saw absolutely no point in mentioning Ophelia du Pree.

  Report to my office, said Morrissey’s note. No pretty please. No at my convenience. A blunt command. I wasn’t too surprised, therefore, to find McDermott up there with Old Smoke, looking more than a little pissed.

  “Something queer happened in the poker room last night,” Morrissey said without preamble. “Jim suspects a crooked deal. He says you was there at the time.”

  “There have been some odd hands lately, all at the same table,” I said. “I’ve been trying to keep an eye on it.” I looked McDermott in the eye. “Checking for things like holdouts.”

  “See any?” Morrissey said.

  “Nope.”

  “What about the little dandy who got that no-draw flush?” he demanded. “A stranger, Red Jim tells me.”

  “I checked to make sure he had enough cash for the upstairs tables,” I said blandly. “Grogan was there, too. The small man struck us as just another sport.”

  “Any sparklers?” Morrissey asked. Gamblers always noted jewelry, a form of professional appraisal.

  “I don’t remember any.”

  They exchanged a glance.

  “Red Jim thinks you might know more about it than you’re letting on.”

  I shrugged to convey that I couldn’t be responsible for his muddled thinking, meanwhile heating up at the nerve of McDermott trying to spin things against me.

  “Ever seen the little swell before?” Morrissey pressed.

  I shook my head.

  They looked at me silently.

  “Do you ever wonder,” I said flatly, “if Red Jim skims some off your take?”

  “I’ll have your goddamn tongue for that!” McDermott shouted.

  I gave him the sort of tight smile I imagined a Pinkerton might use.

  “I’ll not have my Club House under the slightest shadow,” Morrissey said. “No man can say I’ve ever turned a dishonest card or struck a foul blow.”

  What do you consider the head butt you gave me?

  “Good,” I answered, “because I don’t know of any shadow—but then I haven’t questioned the dealer of that game.” I looked at McDermott. “Do you want me to do that?”

  Red Jim glared daggers. Morrissey waved me out of the room. As I passed near McDermott, he said through clenched teeth, “Your day’s nearly here.”

  Baker counted the cash between us—$13,500 for him, $1,500 for Slack and me; we’d tripled our money. He pocketed his and said, “Now I’m even with that swindler.”

  “Red Jim cheated you?”

  The look Baker gave me wasn’t particularly friendly. I decided to push the issue anyway, thinking there wasn’t much to lose. “I know about the stocks,” I said in a sympathetic tone.

  His eyes flashed and he seemed to make an effort to control himself before saying tersely, “Losing doesn’t set well with me.”

  “No kidding.”

  “Being shown up as a fool is even worse—and McDermott did that to me. He slickered me into buying some of those bogus land certificates you’re tracking. I didn’t believe his sorry act later, when I asked about the big dividend he’d said was a sure thing—only to have him tell me the whole operation had gone under.”

  “What’d you do?”

  “Talked to Morrissey, but he just pooh-poohed it and said I should be more careful. That’s when I suspected they might be in it together.” He smiled, his eyes cold. “And that’s when I vowed to get back at Red Jim.”

  “You could have told me earlier.”

  “Didn’t trust you.” He patted the pocket that held his money. “Not like I do now.”

  “When did it happen?”

  “Maybe six months ago.”

  “Do you have the certificates?”

  “I burned the damn things.”

  “Do you remember the name?”

  “Never forget something like that,” he said. “ ‘Bonanza Western Land Company’.”

  “Involving Nebraska territory?”

  He nodded. “ ‘Rich land on the way to the gold mines,’ was Red Jim’s main pitch, ‘bound to grow in value.’ ”

  I felt an adrenaline rush that seemed equal parts anticipation and dread. “Any other reason to think Morrissey was in on it?”

  “Well, those certificates were floated out of Albany, which is where Old Smoke does his politickin’ when the State Senate’s in session.” Baker’s forehead creased in a frown. “The other thing was that about a week later he offered to cover my losses. No need for that. Said he didn’t want his employees scheming on each other’s money. But why’d he wait so long? I think the whole damn thing kicked up on ’em.”

  I reflected gloomily that if Morrissey and McDermott were in it together, then my job at the Club House offered no protection.

  I thought I’d been clever to insinuate myself here, where I could observe and plot. Now I had the uncomfortable feeling that I was the one being observed. And with LeCaron on his way, I badly needed a plan.

  Dear Samuel,

  I was heartened to receive your letter and to know that you are well and that the colony’s hopes for recovering the lost funds are yet alive.…

  Finding Cait’s letter in my hotel box, I’d tried to brace myself against disappointment, and so was pleased to find her tone a trifle warmer than before, though still maddeningly impersonal. Mostly she wrote of teaching Kaija a bit of Gaelic in return for some coaching in basic Finnish, and about Lily’s daily doings. One sentence I read over and over: Their presence means so much, for otherwise it has been lonely here.

  The implication was that she missed Tim. But perhaps me, too. And there was no mention of Tip McKee. My eye drifted back to heartened at the beginning, and to the letter’s closing, Sincerely, Caitlin. Hardly the outpouring that I wanted, but better than before. Little by little, I told myself.

  Ophelia bent down to deliver the customary brandy, her dècolletage lower than ever. She caught me looking at her breasts, laughed, and suddenly was in my arms again. Her lips were remarkably soft and full and expressive. For a long moment I forgot all about Cait and kissed back. My hands moved over her and she seemed to melt against me. If she hadn’t reached downward to double-check my amatory potential, I don’t know what might have happened.

  But she did.

  “War wound?” she asked in her sultriest voice.

  Th
e knowing tone and her ironic smile, broke the mood. For the first time I noticed that the striking gray eyes were slightly mismatched, one larger than the other. Beneath the makeup on her cheeks I made out tiny bumps. It wasn’t really the imperfections that dampened things, though. Just the awareness that she was not Cait.

  I took a breath and said, “I guess that shows I’m not made of steel after all.”

  “Mmmm.” Ophelia glanced significantly at my crotch. “I wouldn’t swear to that.” She made a kittenish flounce on the cushions. “You thought of her, didn’t you?”

  At that moment it seemed that I had never missed Cait more. “Let’s talk about something else.”

  “Such as?”

  “How about LeCaron.” A subject guaranteed to shrivel lusty urges. “Any idea when he might show up?”

  “Jim hasn’t let on,” she said, her face sobering, “but I suspect it will be within the fortnight.”

  I rolled up the floor plans of the Club House that Slack had rendered from my rough sketches. We’d been studying them intently.

  “There’s tramps of every stripe you could want,” he assured me. “For the kind of payoff we’re offering, we’ll get what we need.”

  “We’ll need to train them in a hurry.”

  “Better that way,” he said. “Less time for ’em to queer the operation.”

  “Okay,” I told him. “Put together your team.”

  Old Smoke’s gambling house was in for some radically new excitement.

  TWENTY-TWO

  In her prime she had been considered the most beautiful woman in New York. Born Susie Smith, daughter of a Hudson river-boat captain, she’d captured Morrissey’s heart when he worked as a teenaged roustabout on her father’s boat. After their marriage she set out trying to polish him—Morrissey hadn’t learned to read till he was 19—and in return he’d indulged her with everything he could provide. More than two decades later, he still did so. One tale floating around town had him buying her five-thousand-dollar gold opera glasses set with diamonds and matched pearls.

  When Susie arrived for the climax of the season, Old Smoke threw a welcoming banquet at the Club House. Mrs. Morrissey passed close by me as she entered, trailing wisps of expensive perfume. I got a glimpse of her delicate features, and then her black eyes, the twins of her husband’s, met mine for an electric instant.

  Morrissey began spending more time away from the Club House. People craned their necks to see Susie dripping with jewels, as the couple promenaded through the verandas and tea rooms and restaurants of the grand hotels. He’d boosted his attire with a beaver hat, swallow-tailed coat, striped trousers, patent-leather boots, and white kid gloves. Diamonds flashed on his scarf, cuffs, rings, and watch chain.

  “Smoke could make a strong play for any of the ladies here if he was inclined to,” Baker commented, “but he never does.”

  While Morrissey’s fidelity was laudable, I was far more concerned with how his wife’s drawing him away from the premises would affect our plan.

  Pari-mutuel betting didn’t yet exist. Owners and backers of horses wagered against each other, of course, but it was harder for outsiders to get involved. To remedy this, Morrissey came up with auction pools. The high bidder for a horse in a given field won the pooled money if his choice finished first. Morrissey naturally took a cut for managerial services. Since he risked nothing himself, unlike later bookmakers, it was gravy. For the same percentage, he served as stakes-holder for individual wagers.

  As a result, the Club House safe was crammed with money. Moreover, heavy hitters returning from the track each evening craved more action. All tables were jammed. Private games often lasted till dawn. Morrissey wanted everybody on hand for closing, so I began reporting between ten and midnight.

  All the better for what Slack and I envisioned.

  Downtown was so crowded now that we probably could have met anywhere without drawing attention, but to be safe we held our planning sessions in one or another of the town’s churches, generally vacant during the day. Unlikely that we’d encounter Red Jim there.

  Apart from his size, Slack little resembled the gent who’d won at poker. He’d shaved off his Van Dyke goatee, cut his hair short and dyed it darker. Wearing dungarees and carrying a toolbox, he looked like a worker on his way to a construction site, of which there were plenty in town.

  “Nothing better than stealing from the rich,” he liked to say, “unless it’s stealing from the sporting rich!” He intended to build a grand new house for his mother with the bonanza we would strike. Things were coming together fast. Already four men had arrived at a tramp camp a few miles outside of town. Two others were expected, one of them critical: the safe-blower.

  “Braxton’s an ol’ unreconstructed reb,” Slack said admiringly. “Blew up railroad trestles for Mosby in the Shenandoah faster’n the Yank engineers could fix ’em. This job’ll tickle him. ’Course he might not settle for the safe alone. Might blow the whole roof!”

  “Just the safe’s door,” I cautioned. “At least the hinges. Your men can do the rest with crowbars.”

  “You’ll get the bars up there?”

  I nodded. Each night I’d sneaked one inside a janitor’s closet on the third floor. “How are the masks?”

  “Seamstress is slower’n glue, but nearly finished now,” he said. “Says she’s never seen the like.”

  “That’s why they’ll work. Nobody’ll remember anything else once they see the masks. How about the guns?”

  “I’m picking up one a day, like you said, from different shops. I tell ’em I got nasty li’l critters on my property.”

  “Property?” I said. “You?”

  “It’s a stretch,” he admitted. “But the gun dealers, they don’t care.”

  “Can you tell me about your plans?” Ophelia looked at me demurely over her brandy.

  Startled, I stared at her. Our operation was scheduled for the next night.

  “Red Jim is pressing me hard,” she said. “I must tell him something.”

  Relieved, I said, “Okay, tell him I love working at the Club House and want to stay here forever. Tell him you’ve got a hunch I’m going to ask to marry you and settle down right here in your cottage—at his and Old Smoke’s expense.”

  She gave me a look. “Don’t be hurtful.”

  “Sorry, not my intent,” I said. “Just say I’m thinking about settling here. That’ll give Red Jim something to chew on.”

  Since her last amorous foray, she’d kept things conversational. By now I looked forward to our nightly chats, and I think she did too. She liked to slip out of the little flowered pumps that killed her feet, remove the corset that made her dizzy from oxygen deprivation, settle down in comfort with her brandy, and share the latest resort gossip.

  I learned that she’d run away from home at a tender age and worked for years in dance halls. As part of her job she’d painted her face—literally—with expensive coats of layered enamel that had to be thin enough to be flexible, thick enough to stay on. The lead base contained arsenic.

  “Besides poisoning me and being dear in price, it was ruining my complexion,” she said. “Part of why I switched to straight-out whoring.”

  “What’s the other part?”

  “Money.” She smiled. “And my feet don’t pain me so much.”

  “How’d you get tied up with McDermott?”

  “Stabbed somebody.” She didn’t elaborate. “I was in a bad fix. Red Jim happened to be around, and got me out of it.”

  “And ever since, you couldn’t get away from him?”

  She shook her head, the violet-gray eyes cloudy.

  I wondered if she’d really wanted to. If you could stomach McDermott, gigs like this wouldn’t be too tough to take. I thought about letting her know this was our last night. Saying goodbye. But I didn’t. After tomorrow night, the less Ophelia knew, the better for her.

  Closing night of the racing season would see gala banquets, frenetic gambling and drunken celeb
rating. To cap everything, a fireworks balloon would lift off from the Club House grounds. Plenty of distractions to work for us.

  I met Slack around noon. My stomach, already tight, was not helped by his troubled expression.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Braxton ain’t showed,” he said. “Something must’ve happened.”

  Our explosives man. Great. Just fucking great.

  “Is the safe key or combination?” Slack asked.

  “Combination.”

  “Who can open it?”

  “Morrissey.”

  “We’ll need to get him alone, stick a gun to his head and—”

  “Won’t work,” I said. “He’d tell us we don’t have the balls to shoot—and he’d be right.”

  “What’re we gonna do?” he said miserably. “Just give it up?”

  “Meet me here at four.”

  “You got an idea?”

  “Not yet.”

  Passing the Club House, I glanced at the announcements case which listed daily attractions. An end-of-racing banquet, hosted by Senator and Mrs. Morrissey, was scheduled for eight. The fireworks balloon would lift off after its conclusion, around ten-thirty. No doubt it would draw a lot of the patrons outside.

  Hmmmm … A scenario began to take form.

  It was probably crazy.

  I looked up at the Club House’s fortress-like brick walls, wishing dolefully that our safe blower had shown up.

  Slack had cleaned them up as much as he could, and in their identical gray suits and black ties, they looked a lot better than when we’d gone over things a few hours earlier at the tramp encampment. One by one they’d drifted into the Club House, and now were scattered among the public tables.

  Waiting for my signal.

  The public floor was more jammed than I’d ever seen it, and more people were crowding in as the Morrisseys’ banquet emptied on the far side of the Club House. The day’s track winners had already been paid; we would be robbing only the casino. Slack was outside, guarding our escape route.