April Evil by John D. MacDonald

made.”
    “Three o’clock?”
    “I guess so, Mooney. I guess so. And from here I’ll have to go to a tea.”
    “Suppose there weren’t any calls to be made, Lennie?”
    “Then I wouldn’t be here.”
    “Are you that cold a proposition?”
    “Don’t let ’ums pride be hurt, baby doll.”
    “Well, hell!”
    “Just teasing. After yesterday, yes, Mooney. I think I would have risked it. You’re good to me. But with the phone calls, that’s two birds with one rock, isn’t it?”
    “I guess so.”
    “And so there’s two reasons for taking the risk. This is a small place, Mooney. And I’m watched closer than most. You can understand that.”
    “Sure.”
    She ruffled his hair quickly and left. He did not see her to the door. He heard the motor start and the car drive away. He made himself a drink. When it was half gone, he took a quick shower and dressed again. He was back at the agency by twenty-five after four.
    Dil Parks saw Mooney come in. Dil felt a vague irritation with Mooney. The man seemed to be spending damn little time on the job lately. But he was not sufficiently incensed to go out onto the floor and peel his hide. He had more important things to worry about. Two weeks before, Dillon Parks had played desperate high-stakes poker with five other local men. They had played in a private room at a downtown hotel. It was a group which met regularly. Dil was not a steady member of the group. Each time he played he seemed to get burned.
    But this time need had been greater than caution. He had played for the money with which to pay unpaid bills. He knew he was playing with scared money. But he could think of no other way to get what he needed. His borrowing power was exhausted. There was a maximum loan on his house, and on the agency.
    One poker hand in the middle of the evening ruined him. He had played on, knowing he had no chance to recoup. He had played on, numbly, trying to understand why this ultimate catastrophe had happened to him.
    It had been a five-card draw hand. Dil had been dealt three sevens, an ace and a four. He had opened. It was a pot-limit game, no limit on raises. Three men had stayed. Dil discarded the four and drew one card. He did not look at the draw. There were two other one-card draws and one two-card draw. He had intended to bet before looking, but as his opener had been raised twice and the pot was getting heavy, he spread his cards and saw the fourth seven.
    His heart beat faster. This could be the big one. He hoped everybody had improved. He wanted eager play. He wanted a heavy pot. He bet heavily, but not too heavily. He was raised and he raised back. One man folded. Three of them were left in the pot. He raised heavily again. And was raised back. The three of them had begun to perspire. Marty Allen, after long thought and with great reluctance, folded his hand and said, “Too steep for me, boys. I can’t even afford to protect my investment.”
    Dil Parks and Jim Stauch were left. Stauch was about sixty,a fat small red-faced man with poached eyes and a great deal of money. He owned bits and pieces of nearly a dozen small profitable businesses. He was originally from Georgia. He was known to be shrewd in a business deal. He was a merciless poker player. He was not a quiet poker player. He chattered all the time.
    “Well now, ole Dil has got himself something he’s mighty proud of, but by God, I like the look of this stuff right here, so I think I’ll shove out all the rest of these chips and maybe put a check right on top of the pile. So give me just a second to write this out, Dil, and here it is, right on top of the pile, a little one and three zeros to make it look important, and with the chips and all that adds up to a little bump of let me see around about twelve hundred, yes, exactly twelve hundred.”
    Dil wrote out a check for two thousand, raising Stauch eight hundred. His hand was shaking so badly, the signature didn’t look right. He felt as if he was dreaming