than a minute. It wasn’t even his good looks that caused the devastation; if anything he was too handsome, a man not to be trusted on that score alone. No, what really made him dangerous was the fatal thread of sincerity that wove through his effortless charm, smooth as snake oil. Henry had it too, the ability to make you believe every word he said simply because you wanted to believe it. With men like that you couldn’t help yourself—you wanted to please them, to keep that radiant, mesmerizing good will they flashed with their warm eyes and their ravishing smiles. Alice was nobody’s fool; she looked as if she’d been around the track any number of times. But in this case she might have met her match: if it came to a showdown between Reuben and the dealer, Grace was putting her money on the gentleman.
Words were exchanged between them in low voices; Grace missed half, and the other half were in some kind of code. The bountiful Alice glanced around the hall, no doubt trying to spot the houseman. Grace followed her gaze, and by the time she looked back, Reuben was sitting at the blackjack table and pulling in a stack of chips in exchange for a bill she knew couldn’t cover them. Score one for the gent.
Whether or not Alice’s largesse extended to helping him beat her at her own game was another question; the dealer’s hands flew too fast for Grace to spot any bottom deals, crimps, or seconds. But he did win, with steady, temperate play, enlivened by unexpectedly risky bets on doubtful-looking cards—bets that never seemed to fail. Grace scrutinized the byplay for signals between them, but couldn’t detect any. After a while, she forgot about signs and countersigns and grew fixated instead on Reuben’s hands. The hands of an artist, she recalled fantasizing on the stagecoach, and she hadn’t been far wrong. His medium was cards instead of clay, but his long, crafty fingers looked as sensitive as a sculptor’s. Did he file his fingertips with sandpaper? Some sharps did, until the skin bled. But cards were only one of Reuben Jones’s games, so she thought he probably didn’t. She suspected he was a natural. A born prestidigitator.
He was wearing black again today; even his shirt was black, and the natty string tie around his stiff white collar. If the idea was to look like a gambler, then he’d succeeded. And yet, somehow his face didn’t fit the role. It was too … complicated. Not slick or purposeful or ruthless, like the faces of most professional gamblers she’d observed, in Henry’s company, in her young life. There was too much going on behind Reuben’s dark-lashed eyes and his beaked nose, his clever mouth. Too many possibilities attracted him, and he was good at all of them—blind Spanish scholar, roof salesman, correspondence-school principal, blackjack magician. She didn’t trust him farther than she could throw an andiron.
It took him fifteen minutes to pay Alice back for her covert advance, and only thirty more to triple his poke. In his place, on such a streak, Grace knew she’d have kept playing, but one of his numerous virtues seemed to be knowing when to stop. He raked his winnings into his hat, planted a wet-looking kiss on the dealer’s lips, stood up, and walked away to cash in his chips at the bar. The suddenness of the move took Grace by surprise; she drifted after him uncertainly. “Have fun, honey,” Alice called to her with a good-natured wink.
She took a seat on a stool beside him in front of the long mahogany bar, resting her toes on the brass rail, resisting the blinding pull of his smile. She was back in his line of vision, so to speak, a player once more on the stage of his mind. She shouldn’t be put out, she told herself; he’d only been doing his job, which he did extremely well. Henry had the same genius for making people believe they were the sole, fascinating center of his attention, and watching him employ it had always amused, never irritated her.
Words were exchanged between them in low voices; Grace missed half, and the other half were in some kind of code. The bountiful Alice glanced around the hall, no doubt trying to spot the houseman. Grace followed her gaze, and by the time she looked back, Reuben was sitting at the blackjack table and pulling in a stack of chips in exchange for a bill she knew couldn’t cover them. Score one for the gent.
Whether or not Alice’s largesse extended to helping him beat her at her own game was another question; the dealer’s hands flew too fast for Grace to spot any bottom deals, crimps, or seconds. But he did win, with steady, temperate play, enlivened by unexpectedly risky bets on doubtful-looking cards—bets that never seemed to fail. Grace scrutinized the byplay for signals between them, but couldn’t detect any. After a while, she forgot about signs and countersigns and grew fixated instead on Reuben’s hands. The hands of an artist, she recalled fantasizing on the stagecoach, and she hadn’t been far wrong. His medium was cards instead of clay, but his long, crafty fingers looked as sensitive as a sculptor’s. Did he file his fingertips with sandpaper? Some sharps did, until the skin bled. But cards were only one of Reuben Jones’s games, so she thought he probably didn’t. She suspected he was a natural. A born prestidigitator.
He was wearing black again today; even his shirt was black, and the natty string tie around his stiff white collar. If the idea was to look like a gambler, then he’d succeeded. And yet, somehow his face didn’t fit the role. It was too … complicated. Not slick or purposeful or ruthless, like the faces of most professional gamblers she’d observed, in Henry’s company, in her young life. There was too much going on behind Reuben’s dark-lashed eyes and his beaked nose, his clever mouth. Too many possibilities attracted him, and he was good at all of them—blind Spanish scholar, roof salesman, correspondence-school principal, blackjack magician. She didn’t trust him farther than she could throw an andiron.
It took him fifteen minutes to pay Alice back for her covert advance, and only thirty more to triple his poke. In his place, on such a streak, Grace knew she’d have kept playing, but one of his numerous virtues seemed to be knowing when to stop. He raked his winnings into his hat, planted a wet-looking kiss on the dealer’s lips, stood up, and walked away to cash in his chips at the bar. The suddenness of the move took Grace by surprise; she drifted after him uncertainly. “Have fun, honey,” Alice called to her with a good-natured wink.
She took a seat on a stool beside him in front of the long mahogany bar, resting her toes on the brass rail, resisting the blinding pull of his smile. She was back in his line of vision, so to speak, a player once more on the stage of his mind. She shouldn’t be put out, she told herself; he’d only been doing his job, which he did extremely well. Henry had the same genius for making people believe they were the sole, fascinating center of his attention, and watching him employ it had always amused, never irritated her.
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