finished, the awe in his face made her blush—something she never did. “Grace,” he breathed, shaking his head in wonder. “Grace, Grace, Grace.” Before she knew what he meant to do, he slid his arm around her and kissed her on the lips.
It didn’t last long. Just long enough for the truth to sink in that this was what she’d wanted him to do ever since that first night, when they’d stood outside her hotel-room door and he’d pitched that bunkum about her “distinctive bouquet.” His lips were firm, almost hard, but they were warm, too, and they fit next to hers exactly right. The malty taste of beer sweetened the kiss, personalized it somehow. It was just a brief, friendly buss—she didn’t even close her eyes—but when it was over she had to stop herself from following Reuben’s head back to keep the contact.
His dancing eyes made her smile. “Sweetheart,” he murmured, still holding her by the waist, “I think we were made for each other.”
She lifted skeptical eyebrows and didn’t answer. In the back of her mind lurked the disturbing possibility that he might have a point.
No houseman, no shills, no rake—the Evergreen Hotel Saloon had it all. It was the third place they’d tried, searching for a quiet, clean establishment, where the play was modest but not stodgy, and most important, where Reuben wasn’t known.
“You gentlemen need a fifth?” he’d inquired of the quartet at a back table, prosperous-looking types but not high rollers, maybe traveling salesmen, playing a desultory game of euchre and looking as if they’d welcome some fresh action. If professionals played here, he couldn’t see any, but it was still early; the big sharps’ garner started much later and might go on for days.
He took an empty chair with its back to the wall, in case railbirds showed up later, and gave everybody a friendly smile. Grace had made him take off his tie, his vest, his collar, and his gold watch, claiming they made him look too dangerous—“like a big black coyote drooling in a sheepfold.”
“What’s the game?” he asked, “euchre?” They admitted it. He looked bemused but agreeable; a moment later, as he’d hoped, one of them suggested they switch to draw poker.
The setup was simple at the Evergreen. There were no dealers, no house players, no floormen; just friendly games of chance among gentlemen, who bought their chips at the table from an invisible banker. The house provided the chips and the cards, and in return the drinks and cigars cost a little more than they would at a casino. Table stakes was the rule, but it was flexible, and for now there was a ten-dollar limit on first bets and raises.
He was Obman, he told them—a name he liked to use because in Russian it meant trickery and deceit. The tall, skinny, bald-headed fellow to his left was Burgess; next to him was Sharkey, hard and sullen, with thick lips and a thin cigar; then Wyatt, fat and jolly, sporting an old-fashioned Prince Albert coat and striped trousers; and finally red-haired Rusty, freckled and vacant, with an irritating habit of clearing his throat. Burgess and Wyatt were pals; they worked for the same photographic-equipment manufacturing company. Rusty knew them because his cousin’s wife married Wyatt’s brother’s something or other—Reuben stopped listening and didn’t catch it. The wild card was Sharkey; like Reuben, he’d invited himself into the game. Nobody knew him, nobody could vouch for him. He claimed he was staying at the hotel, though, and the bartender was letting him run a tab. Reuben guessed that was some kind of endorsement.
He had a bad moment when a new man, apparently an acquaintance of Rusty’s, wandered over to kibitz and bum cigarettes and—Reuben was mortally afraid—offer to sit in the game. Visions of having to start all over somewhere else filled him with gloom, for a seventh player would completely muck up the carefully arranged cooler hidden in his inside coat pocket.
It didn’t last long. Just long enough for the truth to sink in that this was what she’d wanted him to do ever since that first night, when they’d stood outside her hotel-room door and he’d pitched that bunkum about her “distinctive bouquet.” His lips were firm, almost hard, but they were warm, too, and they fit next to hers exactly right. The malty taste of beer sweetened the kiss, personalized it somehow. It was just a brief, friendly buss—she didn’t even close her eyes—but when it was over she had to stop herself from following Reuben’s head back to keep the contact.
His dancing eyes made her smile. “Sweetheart,” he murmured, still holding her by the waist, “I think we were made for each other.”
She lifted skeptical eyebrows and didn’t answer. In the back of her mind lurked the disturbing possibility that he might have a point.
No houseman, no shills, no rake—the Evergreen Hotel Saloon had it all. It was the third place they’d tried, searching for a quiet, clean establishment, where the play was modest but not stodgy, and most important, where Reuben wasn’t known.
“You gentlemen need a fifth?” he’d inquired of the quartet at a back table, prosperous-looking types but not high rollers, maybe traveling salesmen, playing a desultory game of euchre and looking as if they’d welcome some fresh action. If professionals played here, he couldn’t see any, but it was still early; the big sharps’ garner started much later and might go on for days.
He took an empty chair with its back to the wall, in case railbirds showed up later, and gave everybody a friendly smile. Grace had made him take off his tie, his vest, his collar, and his gold watch, claiming they made him look too dangerous—“like a big black coyote drooling in a sheepfold.”
“What’s the game?” he asked, “euchre?” They admitted it. He looked bemused but agreeable; a moment later, as he’d hoped, one of them suggested they switch to draw poker.
The setup was simple at the Evergreen. There were no dealers, no house players, no floormen; just friendly games of chance among gentlemen, who bought their chips at the table from an invisible banker. The house provided the chips and the cards, and in return the drinks and cigars cost a little more than they would at a casino. Table stakes was the rule, but it was flexible, and for now there was a ten-dollar limit on first bets and raises.
He was Obman, he told them—a name he liked to use because in Russian it meant trickery and deceit. The tall, skinny, bald-headed fellow to his left was Burgess; next to him was Sharkey, hard and sullen, with thick lips and a thin cigar; then Wyatt, fat and jolly, sporting an old-fashioned Prince Albert coat and striped trousers; and finally red-haired Rusty, freckled and vacant, with an irritating habit of clearing his throat. Burgess and Wyatt were pals; they worked for the same photographic-equipment manufacturing company. Rusty knew them because his cousin’s wife married Wyatt’s brother’s something or other—Reuben stopped listening and didn’t catch it. The wild card was Sharkey; like Reuben, he’d invited himself into the game. Nobody knew him, nobody could vouch for him. He claimed he was staying at the hotel, though, and the bartender was letting him run a tab. Reuben guessed that was some kind of endorsement.
He had a bad moment when a new man, apparently an acquaintance of Rusty’s, wandered over to kibitz and bum cigarettes and—Reuben was mortally afraid—offer to sit in the game. Visions of having to start all over somewhere else filled him with gloom, for a seventh player would completely muck up the carefully arranged cooler hidden in his inside coat pocket.
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