The Christmas Train by David Baldacci

supplement their income as they hunkered in their paper-lined foxholes. While a beat reporter for the Territorial Enterprise , Sam Clemens had also engaged in many gentlemanly games of cards. He routinely carried his old Navy revolver with him during these “friendly” matches, presumably in case a participant drew the wrong conclusion from a high card placed in error in one’s boot or sleeve.
    On the surface, the group in the lounge car looked fairly innocent, but these were the types one had to watch out for, Tom knew. The most money he’d ever lost in a game of cards was at a dear little convent in a foreign location he absolutely refused to disclose out of sheer embarrassment. The Mother Superior had drawn to four consecutive inside straights, a record surely unmatched in poker history. Tom drew some comfort from the fact that no cardplayer, however exalted, could hope to best an opponent who had the Almighty behind her.
    Since the “chips” being used in the game were actually potato chips, they bought several bags of Doritos, and on a dare from Tom, Eleanor even purchased one of Tyrone’s Boiler Room concoctions. The ebony Elvis and the journalist shared a triumphant look until the woman downed it in one swig, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and sat down to play some cards.
    “That just ain’t human. You telling me you know that lady?” Tyrone whispered.
    “I’m not sure,” Tom replied.
    They raced through poker, blackjack, hearts, spades, gin rummy, euchre, and other assorted family entertainment, and finished with about as many Doritos as they’d started with, plus lots of material for both Tom’s story and Eleanor’s movie. There was one gent with six fingers who won far more than he lost. Tom was guessing it had something to do with that extra digit and perhaps an ace or two secreted there somehow, though he couldn’t prove it beyond a reasonable doubt, which was the prevailing legal standard on board, he was informed. There was also an obnoxious type who snorted every time he took a pot, belittled his neighbors’ cardplaying errors, and generally made himself a nuisance. Eleanor leaned over at one point and whispered into Tom’s ear, “That guy gets butchered in the film’s first act.”
    As they rose to leave, Tom pulled out his Havanas and pointed at Father Kelly, who’d proved himself a nimble cardplayer as well; his explanation was: “Too much free time in the rectory during my formative years in the priesthood.”
    “The smoking lounge beckons, Father.”
    Eleanor followed them, though Tom knew she didn’t smoke, at least she hadn’t when he’d known her. He glanced at her with a questioning expression.
    She shrugged. “Max is the boss. In for a dime, in for a dollar.”
    There were ventilation fans inside the lounge that were theoretically supposed to rid the atmosphere of any smoke within a short period of time. However, judging from the thickened atmosphere, the machines had given up the fight and gone home with their blades between their legs.
    Most of the seats were taken, but they found three near the back. Some of the smokers had placed a piece of plywood on top of one of the ashtray stands and were playing checkers on this makeshift table. Another group was discussing the upcoming football playoffs. Although the sign on the door had said no food or drink allowed, everyone had something they were munching or sipping. One man said that it was okay unless the conductor came by, and then everyone with contraband should hide it post haste. Tom looked at the beer bottles, superlarge ice-cream sandwiches, and big jugs of homemade concoctions that didn’t quite look like Kool-Aid and wondered exactly how those items were to be effectively concealed.
    They sat and attempted to soak it all in without too much damage to their lungs. Father Kelly and Tom coaxed their cigars to life while Eleanor sat back and closed her eyes.
    “Tired?” Tom asked between puffs. “You must