All Chickens Must Die: A Benjamin Wade Mystery (13 page)

Carter held up his hands, palms out. “Absolutely nothing, Mr.
Tobias. I was merely noting that every man here at this table has a certain
degree of skill at this game. Sometimes, a man’s skill at poker can win him
more hands than the cards indicate. Other times, a man can falter, no matter
how good he is.” He patted his chest. “My skill just seems to be lacking here
tonight and Mr. Johns is the benefactor.”

A small crowd had gathered around the table as Johns racked up
his winnings. A game of chance had sprouted among the onlookers, seeing as
there wasn’t going to be a vacancy at the table for the time being. With each
successive hand, money and coin exchanged hands, to the choruses of cheers and
grunts. A few of the working ladies hung on the arms of some of the men.
Despite their earnest entreaties, none of the men would leave.

Jeffery Tobias drained his glass and held it up over his
shoulder. One of the dark-suited men directly behind him took the glass and
waded the crowd to the bar. With a last, long look at Carter, he said, “Well,
Mr. Johns, I don’t care what Mr. Carter thinks about his own lack of skill,
you’re playing a mighty fine round of poker. If I count your chips correctly, your
winnings are rapidly advancing on a little bonus.”

“Bonus?” Johns said, lacing his voice with extra curiosity.

As a trained actor, Carter felt the massive urge to give Johns
acting lessons. Nonetheless, Carter smiled to himself. Things he had suspected
were coming to pass.

Tobias sucked in his cheeks as he took a lungful of smoke from
his cigar. He let the smoke waft upward as he spoke. “Yes, Mr. Johns. A bonus.
Any man who earns four hundred dollars at the table is entitled to a room with
one of my ladies.” He paused and smirked. “Free of charge.”

Johns actually blushed and Carter fought the urge to roll his
eyes.

“Let’s get on with the next hand,” Peter McKay said. He sat to
Carter’s left. He was a bearded man and had sweated through his clothes, clogging
the smoky air with his stink. Absently, McKay wiped his forehead with the back
of his hand. It made a wet sound.

Carter sniggered, “You must like losing more than I do, McKay.”

“Shut up,” McKay said. To the dealer, he said, “Deal.”

Anderson, the dealer, looked at Tobias who nodded. The cards
began flying across the table. Carter kept his cards face down, pulling up the
corners to determine what he had. As usual, it was junk. He examined his small
pile of chips in front of him. He might be able to stretch his presence at the
table for a round or two more but, after that, he would have to leave.

Time to force the issue. But first, he was going to have some
fun.

Scott Dennis Parker lives and works in his native Houston, Texas.
He is the Saturday columnist at DoSomeDamage.com. He is the founder of Quadrant
Fiction Studio, an independent publisher that specializes in stories that will
amaze, excite, and, most importantly, entertain you.

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