spaniel, part deux.
Alright, so, the fic's actually gonna be done in three parts, 'stead of five. Which is fine. I think three's a good number. Feedback would be super-ace. ;)
title: Spaniel, part II (the waltz)
author: kat9y
rating: This bit: PG-13, next bit: NC-17.
movie/pairing: The Sting, Henry/Hooker, slight Henry/Billie.
summary: The boys've gotta get that rent money somehow.
disclaimer: Don't own 'em, don't profit, just play.
spaniel
the waltz
Hooker was the roper, and this wasn’t any surprise. The kid had enough charisma and devil-persuasion to convince any mark to shove a stack of greens into the pot without a moment’s consideration. Usually had enough confidence to weasel his way outta’ trouble, too. Usually.
“Alright, so what’ve we got?” Hooker was propped in a chair, shoulders canted with an elbow resting atop the wooden back. He lazily fanned himself with his hat, the August-in-Chicago heat seeping in despite the sleeveless shirt.
“What was that?” Henry pretended like he didn’t hear the question, but his poker face was sliced down the center by the smallest curve of his lips.
“Ya heard just fine,” Hooker leaned forward in his chair, attempting to peer across the table to the sheet of hand-written scribbles that Henry was studying. He slapped the paper on the table, wafting a bit of breeze Hooker’s way.
“Alright, kid, I’ve got inside, so follow my lead.”
One of the last things that Luther Coleman had told Hooker was to look up a man named Henry Gondorff - that there wasn’t a better inside man alive. And Luther had been right. Hell, Luther had always been right, but especially about Henry.
“Billie’s put the mark up for us. Regular at her place; guy named Dean Smith. Hangs around Charlie Diamond and that crew when they come in from New York.”
--
“Hey, ain’t ya one of Charlie Diamond’s boys?”
The stocky man hunched at the diner counter looked up from his cup of black coffee.
“Yeah, who’re you?” his deep-set eyes squinted, turning the sockets into dark slits. Hooker stuck out a hand, flashing a smile.
“Name’s Cass Martin,” Hooker’s hand was tentatively gripped, “we met at one of Charlie’s rags, though I wouldn’t be too surprised if ya didn’t remember,” he gave a conspiratory wink, and a sly smile slipped onto his face. The caution disappeared in an instant as Smith chuckled and shook Hooker’s hand with vigor.
“After one of Charlie’s, I wouldn’t be surprised either! Dean Smith.” He grinned as recognition dawned on his jowly face. A finger wagged toward Hooker, following him as he took a seat.
“Say, ain’t you the fella who was with that little blonde? How’d you two get along that night?”
“Oh, we got along. Got along plenty o’ times,” Hooker perked his eyebrows, feigned memory glazing over his half-lidded eyes. With a hard blink, he turned back to Smith.
“Say, Dean, I’m glad I ran into ya. ‘Been lookin’ for a guy to play some cards with. Make ourselves a fifty-fifty profit,” with Johnny Hooker, it was about subtlety. The mere inflection tacked to the words ‘play some cards’ had Dean Smith interested. Very interested. He glanced to the waitress talking on the phone, then back to Hooker.
“What’re we talkin’?”
“What we’re talkin’ is the absolute best of it.”
--
“Aw, hell, we’ll have the best of it,” Hooker had stood up and was pacing about the apartment. The heat and sheen of sweat on his skin had become the farthest thing from his mind. He was grinning like a maniac, and it was contagious.
“Now don’t get too excited, kid. Haven’t even explained the hard part,” Henry smiled around a fresh cigar. He sparked the tip and began to shine the silver lighter with a handkerchief.
“You’re gonna find Smith tomorrow,” Henry continued, “and get him to meet ya for the game the next day at Club Lucky. Two o’clock. I’ll be coming in at three as Joe Leary, a wealthy businessman from Texas-“ Hooker turned sharply, fingers forming a gun and snapping right on Henry.
“The rube act!” Hooker interrupted, the gun flattening as he slapped his palm on the table. He studied the paper that Henry had scrawled on, a drop of perspiration falling from his forehead and spattering the name Leary. Henry looked on with vague fascination.
“Johnny, you don’t sit down I’m gonna have to stake ya with a goddamn rope,” Henry still smiled, despite the threat to the kid. He took a slow puff of the cigar and after a moment, Hooker sat.
“And yeh,” the ashy smoke wafted to the ceiling. He studied the glinting lighter, “it’s the rube act.”
--
“A real rube, eh?” Smith took a seat in Club Lucky’s back-corner table.
“I’m tellin’ ya, look up the word and you’ll see Leary’s fuckin’ face,” Hooker assured, sliding into the chair on the opposite side.
“So how’s this gonna run down, Cass?”
“I’ve got two-hundred bucks,” Hooker flashed an envelope, hooking it open with his thumbs to expose the money, “And what I’m gonna do is lose it.” Henry had nearly busted a gut when he told him that - that his job was to dump the cash as fast as he could, that it ‘shouldn’t be too hard.’ Har-goddamn-har.
“After all two-hundred of it’s in the pot, I’m gonna leave the game. I’ll sit at the table behind Leary, where I’ll be able to read his hand. And if I know it, then you’ll know it,” Hooker leaned back in his chair with a self-satisfied smile. Smith’s jaw hung a bit agape, eyes expectant with anticipation.
“How?” he finally asked when Hooker didn’t take the bait.
“I’m gonna teach ya’ a set of hand signals,” and all at once, Hooker rocketed into the lesson of brim-tips, temple-rubs, eyebrow-scratches, and exactly what they all meant; faces, suits, numbers, aces. Once Smith had gotten a rudimentary knowledge, Hooker directed him to a table across the room.
“Now when he comes through that door,” Hooker jerked an indicative thumb backward, “I’ll meet him when he orders his drink and ask to play him - and trust me on this, he ain’t gonna refuse. Once I’ve sat down with him, you come in and we’ll take off from there.”
--
“So when you come in at three, we’ll take it from there?” Hooker’s chin rested on his palm. The night had cooled the apartment enough for him to put his cap back on.
“We’re gonna run a cop-and-blow, and I’m gonna be bluffing and tossin’ cash the whole damn time. I’ll win some, Smith’ll win some,” Henry shrugged indifferently, pausing to roll the cigar between his lips, “we’ll pump up the stakes ‘till you’re outta the game, but when it’s just me an’ Smith, I’ve got a feeling he’ll start playin’ with fire pretty quick,” Henry flicked the cap on the lighter shut with a metallic clink.
--
“You’re playin’ with fire, cowboy,” Dean Smith chuckled lowly, glancing alternately at his cards and at the table behind the game where Hooker was sitting. Henry hee-hawed a laugh.
“Alrighty, well, we’ll just see ‘bout that! I’ll raise ya’ another hunnerd,” agile fingers masquerading as clumsy ranch-hands groped a chip and tossed it into the pot. Smith met it. Poor sucker always met it. Another chip-click in the pot.
“Ah call,” Henry drawled, and the hands were laid. With another sandpapery laugh, Smith wrapped his mitts around the pile and dragged it toward him. Henry fingered the tip of his string-necktie.
“Well, gaw-damn!” he yelped, “I ain’t never seen no one play like you afore,” there was a tone of pleased awe in Henry’s voice, and he started to deal out the next hand. The lighter Henry had set on the table gleamed, catching a bit more in its reflection than the light above the table.
Henry Gondorff didn’t even have to look at the reflection of the card in the lighter’s chrome side. Well, not directly, anyway. He’d trained himself to recognize the card instantly through the momentary revealing glimmer in his peripheral vision. He took immaculate inventory of every card that was passed across the table; deuce o’clubs, five o’hearts, eight o’diamonds, Jack o’clubs, five o’diamonds, two-of-a-kind, not too fuckin’ bad.
Smith studied his hand, his stony expression interrupted by the minute quirk of one bushy eyebrow that Henry read as two-of-a-kind, not too fuckin’ bad. After the draw, a dopey grin spread across Henry’s face. He tossed a pile of chips in the center.
“Aw, hell, let’s get this show on the road,” Henry challenged, “five-hunnerd!”
“Very well, Mr. Leary.”
Click. Met.
“Awright, I’ll raise ya’ another three-hunnerd.”
Click-click. Smith glanced to Hooker, who gave an almost-imperceptible nod and stood from his chair.
“Awright, hoss, whaddaya think ‘bout this?” and Henry tossed on another little stack. One thousand. Smith scowled at the chips in front of him, and did a bit of math that added up to -
“Only six-hundred?!” Hooker exclaimed in disbelief. He had wandered back to the table as if he had been heading toward the bar. His gaze met with Henry’s.
“Looks like I done cleared this feller out!” Henry let loose another one of those donkey-laughs and Hooker took a moment to revel in his partner; the brown suit, the cowboy hat, the string-tie, those idiocy-clouded eyes... Henry Gondorff had been put on hold; he was all rube, all Joe Leary, and he was too damn good.
“C’mon, man,” Hooker clapped a hand on Smith’s shoulder, “I’m sure ya can pull out the cash. There’s a bank right across the street.” Smith listened and nodded vigorously, rising from his chair. He took a step toward the door, then stared helplessly at his cards.
“Say, boys,” Hooker reached inside his jacket and pulled out the envelope that his cash had been in, “how ‘bout I look after the cards ‘till you come back?” Smith nodded and Hooker tucked the five cards into the envelope. Henry held out his own hand, and this time when Hooker reached out, when they locked eyes, it was Henry. It was the best inside man alive.
“Listen, I’m gonna go out for some air,” Hooker slipped the cards into the envelope. When he glanced back upward, Henry was gone.
“Well, awright then,” Joe Leary drawled. Hooker smirked and headed for the door.
--
“Now, when I clear Smith out, you’re gonna head out the door and show him the hands. Prove to him that he’s got me beat. That it’s worth gettin’ as much cash as he can.” Henry was speaking a bit more quietly. Not out of fear that someone in the building would hear-hell, they were all prostitutes and grifters anyhow-but out of the sheer intensity that mounted at the center of the table. Hooker was leaning forward onto his elbows, his eyes locked on Henry.
Henry paused for a moment and drank in the kid’s expression. He was ravenous, and Henry admitted to himself that Hooker really was an expert-he just needed guidance. If he was set on the trail, he’d track it with the best of ‘em. Hell, better than the best of ‘em. Left to wander, though… shit, that kid would never find his way back. Hooker’s eyes slitted. His smile broadened.
“Got it.”
“And then,” Henry leaned into the table, into Johnny Hooker. He slipped the cigar stub from his lips, “the next hand,” he turned the lit end away, Hooker’s lips parting as Henry slid the cigar between them.
“-we’ve got him.” Hooker finished with a breath of smoke.
--
We’ve got him, Smith thought deliriously as he was dealt another hand. There was at least three-thousand between them, and he couldn’t lose. Not with Cass Martin sitting at that table behind this inbred dumbfuck-who he figured he should be thanking, because he’s about to be a couple grand richer.
“Hmm,” Henry hummed thoughtfully, studying what he had been dealt, considering both of their hands. He tipped the brown cowboy hat backward and wiped a hand across his brow.
--
“And what’s that mean, kid?” Henry asked, sporting Hooker’s fedora. He carefully grasped the top of the hat and shifted it back to the crown of his head. Hooker found it a bit difficult to concentrate; he hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and it was what? Midnight? Christ. The darkness outside the apartment window wasn’t much of a reference.
“It means ya got him beat. We sting him.”
--
Sting him, Hooker’s brain shouted and his heart leapt when he saw Henry tip his hat, and oh-Jesus he hoped that wasn’t just an idle gesture… but there was no way Henry would be so careless. Hooker began to signal Henry’s hand to Smith. The translation was he had shit, ace high.
“What d’ya say we play without the draw on this one?” Smith ventured, beads of perspiration standing on his Neanderthal brow. Henry’s eyes widened.
“You sure ‘bout that?”
“Yeah. ‘Less you’re a yellowbelly, o’course,” Smith murmured lowly, a slow smile spreading across his face, exposing blocky and yellowing teeth. Henry looked uneasy, and Smith tossed in a stack.
“I raise ya’ one-thousand.”
Henry slid a handful of chips into the center of the table. Delirious with confidence, Smith shoved in the rest of his winnings.
“Hell,” his voice was high and wavering, “I’ll raise ya’ another grand!” Henry chewed his lip and saw the raise.
“I call,” Henry stated evenly. Smith lay down his hand; a pair of threes. Henry turned his over… pair of nines. Dean Smith looked like he’d been shot.
"Hooo-wee, ain't that just wonnerful?!" Henry guffawed and raked in the pot. Hooker grimaced and nodded toward the door, rising from the table and walking out. Smith stood, trembling with rage as he looked up to Henry.
“I’ll be right back,” he growled, turning to follow Hooker. Henry furrowed his brows.
“Hey now,” he shouted, “leave the money here, I ain’t no idiot!” Smith turned back, slammed down the bank envelope, and stormed outside.
“What the fuck happened in there?!” Smith shouted, clutching the lapels of Hooker’s suit and thowing him into the side of the building. Hooker cringed and lifted his open palms defenselessly.
“Fuck, don’t ask me, you must’ve gotten the signal wrong!” Hooker protested vehemently. Smith released him, and Hooker smoothed the front of his jacket.
“I know what I saw,” Smith growled. Hooker shrugged indignantly, looking offended.
“Well, I’ve been runnin’ this con for years, and I don’t think I was the one who screwed it up.” At that, Hooker saw Smith beginning to second-guess himself. Now for the cool-out.
“Listen,” Hooker said softly, “this bastard ain’t gonna quit now. You take out another two-grand, and we’re still in this.”
“But-“
“But nothin’, you ain’t got a thing to worry about. When I said the deal was fifty-fifty, I meant it. Whatever you lose, I’ll pay up half,” Hooker’s voice had dropped to a sort of purr, and he just goddamn knew that he would head back to the bank. Smith nodded.
“Alright, I’m gonna go in and tell him I’m gettin’ more money. This ain’t over yet,” Smith grumbled. Hooker grinned approvingly. As soon as Smith disappeared into Club Lucky, the grin twisted into a wince and Hooker reached around to rub his shoulder that had been, for an excruciating moment, knocked out of joint.
After he'd regained his composure, Hooker turned and strode back into the building. He glanced back to the game table to find Henry, Smith, and… and the Eirie fuckin’ Kid.
“Hey, you seen Hooker? Coulda’ sworn he was here-“ Eirie Kid prattled on, much to Henry’s horror. Henry, however, kept a look of bewilderment that said lissen kid, I dunno whatch’er talkin’ about, and was about to say as such, when the Eirie Kid pointed to the door and right at Hooker.
“See? There he is, didn’t I tell ya’?”
The dawning recognition that passed over Dean Smith’s face was slow, but the hand that drew the pistol from his suitcoat was pretty damn quick.
“Aw, fuck,” Hooker breathed, and he could’ve sworn that the same words formed on Henry’s lips, too.
--
“Aw, fuck,” Hooker grumbled as he lay down on the floor at the foot of Henry’s bed. Henry fluffed his pillow and rolled his eyes.
“Stop bitchin’, kid. Once we pull this off, you’ll be right back in your own place sleepin’ in your own bed,” Henry strained to switch off the lamp. Though the floorboards didn’t do much to comfort Hooker, the thought of the con did.
“Yeah,” Hooker grinned and wrapped the blanket around his shoulders, “it’s goddamn foolproof.”
tbc...
title: Spaniel, part II (the waltz)
author: kat9y
rating: This bit: PG-13, next bit: NC-17.
movie/pairing: The Sting, Henry/Hooker, slight Henry/Billie.
summary: The boys've gotta get that rent money somehow.
disclaimer: Don't own 'em, don't profit, just play.
spaniel
the waltz
Hooker was the roper, and this wasn’t any surprise. The kid had enough charisma and devil-persuasion to convince any mark to shove a stack of greens into the pot without a moment’s consideration. Usually had enough confidence to weasel his way outta’ trouble, too. Usually.
“Alright, so what’ve we got?” Hooker was propped in a chair, shoulders canted with an elbow resting atop the wooden back. He lazily fanned himself with his hat, the August-in-Chicago heat seeping in despite the sleeveless shirt.
“What was that?” Henry pretended like he didn’t hear the question, but his poker face was sliced down the center by the smallest curve of his lips.
“Ya heard just fine,” Hooker leaned forward in his chair, attempting to peer across the table to the sheet of hand-written scribbles that Henry was studying. He slapped the paper on the table, wafting a bit of breeze Hooker’s way.
“Alright, kid, I’ve got inside, so follow my lead.”
One of the last things that Luther Coleman had told Hooker was to look up a man named Henry Gondorff - that there wasn’t a better inside man alive. And Luther had been right. Hell, Luther had always been right, but especially about Henry.
“Billie’s put the mark up for us. Regular at her place; guy named Dean Smith. Hangs around Charlie Diamond and that crew when they come in from New York.”
--
“Hey, ain’t ya one of Charlie Diamond’s boys?”
The stocky man hunched at the diner counter looked up from his cup of black coffee.
“Yeah, who’re you?” his deep-set eyes squinted, turning the sockets into dark slits. Hooker stuck out a hand, flashing a smile.
“Name’s Cass Martin,” Hooker’s hand was tentatively gripped, “we met at one of Charlie’s rags, though I wouldn’t be too surprised if ya didn’t remember,” he gave a conspiratory wink, and a sly smile slipped onto his face. The caution disappeared in an instant as Smith chuckled and shook Hooker’s hand with vigor.
“After one of Charlie’s, I wouldn’t be surprised either! Dean Smith.” He grinned as recognition dawned on his jowly face. A finger wagged toward Hooker, following him as he took a seat.
“Say, ain’t you the fella who was with that little blonde? How’d you two get along that night?”
“Oh, we got along. Got along plenty o’ times,” Hooker perked his eyebrows, feigned memory glazing over his half-lidded eyes. With a hard blink, he turned back to Smith.
“Say, Dean, I’m glad I ran into ya. ‘Been lookin’ for a guy to play some cards with. Make ourselves a fifty-fifty profit,” with Johnny Hooker, it was about subtlety. The mere inflection tacked to the words ‘play some cards’ had Dean Smith interested. Very interested. He glanced to the waitress talking on the phone, then back to Hooker.
“What’re we talkin’?”
“What we’re talkin’ is the absolute best of it.”
--
“Aw, hell, we’ll have the best of it,” Hooker had stood up and was pacing about the apartment. The heat and sheen of sweat on his skin had become the farthest thing from his mind. He was grinning like a maniac, and it was contagious.
“Now don’t get too excited, kid. Haven’t even explained the hard part,” Henry smiled around a fresh cigar. He sparked the tip and began to shine the silver lighter with a handkerchief.
“You’re gonna find Smith tomorrow,” Henry continued, “and get him to meet ya for the game the next day at Club Lucky. Two o’clock. I’ll be coming in at three as Joe Leary, a wealthy businessman from Texas-“ Hooker turned sharply, fingers forming a gun and snapping right on Henry.
“The rube act!” Hooker interrupted, the gun flattening as he slapped his palm on the table. He studied the paper that Henry had scrawled on, a drop of perspiration falling from his forehead and spattering the name Leary. Henry looked on with vague fascination.
“Johnny, you don’t sit down I’m gonna have to stake ya with a goddamn rope,” Henry still smiled, despite the threat to the kid. He took a slow puff of the cigar and after a moment, Hooker sat.
“And yeh,” the ashy smoke wafted to the ceiling. He studied the glinting lighter, “it’s the rube act.”
--
“A real rube, eh?” Smith took a seat in Club Lucky’s back-corner table.
“I’m tellin’ ya, look up the word and you’ll see Leary’s fuckin’ face,” Hooker assured, sliding into the chair on the opposite side.
“So how’s this gonna run down, Cass?”
“I’ve got two-hundred bucks,” Hooker flashed an envelope, hooking it open with his thumbs to expose the money, “And what I’m gonna do is lose it.” Henry had nearly busted a gut when he told him that - that his job was to dump the cash as fast as he could, that it ‘shouldn’t be too hard.’ Har-goddamn-har.
“After all two-hundred of it’s in the pot, I’m gonna leave the game. I’ll sit at the table behind Leary, where I’ll be able to read his hand. And if I know it, then you’ll know it,” Hooker leaned back in his chair with a self-satisfied smile. Smith’s jaw hung a bit agape, eyes expectant with anticipation.
“How?” he finally asked when Hooker didn’t take the bait.
“I’m gonna teach ya’ a set of hand signals,” and all at once, Hooker rocketed into the lesson of brim-tips, temple-rubs, eyebrow-scratches, and exactly what they all meant; faces, suits, numbers, aces. Once Smith had gotten a rudimentary knowledge, Hooker directed him to a table across the room.
“Now when he comes through that door,” Hooker jerked an indicative thumb backward, “I’ll meet him when he orders his drink and ask to play him - and trust me on this, he ain’t gonna refuse. Once I’ve sat down with him, you come in and we’ll take off from there.”
--
“So when you come in at three, we’ll take it from there?” Hooker’s chin rested on his palm. The night had cooled the apartment enough for him to put his cap back on.
“We’re gonna run a cop-and-blow, and I’m gonna be bluffing and tossin’ cash the whole damn time. I’ll win some, Smith’ll win some,” Henry shrugged indifferently, pausing to roll the cigar between his lips, “we’ll pump up the stakes ‘till you’re outta the game, but when it’s just me an’ Smith, I’ve got a feeling he’ll start playin’ with fire pretty quick,” Henry flicked the cap on the lighter shut with a metallic clink.
--
“You’re playin’ with fire, cowboy,” Dean Smith chuckled lowly, glancing alternately at his cards and at the table behind the game where Hooker was sitting. Henry hee-hawed a laugh.
“Alrighty, well, we’ll just see ‘bout that! I’ll raise ya’ another hunnerd,” agile fingers masquerading as clumsy ranch-hands groped a chip and tossed it into the pot. Smith met it. Poor sucker always met it. Another chip-click in the pot.
“Ah call,” Henry drawled, and the hands were laid. With another sandpapery laugh, Smith wrapped his mitts around the pile and dragged it toward him. Henry fingered the tip of his string-necktie.
“Well, gaw-damn!” he yelped, “I ain’t never seen no one play like you afore,” there was a tone of pleased awe in Henry’s voice, and he started to deal out the next hand. The lighter Henry had set on the table gleamed, catching a bit more in its reflection than the light above the table.
Henry Gondorff didn’t even have to look at the reflection of the card in the lighter’s chrome side. Well, not directly, anyway. He’d trained himself to recognize the card instantly through the momentary revealing glimmer in his peripheral vision. He took immaculate inventory of every card that was passed across the table; deuce o’clubs, five o’hearts, eight o’diamonds, Jack o’clubs, five o’diamonds, two-of-a-kind, not too fuckin’ bad.
Smith studied his hand, his stony expression interrupted by the minute quirk of one bushy eyebrow that Henry read as two-of-a-kind, not too fuckin’ bad. After the draw, a dopey grin spread across Henry’s face. He tossed a pile of chips in the center.
“Aw, hell, let’s get this show on the road,” Henry challenged, “five-hunnerd!”
“Very well, Mr. Leary.”
Click. Met.
“Awright, I’ll raise ya’ another three-hunnerd.”
Click-click. Smith glanced to Hooker, who gave an almost-imperceptible nod and stood from his chair.
“Awright, hoss, whaddaya think ‘bout this?” and Henry tossed on another little stack. One thousand. Smith scowled at the chips in front of him, and did a bit of math that added up to -
“Only six-hundred?!” Hooker exclaimed in disbelief. He had wandered back to the table as if he had been heading toward the bar. His gaze met with Henry’s.
“Looks like I done cleared this feller out!” Henry let loose another one of those donkey-laughs and Hooker took a moment to revel in his partner; the brown suit, the cowboy hat, the string-tie, those idiocy-clouded eyes... Henry Gondorff had been put on hold; he was all rube, all Joe Leary, and he was too damn good.
“C’mon, man,” Hooker clapped a hand on Smith’s shoulder, “I’m sure ya can pull out the cash. There’s a bank right across the street.” Smith listened and nodded vigorously, rising from his chair. He took a step toward the door, then stared helplessly at his cards.
“Say, boys,” Hooker reached inside his jacket and pulled out the envelope that his cash had been in, “how ‘bout I look after the cards ‘till you come back?” Smith nodded and Hooker tucked the five cards into the envelope. Henry held out his own hand, and this time when Hooker reached out, when they locked eyes, it was Henry. It was the best inside man alive.
“Listen, I’m gonna go out for some air,” Hooker slipped the cards into the envelope. When he glanced back upward, Henry was gone.
“Well, awright then,” Joe Leary drawled. Hooker smirked and headed for the door.
--
“Now, when I clear Smith out, you’re gonna head out the door and show him the hands. Prove to him that he’s got me beat. That it’s worth gettin’ as much cash as he can.” Henry was speaking a bit more quietly. Not out of fear that someone in the building would hear-hell, they were all prostitutes and grifters anyhow-but out of the sheer intensity that mounted at the center of the table. Hooker was leaning forward onto his elbows, his eyes locked on Henry.
Henry paused for a moment and drank in the kid’s expression. He was ravenous, and Henry admitted to himself that Hooker really was an expert-he just needed guidance. If he was set on the trail, he’d track it with the best of ‘em. Hell, better than the best of ‘em. Left to wander, though… shit, that kid would never find his way back. Hooker’s eyes slitted. His smile broadened.
“Got it.”
“And then,” Henry leaned into the table, into Johnny Hooker. He slipped the cigar stub from his lips, “the next hand,” he turned the lit end away, Hooker’s lips parting as Henry slid the cigar between them.
“-we’ve got him.” Hooker finished with a breath of smoke.
--
We’ve got him, Smith thought deliriously as he was dealt another hand. There was at least three-thousand between them, and he couldn’t lose. Not with Cass Martin sitting at that table behind this inbred dumbfuck-who he figured he should be thanking, because he’s about to be a couple grand richer.
“Hmm,” Henry hummed thoughtfully, studying what he had been dealt, considering both of their hands. He tipped the brown cowboy hat backward and wiped a hand across his brow.
--
“And what’s that mean, kid?” Henry asked, sporting Hooker’s fedora. He carefully grasped the top of the hat and shifted it back to the crown of his head. Hooker found it a bit difficult to concentrate; he hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and it was what? Midnight? Christ. The darkness outside the apartment window wasn’t much of a reference.
“It means ya got him beat. We sting him.”
--
Sting him, Hooker’s brain shouted and his heart leapt when he saw Henry tip his hat, and oh-Jesus he hoped that wasn’t just an idle gesture… but there was no way Henry would be so careless. Hooker began to signal Henry’s hand to Smith. The translation was he had shit, ace high.
“What d’ya say we play without the draw on this one?” Smith ventured, beads of perspiration standing on his Neanderthal brow. Henry’s eyes widened.
“You sure ‘bout that?”
“Yeah. ‘Less you’re a yellowbelly, o’course,” Smith murmured lowly, a slow smile spreading across his face, exposing blocky and yellowing teeth. Henry looked uneasy, and Smith tossed in a stack.
“I raise ya’ one-thousand.”
Henry slid a handful of chips into the center of the table. Delirious with confidence, Smith shoved in the rest of his winnings.
“Hell,” his voice was high and wavering, “I’ll raise ya’ another grand!” Henry chewed his lip and saw the raise.
“I call,” Henry stated evenly. Smith lay down his hand; a pair of threes. Henry turned his over… pair of nines. Dean Smith looked like he’d been shot.
"Hooo-wee, ain't that just wonnerful?!" Henry guffawed and raked in the pot. Hooker grimaced and nodded toward the door, rising from the table and walking out. Smith stood, trembling with rage as he looked up to Henry.
“I’ll be right back,” he growled, turning to follow Hooker. Henry furrowed his brows.
“Hey now,” he shouted, “leave the money here, I ain’t no idiot!” Smith turned back, slammed down the bank envelope, and stormed outside.
“What the fuck happened in there?!” Smith shouted, clutching the lapels of Hooker’s suit and thowing him into the side of the building. Hooker cringed and lifted his open palms defenselessly.
“Fuck, don’t ask me, you must’ve gotten the signal wrong!” Hooker protested vehemently. Smith released him, and Hooker smoothed the front of his jacket.
“I know what I saw,” Smith growled. Hooker shrugged indignantly, looking offended.
“Well, I’ve been runnin’ this con for years, and I don’t think I was the one who screwed it up.” At that, Hooker saw Smith beginning to second-guess himself. Now for the cool-out.
“Listen,” Hooker said softly, “this bastard ain’t gonna quit now. You take out another two-grand, and we’re still in this.”
“But-“
“But nothin’, you ain’t got a thing to worry about. When I said the deal was fifty-fifty, I meant it. Whatever you lose, I’ll pay up half,” Hooker’s voice had dropped to a sort of purr, and he just goddamn knew that he would head back to the bank. Smith nodded.
“Alright, I’m gonna go in and tell him I’m gettin’ more money. This ain’t over yet,” Smith grumbled. Hooker grinned approvingly. As soon as Smith disappeared into Club Lucky, the grin twisted into a wince and Hooker reached around to rub his shoulder that had been, for an excruciating moment, knocked out of joint.
After he'd regained his composure, Hooker turned and strode back into the building. He glanced back to the game table to find Henry, Smith, and… and the Eirie fuckin’ Kid.
“Hey, you seen Hooker? Coulda’ sworn he was here-“ Eirie Kid prattled on, much to Henry’s horror. Henry, however, kept a look of bewilderment that said lissen kid, I dunno whatch’er talkin’ about, and was about to say as such, when the Eirie Kid pointed to the door and right at Hooker.
“See? There he is, didn’t I tell ya’?”
The dawning recognition that passed over Dean Smith’s face was slow, but the hand that drew the pistol from his suitcoat was pretty damn quick.
“Aw, fuck,” Hooker breathed, and he could’ve sworn that the same words formed on Henry’s lips, too.
--
“Aw, fuck,” Hooker grumbled as he lay down on the floor at the foot of Henry’s bed. Henry fluffed his pillow and rolled his eyes.
“Stop bitchin’, kid. Once we pull this off, you’ll be right back in your own place sleepin’ in your own bed,” Henry strained to switch off the lamp. Though the floorboards didn’t do much to comfort Hooker, the thought of the con did.
“Yeah,” Hooker grinned and wrapped the blanket around his shoulders, “it’s goddamn foolproof.”
tbc...