Butler's Wager

CHAPTER 44

The first empty chair was not at Ben Thompson’s table, which suited Butler for the moment. Thompson would want payback for the last time they played, and Butler preferred to build up a stake before that happened. If Thompson took money from him he wanted it to be money he’d taken off other players on this night.

He was at a table with a house dealer, and the game was five-card stud. There were five other players and the dealer quickly reeled off their first names. Butler would remember some, but it was over the course of the game that they’d all become people to him. He’d also come to recognize who his competition was—and who the sore loser was.

In this case his main competitor was a man named Corbin, who looked like a drummer but was actually a professional gambler. He was in his forties, fancied expensive cheroots and didn’t drink while he played.

The sore loser was a man in his thirties named Lane. In his thirties he kept drinking whiskey, and the more he drank the looser he played. The looser he played, the more he lost. And the more he lost, the more some of the players rode him. This was a welcome change from the last time, when there was a man riding Ben Thompson the whole time. Here, while there was the potential for fireworks, at least they wouldn’t involve flying lead. While Lane was wearing a gun, it looked like a weapon that would more than likely blow up in his hand when he tried to fire it. Clearly he was not a man who used his gun often.

The other three players were just there to pass the time, and were donating money to Corbin’s cause until Butler sat down. After half an hour Butler could see that he had caught the attention of Corbin and the two men acknowledged each other. Slowly, their piles of chips began to grow as the others dwindled. After a while men came and went, and their names were not important to Butler.

Oddly, Lane stayed in the game. He made outlandish bets, and every so often he’d win a big pot, giving him enough to stay in.

It didn’t matter who came and went at the table, they all seemed to know who Lane was. Butler discovered that he was married, owned a small business in town—apparently, a hardware store—and that his wife hated when he played poker because he usually lost. Everyone seemed to know that, and it was the crux of most of the jokes.

And they all called him “Lane,” so Butler didn’t know if it was his first name, or last.

A couple of hours into the game Lane was so drunk his face was fiery red and he didn’t seem to be able to see his cards. He also constantly had trouble lifting the edge of his hole card so he could peek at it—which he did a lot.

But he seemed to have a hand he liked a lot, and soon he and Corbin were left alone to play it.

With four cards dealt Corbin had received a three, a nine, and an ace. Lane got two eights in a row, then a king. He bet the eights like they were aces or as if he had another in the hole. Butler doubted that he had another, and could see that Corbin felt the same way. Every time Lane bet, Corbin raised, which frustrated Lane.

The fifth card came out. Corbin bought a three and Lane a useless four. Butler could see the writing on the wall. He figured Lane for eights, and he thought they’d hold up. As for Corbin, Butler thought he’d been raising to annoy Lane, and also because he had a pair of threes. As far as Butler was concerned, the man now had three threes, and Lane was beat.

But Lane didn’t see it that way.

“Two hundred,” Lane said, making his largest bet of the night.

Without hesitation Corbin said, “Raise two hundred.”

“Goddamnit!” Lane slurred. “Every time I make a fuckin’ bet, you raise the same damn amount.”

Corbin only shrugged.

“The play is to you, sir,” the dealer said.

“I know the fuckin’ play is to me,” Lane shot back. Butler could see it coming. Bad players always ended up this way.

“I got…” Lane stopped to count his chips, had to start again twice—probably because he was seeing double—and then said, “six hundred and forty dollars left. That’s my bet.”

If the man was seeing double Butler wondered if he thought he had four eights.

“Six hundred and forty?” Corbin said. “All right, Lane. I’ll call.”

“You can’t beat my eights,” Lane said, turning over his hole card triumphantly, “and my fours.” His useless four had not been so useless after all.

“Actually,” Corbin said, “I can,” and turned over his third three.

“Three threes,” the dealer said. “The winner.”

“N-no, wa-a-ait,” Lane stammered. “T-that’s all my money.”

“Then you shouldn’t have bet it,” Corbin said, raking the chips in. “Looks like you’re busted. I’m sure there’s someone waitin’ for your chair.”

This was the most Butler had heard Corbin say all night, and now he detected a slight Southern accent.

“No, no,” Lane said, “I c-can’t go home without my m-money. My wife’ll kill me.”

“Here,” Corbin said, tossing a five dollar chip over to the man. “Buy her somethin’ nice.”

The gesture incensed Lane, and Butler could see what was about to happen. He also knew that Bill Harris had some security in the place, though none of them were anywhere near the table. If he didn’t do something, somebody was going to end up dead. It seemed to him that this kind of thing was starting to happen at every game he played in.

He was seated to the left of Lane, who was left-handed, and thus was wearing his gun on his left hip. The man made a clumsy attempt to pull the gun, and Butler knew that Corbin would kill him if he did. Butler quickly leaned over and snatched the gun from Lane’s holster.

“Wha—” Lane blinked, looked at Butler. “Gimme my gun!”

“Lane,” Butler said, “I think your wife would be even madder at you if you got killed tonight.”

Butler grabbed a passing girl by the arm and asked her to get Bill Harris.

“Yes, sir.”

Lane stood up and demanded belligerently, “Gimme my damn gun!”

Butler turned the weapon over in his hand, saw how old and dirty it was.

“Lane, this thing would take off your hand if you tried to fire it.” He quickly emptied it, pocketed the shells and then handed it back to the man. Immediately, Lane began to fumble with the shells on his gun belt, trying to reload the weapon.

“Is there a problem here?” Bill Harris asked, appearing at Butler’s elbow.

“Yes,” Butler said, “if Lane succeeds in reloading his gun he’s going to end up getting killed.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

Harris waved and two men appeared on either side of Lane. Each man grabbed an arm and removed him from the table.

“Hey, wai—” Lane shouted. “I gotta get my money.”

“They’ll take him outside and get him some air,” Harris said to the table. “Please, keep playing.”

The dealer looked around and said, “Do we still have a game, gents?”

A man sat down in Lane’s chair, and was just as interested in the answer as the dealer.

“We have a game,” Corbin said. “Deal.”