The hotel cook somehow even managed to make apple pie taste like lightly sweetened library paste, an accomplishment of some note if not of any great worth. And to top it all off the cigars they handed out after dinner were so dry and dusty, the wrapper cracked when he tried to cut the twist off the tip. With a grimace of distaste he tossed the miserable thing onto his soiled plate—let them wipe the gravy off if they wanted to salvage it to present to some other poor SOB tomorrow—and pulled out one of his own slim cheroots.
Not willing to trust the bar in a place where the food was so bad, he wandered outside in search of a way to spend some time until he might become sleepy. A logical choice presented itself two blocks south in the form of a lively, friendly seeming little saloon that offered exactly what Longarm craved at the moment: no tin-pan piano noise, no painted women, no stage show or so-called entertainment whatsoever—just whiskey, beer, and a few tables where a man might choose to talk or deal a hand of cards. In short, it was just right.
“Friend, I almost hate t’ ask you this lest I destroy the pleasure of the moment … but would you happen t’ have a bottle of Maryland-distilled rye whiskey?”
The bartender grinned. “Would Tomlin Brothers do?”
“Who’d have thought it?” Longarm asked. “A man that actually knows good booze.”
“The best of the best, that’s what the Tomlin boys bottle.” He laughed. “I know ‘cause I was raised from a pup on the shores of the old Patuxent, and my best boyhood friend was a grandson of one of the original Tomlins who founded the business. D’you know the label?”
“Well enough to revere the brothers Tomlin and all their kith and kin.”
“In that case, neighbor, the first one is on me.” He winked and added, “And I believe I shall have a free one with you.”
“Done and done,” Longarm declared. He accepted the tall shot of smoky whiskey with pleasure and savored the warmth of it on his tongue and the cozy glow that spread through his belly afterward. “Ah now, that’s even better than I remembered.”
“Refill?”
“Yes, and one for you as well. My treat this time.”
The barman poured two full measures, then left the bottle where Longarm could reach it while he hurried away down the bar to tend to the needs of his other patrons.
This, Longarm thought, was a cut above the cold, inhospitable hotel and then some.
The second drink went down slower and even smoother than the first, then he gave himself a third and turned to survey the room.
After a moment his eyes widened slightly with pleased surprise and, drink in hand, he ambled toward the back corner where a foursome of gents in business suits were dealing draw poker.
As he came closer to the table a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, and his hand started forward in the offer of a shake.
A slightly built, suntanned fellow in tweed with a dusty bowler perched on the back of his dark, tousled hair jumped up to greet him with a mildly overloud, “Hello there, stranger, are you looking to join our game, sit right in and welcome, my name is Colton, sir, Lester Colton of Liberty County, and your name would be …?” He got it all out in one long rush, without pausing for breath.
Longarm stopped still for half a heartbeat, then gravely nodded and took the offered handshake.
“Colton, you said?”
“I did, sir, Lester Colton from down in Liberty County.”
“My name is Long, Mr. Colton. Custis Long, but you can call me Longarm, which all my friends do, old or new.”
“Then I hope to call you Longarm, sir.”
“Please do that, Mr. Colton,” Longarm said, his face impassive but his eyes sparkling with contained amusement as he addressed himself to his old friend—and, when last Longarm looked, Texas Ranger—Amos Vent.
Chapter 7
Longarm belched, swaying sideways and damn near falling off his chair. A couple of the other players frowned at the unseemly display. The gent who was the evening’s big winner, a banker named Tony, seemed quite comfortable, however, with the idea of having a drunk participate in the play. And if this fellow named Long hadn’t yet become reckless enough to begin losing heavily, well, surely another few slugs out of that bottle of rye whiskey and the tap would open and winnings in large measure commence pouring onto the table.
“I c’n open,” Longarm said, blinking.
“Pay attention, man. Louis already opened. You can stay for a dime or fold, Long. Which?”
Longarm blinked again and unsteadily pushed a dime in the general direction of the pot. To Longarm’s immediate left, the man who was calling himself Lester Colton dropped his cards face down onto the table and shook his head. The banker raised and when it came around to him again Longarm once more had to be told what to put up if he wanted to stay in the game. He blinked and wobbled and after some hemming and hawing raised the bet a dollar. Tony began to smile.
“Cards, gentlemen?”
Longarm reached to discard first this card, then that one, finally deciding to take two out of the middle and toss them onto the pile of rejects.
After that the betting was heavy indeed, with Tony, Louis, a merchant named Greg and another named Jason vying to see which one of them would be allowed the privilege of taking Longarm’s money.
“Bets, gentlemen? Louis?”
“Fifty cents.”
