something that spoiled water for the cattle and 'messed up' the grazing. Since it was there, it had to be accepted, along with the millions it represented. But their attitude toward it was one of polite disdain. It was 'upstart,' you know. An infringement upon the civilization of a highly select group, whose forefathers had been living in elegance for centuries.

One has never been properly snubbed until he has come up against these 'quality' Texans. Or perhaps snubbed is the wrong word, since one cannot very well be snubbed by a person who does not recognize his existence. Nor can one hardly take offense when that same person may be honestly puzzled at the mention of the Cabots and Lodges.

Who are they, anyway? Easterners?

Oh.

That is one kind of big-money Texan, the 'old' money rooted inexorably in cattle. And generally speaking, he tries to live up to the superiority with which he has cloaked himself. His conduct is impeccable. He is a loyal friend, a generous enemy. He shuns ostentation. He is gallant with ladies, a gentleman with men. As good a man in private as he is in public.

All of which is by way of saying that Winfield Lord, Jr., was not that kind of Texan. Nor did he belong to the oilmoney group. In fact, the Lords fitted into none of the established categories, although they were a qualified amalgamation of several.

They were an old family. (The first had been white-trash scum from English prisons.)

They were pioneers. (They had been sneak-thieving camp followers when the Five Civilized Tribes were herded up the Trail of Tears.)

Their wealth had originated in cattle. (Acquired through murder.)

Arriving in what is now Oklahoma, the Lords were successively banished or chased from each of the Tribes' five autonomous Nations. Until, in about 1845, they arrived in the land of the Osages. The Osages were not a Nation, since they were not considered civilized. The government of the United States saw to it that they stayed within their own boundaries, but otherwise they were pretty much free to do as they pleased.

It shortly pleased them to spread-eagle four of the Lords on their backs, prop open their mouths with sticks and pour water down them until they were drowned.

The experience apparently had a wholesome effect on the remaining members of the clan. Fleeing into West Texas, they seem to have committed no outrages for almost a generation. Then, the Civil War broke out, and the Lords reverted to type.

While every able-bodied neighbor galloped away to support the cause of the Stars and Bars, the Lords moved in on their virtually defenseless holdings, inevitably finding other renegades to help them, then killing them off as soon as their work was done. At the war's end, they controlled whole counties. There was no law to appeal to. They were the law.

Gradually, success and its whilom companion, excess, had done what nothing else could do. One by one, the Lords had indulged themselves into early deaths, the exceptions being those who had rubbed the right people the wrong way.

Now, Winfield Lord, tall, dark, handsome, and a first-class son-of-a-bitch, was the last of the male line.

It was, Mitch believed, the one good thing that could be said about him.

He and Lord were in the smaller of the penthouse's two bedrooms. The spread had been pulled back, and the blankets drawn tight on the bed. On the back of it, out of the way of the dice which Lord was about to roll, was a total of two thousand dollars.

He hurled the dice. They bounced against the wall, and came down on the blanket with a craps three. Immediately, he snatched them up, glaring defiantly at Mitch.

'No dice! They slipped out of my hand!'

'Oh, for Christ's sake, Winnie!' It was so ridiculous that Mitch laughed. 'Are you really that bad off?'

'I told you they slipped, goddammit! It was no dice!'

'Go ahead,' Mitch said wearily. 'Have yourself a free roll.'

Lord shook the dice vigorously. He breathed on them and kissed them and threw them. Again the dice showed one-two for craps. Mitch picked up the money, and nodded to the cattle heir.

This was it, he knew. Lord was broke again, and Turkelson would cash no more checks for him. All that remained now was to bust him out of the apartment-Red's end, of course- but pretenses had to be kept up.

'Still your dice, Winnie. You haven't had a point yet.'

Lord recovered the dice, declaring that he was shooting five thousand dollars. Mitch told him to go right ahead, as soon as he showed the money.

'And don't pull that check routine on me again. I'm not having any.'

'Whassa matter?' Lord belched, spewing the sour aroma of whiskey from his finely chiseled mouth. 'You saying my check's no good or somethin'?'

'Skip it. I told you we play for cash or not at all. So if you don't have any more..

Lord cursed and snatched up the phone. He got Turkelson on the line, and told him to drag his fat ass up there with five thousand dollars. Met with refusal, he unleashed an obscene tirade upon the manager, ending it with a threat to come down and kick his balls off.

'A fine frigging joint!' He slammed up the phone. 'Might as well stay in a goddamned shithouse!'

'Well, there's always another night,' Mitch said carelessly. 'Let me fix you a drink, Win.'

He turned toward the living room. Lord pushed past him, declaring that he'd fix his own drinks and he didn't need any half-assed help to do it.

''M'n expert, know what I mean?' He grabbed a bottle of Scotch from the bar and began pouring into a beer mug. 'Been fixin' drinks since I was tit-high to a tumblebug. First you gotta-'

The sound of the door-chimes interrupted him. Mitch crossed the room and opened the door, and Red walked in. She was wearing a black strapless evening gown, so form-fitting that it seemed to be painted on her. Lord's glass dropped to the floor with a gurgling crash, and Red gave him a dazzling smile, then looked accusingly at Mitch.

'Why, Mitch! You're not even ready yet!'

'Oh, my God!' Mitch groaned. 'Don't tell me this was the night!'

'It most certainly was. And you were supposed to have Harvey here, too. Alice is down in the car waiting for him.'

Mitch apologized. He introduced her to Lord as Helen Harcourt and explained the seeming mixup. 'A friend of mine and I had a date with Helen and her sister tonight. But it completely slipped my mind.'

'And aren't you ashamed!' Red pouted. 'I'll bet Mr. Lord wouldn't have forgotten, would you, Mr. Lord?'

'You just bet your sweet little ass-ankles, I wouldn't!' Lord declared gallantly. 'Your sister anything like you, baby?'

'Oh, no,' Red simpered. 'Alice is the pretty member of the family.'

Lord was completely carried away by the reply. 'Couldn't be any prettier than you are, tutz! You're the prettiest little package of tail I've ever seen in my life!'

'Now you're just being polite.' Red gave him an icy smile. 'You're just saying that to be gentlemanly.'

'I mean it!' Lord insisted. 'The prettiest tail I ever saw in my life! And I'm a guy that's seen plenty of tail!'

Mitch decided that was about enough. More than enough. Regardless of the need to get Lord out of

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