A preliminary drink was indispensable; and, served in two glasses and a cracked toothbrush mug—Mr. Ottinger elected to imbibe his “straight” from the bottle—it was drunk with mutual assurances of tender regard. “Happy days,” the woman pronounced. Only three chairs were available, and after some shuffling, appropriate references to “honest and plain” country accommodations, the table was ranged by a bed on which Em—“Call me Em,” she had invited Gordon, “let’s be real homelike,”—seated herself.
The smaller man ostentatiously broke the seal from a new pack of cards, dexterously spreading them across the table. His hands, Gordon saw, were extraordinarily supple, and emanated a sickly odor of glycerine. His companion’s were huge and misshapen, but they, too, were surprisingly deft, quick.
“What’ll it be?” Jake demanded; “Jackpots; stud; straight draw—”
“Hell, let’s throw cold hands,” Mr. Ottinger interrupted, “chop the trimmings. We’re here for the stuff, ain’t we?” He was immediately reprehended for his brusque, unsociable manner.
“He’s got the idea, though,” Gordon approved; “we’re here for the stuff.” It was finally arranged that poker hands should be dealt, a draw allowed, and the cards shown, the highest cards to take the visible money. “A dollar a go?” Jake queried, cutting for the deal. On the bed by the woman’s side was a tarnished, silver bag, with an ornate, meretricious clasp; her two companions produced casual rolls of paper money; and Gordon detached five dollars from the slender amount of his wage, his paramount capital. On a washstand, within easy reach, stood the bottle of whisky flanked by the motley array of drinking vessels.
Gordon Makimmon’s five dollars vanished in as many minutes. Oppressed by consuming anxiety he could scarcely breathe in the close, stale air. Em gambled with an affectation of careless indifference; she asked in an off-hand manner for cards; paid her losses with a loud laugh. Jake invariably gave one rapid glance at his hand, and then threw it down upon the table without separating his discard. Mr. Ottinger, it was plain, was superstitious—he edged his hand open by imperceptible degrees until the denominations of the cards were visible, then hurriedly closed them from sight; often he didn’t look at his draw until all the hands were exposed. He wrinkled his face in painful efforts of concentration, protruded a thick and unsavory tongue. At the loose corners of Jake’s mouth flecks of saliva gathered whitely; in the fleering light of the kerosene the shadows on his face were cobalt. The woman’s face shone with drops of perspiration that formed slowly and rolled like a flash over her plastered skin.
Another round of drinks was negotiated, adding to the fiery discomfort of the sealed room, of the dry, dead atmosphere. Gordon won back his five dollars, and gained five more. “Let’s make it two a throw,” the woman proposed. The thickset, young man remuttered the period that they were there for the stuff. “Otty will have his little joke,” she proclaimed.
“It’s not funny,” he protested seriously.
“Two?” Jake demanded of Gordon. The latter nodded.