Deadman's Bluff - James Swain [38]
Valentine followed Rufus into Celebrity’s poker room to find the suckers crowded around the Ping-Pong table, eagerly awaiting the match. Nearly a hundred strong, they wore the disheveled look of men who weren’t sleeping regularly. Rufus doffed his Stetson and gave them a big Texas wave.
“Good morning! How’s everyone doing this fine morning?”
“Is it morning?” someone yelled back.
“Last time I checked,” Rufus said. “Ready to see me play Ping-Pong?”
Several in the crowd guffawed. Rufus pulled off his running jacket to reveal his trademark Skivvies T-shirt. He began doing windmills while hacking violently.
“You okay?” Valentine asked.
“Never better.” Rufus pounded his chest. “My lungs could use some help, though.”
“Want me to get you something?”
“Shot of whiskey would hit the spot.”
“That’s going to help your lungs?”
“Who said it was going to help my lungs? I just like whiskey.”
They were talking loud enough for the suckers to overhear. A handful had their wallets out, and were debating whether to get in on the action.
“Make that a double,” Rufus said.
Valentine lowered his voice. “You want me to make that apple juice instead?”
“Apple juice is for old folks,” Rufus said.
“A double it is.”
Valentine crossed the poker room in search of alcohol. There was a cash bar beside the registration table, and he caught the eye of the female bartender. She was young enough to be his granddaughter, and shot him a disapproving look when he ordered Rufus’s drink.
“It’s a little early in the morning, don’t you think?” she asked.
“And a Coke for me,” he added.
She handed him the drinks with a grin on her face.
“You’re not in the tournament, are you?” she asked.
“No. How could you tell?”
“You look normal,” she said.
He crossed the room with the drinks. A mob was gathered around Rufus, who continued to flail his arms like Indian clubs while giving his snake oil salesman spiel.
“Come on, boys, I’m about to play some Japanese world champion at Ping-Pong for a half million bucks, winner take all. If that ain’t a safe bet, I don’t know what is. Place your wagers now, or forever hold your peace.”
“What kind of odds you offering?” one of the suckers asked.
“Ten to one,” Rufus said.
“I’ll bet you even money,” the sucker said.
Rufus shot the sucker a murderous look. “You want even money, son? I’ve got one foot in the grave, and my opponent’s a former champ. Ten to one, take it or leave it.”
“Which foot?” the sucker asked.
“The one I’m not standing on,” Rufus said.
The sucker took his money out. “You’re on.”
The doors to the poker room banged open, and the Greek and Takarama came in. A shade over six feet, Takarama wore black gym shorts and a matching polo shirt. He did not have an ounce of fat on his perfectly proportioned body. His shoulder-length hair was tied in a ponytail, giving his face a hawkish quality. His eyes scanned the room in search of his prey.
“Sure you want to go through with this?” Valentine asked.
“That pipsqueak can’t lick me,” Rufus said loudly.
The Greek sauntered over. He hadn’t changed his clothes since the night before and looked like a bum’s unmade bed. He fancied himself a professional gambler, but with every loss to Rufus, his true colors were increasingly clear. He was a sucker. What still made him special was his huge bankroll.
“Thanks for dressing up,” Rufus said.
The Greek scowled. Curly black hair popped out of every part of his head. “You ready to play Takarama?” he asked.
“Of course,” Rufus said. “The question is, is he ready to play me?”
“He sure is. A half million dollars to the first player to reach twenty-one?”
“Correct,” Rufus said. “The only stipulation is, I supply the paddles. Your man gets to choose his weapon, and if he wants to switch at any time