Quarry in the Middle - Max Allan Collins [34]
The decor was less eccentric than practical—sound-proofing was the order of the day, or night anyway, and the low-slung ceiling tile was part of how this chamber could be so quiet in the thick of a club where each room was noisier than the last. The track lighting was subdued, but the big hexagonal table was the target of a Tiffany-style hanging lamp. Though the billiard felt was new, the table appeared old, its maple handrails showing wear, and the chip wells and drink-holders (despite fresh cork) had the look of a craftsman who’d operated long ago.
I was the first player to arrive, other than my host, a tall, slender guy in a lightweight white suit over a gray shirt and skinny white tie, very hip and New Wave, only his well-oiled Frankie-Avalon-circa-1958 pompadour undercut it. His hands were free of rings, but that was because he’d removed them before starting to shuffle, putting them in his drink well—gold rings encrusted with just a few fewer precious gems than the Maltese Falcon.
Jerry Giovanni, suspiciously tan for a Midwesterner—Florida trips, maybe, or tanning bed access—was almost handsome, a slightly horsier-looking John Travolta.
Pausing in his shuffling, holding the deck in his left hand, he got to his feet, extended a palm and said, “Jerry Giovanni. My friends call me Jerry G.”
I shook the hand. Firm. “Jack Gibson, Mr. Giovanni.”
He sat, smiled wide, the whiteness of his teeth against the tanned flesh just as startling as the similar effect Richard Cornell achieved, and gestured to the seat opposite him.
“We only have five players tonight, Jack. And call me Jerry G.”
“Okay, Jerry G.”
“So I was pleased to hear you were joining us. I asked Mandy to have you come in a little early.”
“Mandy?”
“Little blackjack dealer. Redhead. She likes you, Jack. I could fix you up. Kid can suck the chrome off a ’71 Caddy.”
“No, that’s okay. I can make friends on my own.”
He laughed with a snort, liking that, or pretending to. His eyes were too large for his face and a little close together; guess I already said he had a horsey look. But his snorting laughter emphasized it.
“No offense meant,” Jerry G said. “Good-looking fella like you, I’m sure you get more tail than Sinatra.”
“Maybe Sinatra now.”
He shuffled, did some show-off stuff doing the accordion bit with the deck. Not that smart a move from a guy doing all the dealing.
“You know the house rules, don’t you?”
“The house usually does.”
He snort-laughed again. “No, no, Jack, I mean, the rules of the house. Of this room. It’s a thousand-dollar buy in. We don’t play table stakes—you can go to your pocket any time. Checks are fine, even items like watches or jewelry, if the players are agreed as to value. But no IOU’s.”
“Cool.”
“I’m the banker, and I’m the dealer. And I play.”
“I heard about that. I can live with it. What do we play?”
He grinned nice and wide, yards of white teeth and miles of tan skin—this must have been the last thing Custer saw. “Dealer’s choice.”
I had to laugh. No snorting, though. “I wouldn’t mind having that defined a little better.”
“Obviously, no wild cards. I’ll choose between draw, five-card stud, seven-card stud, and Texas Hold ’Em. I like to mix it up.”
“Okay. I appreciate you taking the time to bring me up to speed like this.”
The smile settled down and the eyes seemed shrewd suddenly. “No problem, Jack. But that’s not why I wanted a few minutes with you.”
“All right. Why do you?”
He shuffled, but his eyes watched mine, not the cards. “You’re a stranger in town.”
What was this, Tombstone?
I said,