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Excerpt from The River Nymph by Jim Henke:
The bar at the rear of the River Nymph's salon was lined with goggle-eyed spectators. All of the tables stretching into every shadowy corner of the room were packed. Bright lights from the St. Louis waterfront flickered through a wall of windows overlooking the bow of the boat, but every eye in the place was fixed intently on the large table in the center of the salon. Its green baize surface was brightly illuminated by a large globe lamp overhead, revealing four of the original five players. The lady gambler, Clint Daniels, Ike Bauer, and Teddy Porter. Harry Pedigrew had already lost his $10,000 table stake left the table. The game was five card stud, St. Louis style, first card down, next three up, last card down. Ike Bauer, who was the dealer, folded after the second round of cards, pushed the remaining few dollars left of his original $10,000 stake into the pot and declared himself out, after finishing this deal. Now, after the fourth round and final up card, Clint bet a thousand. The lady examined his up cards and counted out a stack of bills from the obscenely large mound of cash in front of her. “Your thousand and two thousand more.” The voice was well modulated but, for a woman, deep and husky, a whisky voice as someone said earlier, even though she never touched a drop. Teddy Porter stared up at the globe lamp as if seeking a favorable omen to keep him in the game. He was an obese man with a tiny moustache unable to contain the perspiration dribbling down his upper lip. Pulling a red handkerchief from his pocket, he mopped his face. “Damnation! I don’t even think I got that much left in this stack.” He pushed his cards into the middle of the table and started to pocket his remaining few hundred dollars. “You know better, Teddy. You plunk down ten big ones to get into the game. You can leave anytime you want, but all of your ten thousand remains.” Clint deliberately did not look at the fat man, but every spectator knew that Teddy Porter was within a hair’s width of being turned into fertilizer. He tossed the money back into the pot, then pried his consider girth out of his chair. “Anyway, now I know why they say a man ought to keep a woman barefooted and pregnant.” There were a few snickers, but these were outnumbered by murmurs of outrage. The lady fixed Porter with a calm stare until the room grew still. Then, she said in that throaty voice, “I suspect you're correct, sir. A woman might find it difficult to deal a hand while nursing a child. But I'm certain even a barefooted woman with a babe at each breast could separate a player of your...skill from his money.” The room filled with laughter, and Porter’s sweaty face glowed like the globe lamp. “And as for handling cards with a bloated stomach, you could perhaps enlighten us about that difficulty?” The laughter became raucous and a number of spectators called out jeering insults to the enraged man. When Porter started to lean across the table, the woman’s chaperone, a tall cadaverously gaunt man of indeterminate age dressed in a frock coat and starched high collar, slide his hand inside his jacket. “Teddy,” Clint Daniels said in a deceptively soft Southern drawl, “you started the mouthing and you got bested. Hell, don’t you know a man can’t get the better of a woman in a barking contest. Now take your whipping like a sport and leave--while you can still walk.” Porter hesitated for a moment, looking from Daniels to the lady's companion, and then waddled out of the salon. She nodded. “I repeat, Mr. Daniels, two thousand to you or would you better understand ‘whoof ’?” Clint threw back his head and laughed. “‘Whoof’ would definitely be the wrong language for you, ma’am. You have cat eyes.” Those eyes regarding him did not blink. “You also have three spades up, sooo...I’ll just call your two thousand.” Daniels desperately hoped she wouldn’t try what he thought she might. Bauer dealt the last card face down. Clint watched her as she looked at hers. Damn, she was good. Absolutely no expression there to read. But then, after playing against her all evening, he should have known there wouldn’t be. He looked at his last down card. “Well, since I’m still high, I’ll bet...” Clint counted his remaining cash, “$1700 dollars.” “Call and raise five thousand.” Her voice was cold as ice. Clint smiled. Well,
that’s what you get for playing poker while you got a stiff one
between your legs. The smoky voiced beauty across from him was
a professional, and she was going to do to him what any professional
would do. Hell, what he himself would do in her place. Having
cleaned him out of his ten thousand dollar table stake, she was now
raising; and since he had no money left on the table to call that
raise, he would have to forfeit the game. Mrs. Delilah Mathers Raymond tapped her chin with one long finger as she examined the tall gambler across from her. Her critical gaze was a calculated insult to his smile. Thick coarse hair the color of straw fell across his forehead. His eyes were the palest of blue, almost gray; but they were empty. His jaw line was firm and his chin possessed a slight cleft. The smiling lips could be either cruel or sensual, or both. Regardless of which, the arrogant clod probably had women, from both sides of the track, swooning over him. Delilah was maliciously pleased to detect a few minor imperfections. A small scar in one eyebrow and another thin white slash that ran from the corner of his right eye an inch down his cheek. His patrician nose was slightly off center, too, probably broken in a fight over a woman, she sniffed to herself, then smiled inwardly. The way her luck had been running tonight, someone might knock out a couple of those white, beautifully even front teeth! Damn but she detested Southern cavaliers! She had spent almost a decade holding her own against his type. God, she far preferred dealing with a bloated pig like Porter. At least, he showed his bruised male ego rather than hide behind a facade of polite, supercilious courtesy. Well, she would wipe that superior smile from Mr. Clinton Daniels’ face. “For shame, Mr. Daniels. Capitulate so easily? I have a proposition for you.” Clint’s smile broadened into a full-blown grin. “A proposition? From a lady? This must be my lucky night.” “Not that I have detected so far, but that could change." Delilah knew no woman who played cards for a living was ever considered a lady, least of all by a Southern gentleman, even if he was a gambler. She stared pointedly at the empty expanse of table in front of him. "Since you and I are the only players remaining in this game I propose a slight alteration in the rules. I will agree to wave the ten thousand table stake restriction so you may call my bet...if you so desire.” Though his face betrayed nothing, Clint felt a little rush of triumph. So, Gorgeous, you filled that flush. “All right ma’am, I can arrange to have the cash....” “No cash! I understand that you own this boat. I will allow you to call my raise with the deed to the River Nymph.” The room could have been a mausoleum. No one moved. The silence was absolute. Daniels tipped his flat crowned Stetson even farther back on his head. The corners of his mouth lifted slightly. “Mrs. Raymond, your raise, in fact, all the money in the pot is not equal to the value of the Nymph.” Delilah counted out a stack of bills and handed them to her gaunt protector. Then, she pushed the rest of her winnings into the pot. She arched a brow and her smile at her opponent was contemptuous. “All right, ma’am, we’ll say that’s close enough. Consider yourself called.” Delilah shook her head. “Oh, I think not , sir. I intend to win and when I leave a table I make it a habit to leave with all of my winnings...no markers.” A collective murmur rustled through the salon. Clinton Daniels had been a fixture on the St. Louis gambling scene for several years. His reputation for fair play was almost as legendary as his skill with cards and, when needed, with a gun. And this female had just insulted him. Clint tipped back his chair and stared at the woman as is she were some “curiosity” in a freak show. He shrugged and motioned to a man at the bar. “Banjo, please fetch Mrs. Raymond the deed.” Banjo Banks, whose nickname was derived from the unfortunate bulk of his posterier relative to his upper body, scurried out of the salon. In the silence that once again settled over the salon, Clint decided that it was his turn to catalogue Mrs. Delilah Mathers Raymond as she had so thoroughly done to him earlier. As soon as their eyes met in the thickening silence, she averted her gaze, studying the flickering lights along the St. Louis levee. He was certain that she not the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. But he was damned if he could recall when or where he had seen one better. Her hair, swept up in a cluster of artfully riotous curls atop her head, was a dark rich brown--except when she turned so the lamplight streaked it with sparkling bursts of dark flame. Her face was that of a mature young woman, perhaps in her late twenties. There was none of the pouty softness of the schoolroom miss. High cheekbones, stubborn chin and delicate nose--all were cameo perfect. Her dark green eyes were the lush shade of river moss and her slightly plump red lips were positively wicked. Clint nodded to Delilah’s hand resting on the table. “I take it that you are a widow, Mrs. Raymond?” He said in that soft rich drawl. Delilah twisted the simple wedding band. “Yes. I lost my husband during the war. ‘64.” “You must have been very young. My condolences, ma’am.” “I don’t want your condolences, sir, just your boat.” The tone of her voice was underlaid with a snappishness at odds with her earlier cool professionalism. Daniels couldn't stop worrying the matter. “I take it from your eastern accent that your husband fought for the North.” “And quite obviously, judging from your accent--if you fought at all--you fought for the rebels.” Delilah struggled to control a spurt of thoroughly inappropriate and hence dangerous anger. “You just might be surprised,” Daniels murmured. Banjo came slamming through the salon door and hurried to the table. He handed Daniels a sheet of heavy legal vellum. After glancing over it, he gave it to Delilah. She quickly scanned the document and then pushed it back for his signature. Clint shook his head. “Only if you win, Mrs. Raymond. And another thing,” he added, his lips thinning, “Since we are being such sticklers for details, I still don’t believe that the pot equals the value of my boat, so I consider this deed as calling your bet and a raise equal to the amount of the money you just passed to...?” “My uncle, Horace Mathers." She paused and moistened those lush lips. "Mr. Daniels, there is over thirty thousand in that pot and...” “And a prime
shallow-draft stern wheeler like the Nymph can go for over
forty. Do you call my raise, lady?” Delilah turned over her two down cards, both spades, one the ace. “Ace-high flush, sir. I believe I hold the winning hand.” From the moment that Horace had tossed in the money to cover Clint’s raise, neither Clint nor the woman had bothered looking at the table. They had locked eyes and had never broken contact. His eyes were still empty, even when he smiled. She almost shivered. But when the crowd broke into astonished cries of disbelief, Delilah deliberately allowed a fleeting spark of triumph to flash across her face. Daniels’ registered no response. In fact, his eyes, intently studying her, remained void of any emotion, certainly not the anger or sense of defeat she had hoped to glimpse. After a moment, he merely smiled that smile that did not reach those eyes, pulled the deed across the table and signed it with a flourish, then tossed it cavalierly on the pile of currency. “Well, ma’am, you wouldn't accept my condolences, but I do trust you'll accept my congratulations.” He rose, touching the brim of his hat, and turned to leave. Delilah was furious. The bastard was patronizing her. Refuse to admit defeat would he! She waited until he almost reached the bar and then in that husky voice called, “Mr. Daniels, please don’t leave just yet. I pride myself on being a magnanimous victor...” Her uncle Horace bent down and put his hand on her arm, whispering something, but she shook her head. “I always like to leave my less fortunate opponents with something. How about one last bet, sir, a chance for you to win back a stake for another game? I’ll bet $1,000 against the clothes you are wearing that I can beat you cutting for high card.” The crowd was stunned into silence. No one up or down the river had ever heard such an outrageous proposition. Clint cocked his head, studying the beautiful woman. Delilah had expected shock or anger, but not curiosity...or was it disappointment? At least his eyes were now alive. She flushed, suddenly uncertain of her triumph. Clint finally replied, “I’ll accept your wager, ma’am, if you will allow me to exclude my weapons, wallet, and cigar case from the bet.” Delilah nodded woodenly, aware that all eyes in the room were fixed on her--and not kindly. She had done what no professional ever did. What Uncle Horace had warned her not ever to do--let her emotions interfere with business. Clint moved back to the table, but did not take a seat. Delilah had not realized he was so tall. He picked up the deck and riffled it contemplatively. Then, he handed it to Horace. “Sir, would you shuffle the cards?” With a disgusted look at his niece, Horace complied quickly to terminate this most distasteful business. Clint nodded to Delilah. “Ladies first.” She drew a four and sighed with relief. This was one game she would be happy to lose. She had been a fool to taunt the hometown favorite into making the bet. The room grew deathly silent when Clint flipped over a deuce. Then the crowd groaned. But Delilah’s whisper- thin voice could be heard as she said, "You may send the clothes to the boat in the morning, Mr. Daniels." Her face burned and she could not bear to face any of the people surrounding her, least of all Clinton Daniels. Delilah knew she had humiliated him simply because he represented a life she hated. She turned away, staring out the salon windows, attempting to swallow the hard lump forming at the back of her throat. But suddenly her attention was pulled back to the table by a soft thump. Clint’s hat dropped onto the pile of cash in the center of the table. Next came his coat, his waistcoat, and a handful of shirt studs. An alarmed Delilah looked up into his face with something akin to terror. “My god, Daniels, send the clothes tomorrow...or don’t send them at all...I was just making a bad joke.” Clint shrugged off his
shirt, revealing a muscular chest flecked with gold hair narrowing
to his waistband. Smiling, he said, “I don't think so, ma’am.
Remember? You never leave a table without collecting your
winnings...no markers.” But Delilah could not seem to stop staring at the cunning pattern of his chest hair until he bent down and yanked off his hand-tooled leather boots and socks. When he straightened up and reached for the button of his fly, her face was flame red. She bit her lip to keep from gasping aloud. But she could not force her gaze away from his hand as he deftly unfastened his trousers and shucked them down his long legs. Calm as could be, he peeled off the last item, silk unmentionables which almost floated onto the pile of clothing littering the money-covered table. Finally, he was newborn-naked, the most striking specimen of masculine beauty Delilah could ever have imagined this side of a Greek statue. Sinking her teeth into her lip with renewed vigor, she forced herself to look away from his smirking grin. He was completely unconcerned about his nudity in a room full of people--in front of her. And why not? The rotter knew how humiliated she felt--knew, too, that she had enjoyed looking at his body. He casually slipped into the shoulder sling of his .38 caliber Smith & Wesson, picked up the small Colt derringer that had been tucked in his waistcoat, then asked Delilah, holding up a cigar, “Do you mind if I smoke?” She shook her head in a daze. He fired up the stogie, picked up his wallet, boot knife, and cigar case. Clinton Daniels strolled out the door in an easy long-legged gate, completely at his leisure, leaving pandemonium in his wake as the room exploded with furious whispers and muffled curses. "Unnatural bitch!” “I’ve never seen anything so goddamned vicious in my life.” “Poor bastard was lucky to get out of here with a full set of balls.” “Damn, not even Red Riley would do something this shittin’ nasty!” * * *
“Bullshit! That wasn’t our deal.” Big Red Riley had wasted little time meeting with Delilah and Horace to conclude the arrangement that he had made with them the week before. The morning after the card game he was seated at the large poker table in the salon of the River Nymph glaring at his two co-conspirators. Delilah thought, as his face turned puce with rage, that it clashed horribly with his bright red hair. The nickname “Big” was either a sop to the man’s inflated ego or an allusion to his undeniable power on the St. Louis riverfront. It certainly had not the remotest connection to his size. The scrawny little creature was at least two inches shorter than her own five feet seven. Adding to the charm of his weasely narrow face was a boil on his oversized nose, an ugly thing that looked about ready to erupt . She fervently hoped it would not do so before he could be removed from the premises. “Please, Mr. Riley, be rational,” Delilah cajoled softly, pushing the large stack of currency across the table. “You must admit--” “I ain’t admitting nothin’. Look, after losing this boat to that goddamned card hawk Daniels, I don’t intend to lose it a second time. I looked all over the east for somebody like you that could lure that bastard into a game to get the Nymph back. My sources said you were top shelf. Never been this far west before. Nobody'd recognize you. I paid to bring you here, and by god, I offered you the sweetest deal any ringer could ask for--" “Mr. Riley--” “Mr. Riley, my ass! I put up the $10,000 for your stake. All you had to do was win the game, get the Nymph, give me back my stake money and boat deed, and keep all of your cash winnings for yourself.” Delilah was growing angry with the little man’s pigheadedness and her voice reflect that fact. “As of this moment we have a new arrangement. The sum in front of you is exactly $35,000, which represents your $10,000 stake, plus a $25,000 profit. Take it!” “You double-dealing bitch. You--” Riley had not even seen the old man move, but he was keenly aware of the muzzle of Horace’s .45 caliber Colt pocket revolver jammed into his right nostril. The old man’s voice was surprisingly deep and strong. “Sir, you have a mouth as filthy as the floor of a stockyard. I grow tired of subjecting my niece to it. Anymore and I shall be tempted to test the theory of an English friend of mine. He was of the opinion that shooting an Irishman in the head was as feckless as shooting an elephant in the rump. While the target is large, the area of vulnerability is so miniscule that it is difficult to injure the beast. Shall we put it to the test?” Riley very carefully shook his head, no mean feat with a gunbarrel stuffed up one sinus cavity. “Then,” continued Horace, “I can count on your exercising a modicum of civility?” Although the King of the St. Louis Levee was as uncertain of the meaning of “modicum” as he had been of "miniscule," it seemed a wise idea to agree. “Now,” Horace went on resuming his seat next to his niece, “before you pocket your money, you will please sign this note that indicates that your loan of $10,000 has been returned with $25,000 interest and hence any dealings between you and Mrs. Raymond have been concluded.” Red looked at the paper but swallowed his rage. “I didn’t ask you to sign nothin'.” “No,” Horace agreed, “but then, you are intellectually deficient. Be a good fellow and sign, Mr. Riley.” “Yeah, I’ll sign, but this don’t change shit, old man. I’ll get the Nymph back.” * * *
Delilah climbed to the wheelhouse, watching her uncle “escort” Riley down the gangplank and off the River Nymph, then turned her attention south along the cobblestoned levee. As far as she could see, there were steamboats, scores of them, so many that their tall black smokestacks formed what appeared to be a forest of denuded tree trunks. It was not a particularly beautiful vista, and although it was almost noon on a weekday, the scene was not particularly a busy one. She drew her cloak more tightly about herself. It was only February. In another few weeks, the levee would be swarming with freight wagons and hand carts, loading the boats for their summer runs on the Mississippi and the Missouri. Then the scene might be fancifully likened to a litter of greedy little piglets vying for one of mama’s teats. St. Louis, the Sow of the West! Delilah laughed at her own irreverence. She laughed because she was still young, and now she was finally free. She and Uncle Horace were the owners of a fine steamboat and had, counting their own savings, a bit over $25,000 in capital. As of this morning they were in the freight business--no more corpse-eyed cardsharps, no more smirking simpletons intent on her breasts rather than her hands. She took a deep breath and even in the chill of February she could smell that peculiar blend of decay and fecundity that was the river. That was life. She slapped the Nymph’s wheel. “Damn all of them to hell, I will keep you.” * * *
Clint Daniels pushed the half-eaten breakfast away and poured another cup of coffee. He opened the humidor on his desk and absently selected a cigar, clipped the tip, lit up and leaned back in the big leather chair. He rolled the smoke around in his mouth, then blew a large blue-white cloud toward the ceiling, watching cat-green eyes and burnished hair materialize in the haze. Suddenly it registered on him that he was smoking, something he made it a rule never to do until after supper. “Damn.” He put the
cigar in the large brass ashtray and slid it across the desk next to
his empty breakfast plate. “Well, you pegged it, boss. Big Red had hisself a visit with the widda this mornin’.” Banjo grinned, revealing several missing teeth. “On the Nymph?” Clint asked his pear-shaped informant. “Yup, but get this. That feller with the widda tossed his ass off the boat. Old Red’s face was redder ‘n his hair. Joey the Rat was waitin’ at the edge of the levee and he started to reach fer his gun, but the old guy--just as cool as ya please--shook his head and grinned, all the while pointin' a gun from inside his coat pocket at Red. Shit, the old feller looked like one of them stiffs up at Hackameyer’ funeral parlor. 'Nough ta give ya the creeps. Hell , Joey turned into a statue. Bet he was drizzlin’ down his leg.” “From what the boys picked up this morning, I figured she was some sort of ringer that Riley had imported, but if you’ re right, the lady may have reshaped the deal.” Daniels grinned. “Sharp, shrewd, vicious, bottom-dealing, beautiful little bitch,” Clint murmured to himself. “Red wanted to get back the boat, but it would appear the widow, with an assist from her dear uncle Horace, has decided to keep it. Why I wonder? And just what will our majesty, the King of the St, Louis Levee, do to avenge himself on our delectable double-crosser? This should prove very interesting indeed.” A genuine smile spread across his face. Banjo grunted, “That little bastard ‘s mean 'nough to burn the Nymph to the water line outa spite. I’ll put the boys to watchin’ real careful. I know you want her.” “Make no mistake about that, Banjo. I want her and I intend to have her.” The boat or the
woman? Clint was not certain where the thought came from, but
he knew the answer to the question. He wanted both. Even though he
knew he'd be smart to settle for the boat. Excerpts also available from Wanton Angel by
Shirl Henke:
Wanton Angel
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