Free Stories 2015 Page 5

  “Well, apart from sorting out the table limit in advance.”

  Landsknight turned out to be another Faro variant. The banker dealt a card clockwise to each player face up finishing with himself, discarding any matches until each player had a card of unique value. He then placed a bet. Each player running anticlockwise matched or raised the bet placed immediately to his right or dropped out. Betting continued in circuits until all but the dealer was out, the pot limit had been reached, or there were no more raises. The dealer then turned over cards from the deck and the first match to a player’s card scooped the pot.

  Faro depends entirely on luck so win and lose tends to balance out over the course of an evening’s play. Neddard won the first hand but he dealt Hawthorn the ace of spades on the second.

  “My lucky card,” Hawthorn informed the group.

  He bet heavily to the table limit, scooping a decent pot when everyone else dropped out. Hawthorn had a lucky night and was a fair way up when the girl came back with a tray of drinks.

  “You took your time,” Neddard snarled.

  “The coms are down,” the girl replied, defensively. “I didn’t get your signal.”

  Neddard glowered at the waitress, who shut up.

  “Well, ring Gary in the morning and tell him to get round here and fix them like bloody quick.”

  “You can’t get the staff these days,” Hawthorn said, sorrowfully.

  Neddard treated him to a suspicious glower that Hawthorn deflected with a smile of sublime innocence.

  Gary would have a job finding the fault because the cause of the room’s isolation was a very powerful and very illegal processor in Hawthorn’s datapad.

  Then the girl dropped the tray.

  Dropped as a verb barely covered the situation, she flung the tray across the table as if she’d been goosed by a cattle prod. All was instant mayhem with much jumping up and swearing and knocking over of chairs. Hawthorn enthusiastically added to the confusion, patting spilled liquid off the girl with a monogrammed handkerchief sporting the initials QP. It’s the little things that matter when you set up a legend.

  “I’ll get more drinks,” said the girl and disappeared.

  The other men sat back down, but Hawthorn remained standing

  “Thank you for an instructive evening,” he said, scooping up his winnings.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Neddard shouted.

  “Where indeed,” Hawthorn replied, sonorously. “Personally, I expect to go to Heaven. How about you?”

  “What about giving us a chance to win back our money? Frog asked.

  “I haven’t got all night,” Hawthorn replied, pointedly.

  “One round,” Eddy said. “No limit.”

  “Yeah, no limit,” Neddard repeated.

  He spoke quietly but his eyes glittered like a broken blade.

  Hawthorn pretended to consider.

  “Okay, one round,” he said.

  Hawthorn had won the last hand so it was his turn to deal. He dealt himself the ace of spades and whooped with delight.

  The pot accumulated quickly.

  “Too rich for me, I’m out,” Neddard said leaning back in his chair after Hawthorn had bumped the bet by fifty sovereigns.

  “Me too,” Eddy turned over his card face down in the time honored tradition.

  “Just you and me then,” Hawthorn said to Frog.

  Frog matched the bet, which took pretty much all he had left, so Hawthorn raised by a thousand crowns.

  “Lend me a stake, mates,” Frog asked.

  After a little deliberation, just enough to look convincing, Eddy and Neddard slid the necessary funds across to Frog who pushed them into the center of the table.

  Hawthorn smiled.

  “I believe we said no limit.”

  His eyes never left Frog’s face.

  Very slowly Hawthorn took a clip out of an inside pocket of his jacket and opened it to reveal ten one-thousand sovereign coins.

  The room went very silent.

  He slid the coins onto the stake pile. “Raise you.”

  Frog’s eyes bulged with emotion. Either his name was an exceedingly unlikely and unhappy coincidence or it had been bestowed late in life by ill-mannered acquaintances.

  “I’ll write you a note,” Frog said, voice hoarse with emotion.

  “I only take cash,” Hawthorn replied.

  He started to pile up his winnings. “As I said earlier, gentlemen, thank you for an instructive evening.”

  “Wait,” Neddard replied.

  He went to his desk and pulled out a fake drawer to reveal a safe which he unlocked by tapping it with a key while wiping his hand across a pad to activate a DNA reader. Inside among various papers were wads of coins. Neddard quickly sorted out high value sovereigns and crowns and dumped them on the table.

  “That do as a match?”

  “Why not?”

  Neddard grinned like a man who had just heard his rich old uncle Arthur was dead.

  Hawthorn slowly peeled a card off the deck—the ace of hearts.

  Neddard looked at Eddy.

  “That wasn’t the hand I gave you,” Eddy said. “You palmed a new deck.”

  Hawthorn looked puzzled, “but you were teaching me the game so when you palmed a hand I assumed it was allowed.”

  Eddy snarled wordlessly and leaned forward.

  The men had failed to notice that Hawthorn had a foot resting on the edge of the table. He straightened his leg, smashing the table edge into Eddy’s knees. The man screamed and pitched forward. Hawthorn seized Eddy’s head in both hands and thrust his forehead down until it and the table top made violent contact. After that, Eddy lost interest in the proceedings.

  Frog rushed Hawthorn, apparently keen to take up matters on Eddy’s behalf. It might have been wiser if he had timed his move to coincide with his larger accomplice but he hesitated just a microsecond too long. Frog ran straight into a croupier’s rake that Hawthorn had found stacked beside his chair. The butt of the handle caught Frog right on the Adam’s apple like the point of a spear.

  Hawthorn just saw Neddard’s fist on the edge of his peripheral vision. He flung himself up and to one side. It was just far enough that Neddard struck his shoulder rather than his head. The man had a punch like a hydraulic ram. The impact spun Hawthorn back against the wall and numbed his left arm.

  Neddard closed with a triumphant if inarticulate roar. If his fighting style had a fault it was that it ran along predictable lines. He drew his fist back and launched a tremendous blow. Hawthorn had honed his skills at the Wagener Gentleman’s Sporting Club, taking the Fisticuffs Cup three years running. He tilted his head to the right and Neddard’s blow skimmed his ear on its way into the syncrete wall.

  Fortunately, Hawthorn had also learnt to fight in places of entertainment other than a gentleman’s club, places where the clientele had never heard of sportsmanship and would have mugged a gentleman on sight. He gave Neddard a Clearwater Kiss, so named after the drinking dives in Port Clearwater where sailors and dockworkers gathered to exchange philosophical opinions.

  Hawthorn brought his forehead down on the bridge of Neddard’s nose, producing a sharp crack of breaking cartilage. Neddard staggered back, blood streaming between his fingers in red splatters looking for all the world like avant-garde artwork. Hawthorn took a step forward, kneed Neddard in the balls and rabbit punched the back of his neck as he folded.

  “The bigger they are…,” Hawthorn said, rubbing his shoulder and arm to get the circulation going.

  He checked out the room. Eddy still snoozed face down across the table. Frog gurgled strange sounds. He was on his knees with both hands around his throat. Hawthorn searched the desk until he found a standard coin clip which he stuffed with high denomination coins from the safe. Then he went back to the table and quickly retrieved hundred and thousand crowns scattered amongst the debris.

  Frog gurgled and wheezed the whole time. For some reason this began to irritate s
o Hawthorn shut the goon up by kicking him in the head. There was still loot among the carnage when Hawthorn regretfully decided he had to go before he outstayed his welcome. Greed could kill.

  On the way back down the corridor he bumped into the waitress carrying a tray of drinks. He helped himself to one.

  “The boss is in a relaxed mood. You can have the rest of the night off,” he said to the girl, who gaped at him as if he was talking in tongues.

  Hawthorn downed the brandy and replaced the glass. He shot the cuffs on his jacket and strolled off whistling a popular song about a girl from Port Trent who was no better than she should be.

  He met Lady Trouble in an upmarket bar the next day. She drank tea and he drank brandy. Hawthorn took out the money clip and casually flipped it onto the table.

  “Not a bad haul even after I’ve removed my original stake.”

  “Wonderful,” Desole said, gazing at Hawthorn with adoring eyes.

  She snatched up the money clip. She obviously believed in keeping her valuables close to her heart because she hugged it to an ample chest.

  “Now I can pay off my contract.”

  “Or on the other hand, I could do it for you.”

  Hawthorn dexterously retrieved the clip, ignoring Desole’s squeak of protest at the intimacy of his touch.

  “I couldn’t possibly put you to the trouble,” she said, trying to grab his hand.

  Her eyes flashed and her accent slipped a bit.

  “Helping a lady is never a problem for a gentleman,” Hawthorn said, adopting a noble look.

  He avoided her hand and slipped the clip back into his pocket.

  “Perhaps you’re right,” she said. “Gosh I must look a frightful mess.”

  She opened her bag, found a comb and pulled it through her hair. Next out came the tube of perfume. She took off the top, casually lifted the flap with a manicured nail, pointed the nozzle at Hawthorn and pressed the button.

  Nothing happened.

  “I don’t think your perfume would suit me,” Hawthorn said.

  She frantically repressed the button again. Still nothing happened. Hawthorn took the tube from her unresisting fingers.

  “The thing about ion pistols, Judy,” he said, turning the tube around to show her a tiny hole in the base, “is that they are delicate. One little prick with a needle is all it takes to put them out of action, especially miniaturized weapons disguised as something else.”

  For a moment she gazed at him blankly then to his surprise she threw her head back and laughed.

  “You knew,” she said accusingly, reverting to her natural Port Trent dock accent. “You knew all along who I was.”

  “Oh come off it, Judy,” he said. “You have form from Manzanita to Oxford. As for the heart wrenching sob story, the dead grandfather was a tad too much. And your name—Desole Frawline—damsel in distress. Puhleese!”

  “Perhaps so,” she said. “But I could never resist a joke.”

  Hawthorn sipped his brandy.

  “What I can’t work out is why you thought a complete stranger in a bar would be able to rob Neddard’s mob on your behalf?” Hawthorn asked.

  “Hardly a complete stranger.” She grinned. “Everyone knows that Jeb Knight is really Jeb Hawthorn. So all I had to do was float the right bait to get you to the club that night.”

  Hawthorn sighed. So she was the behind the contact that never showed. Clearly it was time to retire his favorite alias.

  She stood up to go. “Oh well, win some, lose some.”

  He rose as too, as a gentleman should. Impulsively she hugged him and kissed him long and hard on the mouth.

  “Until the next time Jeb,” she said, walking out of his life.

  Hawthorn ordered another brandy and stayed to finish it. After downing the last drop he got up to leave. He automatically checked for the clip in his pocket.

  It wasn’t there.

  He remembered the hug and kiss. Classic misdirection while she picked his pocket. His face darkened with anger. No one treated Jeb Hawthorn like a mug, no one. He went after her.

  The doorman stopped him, holding out an envelope. “A lady said to give you this, sar.”

  Inside Hawthorn found the money clip and a note. He opened it and read.

  “I took out half for my share as it didn’t seem fair that I should get nothing for pointing you at Neddard. The ion gun would only have incapacitated you, incidentally, and as a mark of respect I have added a ten crown coin of my own money to your share. I have always believed that when you lunch with the lion you let him have the lion’s share.

  Judy Grady.

  Hawthorn burst out laughing. Maybe she had earned her share. He almost gave the ten crowns to the doorman as a tip but he changed his mind and gave that astonished worthy a hundred crown coin instead.

  He kept the ten crown bit and had it made into a ring.

  Lion Country

  by Whit Williams

  Early night was a good time, the calm before the storm. The heat rising from the ground kept the locals quiet for the first few hours; time to sleep, or read, or just contemplate. Currently I was contemplating murder. Should I suffocate my partner with the trash bag or shoot him up with a morphine overdose? Anything to stop the snoring. My thoughts were interrupted by the Ambulance rocking to the right. I turned and stared into the face of a good sized lion staring expectantly. This I remembered was why you keep the windows up. “What?”

  “I don’t mean to scare you, man, I just—” The lion’s reply was interrupted with a loud belch.

  “Back up, man.” I gestured with one hand while covering my nose with the other. The mix of rancid meat and booze that permeated the lion’s breath was horrendous. The lion pushed away from the window but still had his paws on the door. “Back up!” The lion dropped off the side and took a few steps rearward. “What do you want?”

  “I don’t mean no harm, man. Can I get some change to get something to eat?”

  “What? You’re a lion, go hunt something”

  “Man, I got TB. I can’t catch anything. Come on, anything you got I’ll take.”

  That seemed true enough. Enhancement had not saved the big cats from the diseases of Africa and I had no doubt he would take anything other than a bath or a job. “I’m sure you would. I don’t have anything for you.”

  At that the lion started looking past me and I realized Nick was looking over my shoulder now. “How about you, man, can you help me out?” Nick shook his head and managed to light up a smoke in the same gesture. I suddenly felt my day brightening exponentially with lions to the right of me and cancer to my left. “Hey, can I get a smoke, at least?”

  “I thought you had TB?” I waited for an answer. The lion just stared past me, as I was no longer of interest. Nick handed a cigarette over. I snatched it and flipped it to the lion’s feet. He lipped it up and disappeared around the back. “Lions.” Lions were always a problem, had been for my entire paravet career at least. The ambulance leaned to the left suddenly and now Nick had the lion in his face. He cracked his window.

  “Let me get a light.” The lion spoke out of one side of his mouth while the other side stuck the cigarette through the opening in the window. After Nick lit the end the lion dropped down and walked away into the darkness.

  Sure lions had responded to enhancement better than any other species, but what had they done with it? Elephants had prospering communities; chimps practically owned the entertainment industry. What did lions do?

  “721,” the radio came to life a half hour later, signaling the games had begun.

  “21, go ahead.”

  “Emergency response. Tenth and Robert Mugabi. Person down, unknown problem. Third party caller.”

  Nick shifted into drive and we lurched into the air. As the ambulance struggled to stabilize on its well-worn ground skirt we headed towards an island of lights in the distance. The tall grass gave way to broken pavement as we crossed into the outskirts of Okavango City. Just a block inside th
e concrete, on the sidewalk in front of a liquor store, was five hundred pounds of the biggest waste of lion I had ever met. Even before Nick had set the truck down, I was out the door with flashlight in hand. I walked up and tapped the beast on the shoulder. “Brutus!” Nothing but snoring in response. I tapped harder. “Brutus, wake up.” Still nothing but snores. I dug through the mane and found an ear. Pinching it between my thumb and flashlight got a shudder. I twisted a bit more and he opened his eyes. “Brutus, you can’t sleep here man, get up.” Brutus rolled to his belly and stared blankly, slowly registering my presence. “You’ve got to go somewhere else.”

  “I can’t,” Brutus slurred.

  “Why not?”

  Brutus held up his paw revealing a thorn. I shrugged and reached for my Leatherman. When the surgery was over I could hear the sirens of Animan Control in the distance. “So, Brutus, unless you’re going to the vet or the pound you need to find a new place to sleep.”

  “What’s wrong with sleeping here?”

  “What’s wrong is that concerned citizens drive by this corner and call 911 sending me out to wake you up.”

  “Well, where am I supposed to go?”

  “I don’t care, try the woods.”

  “It’s dark out there, man, and there’s crazy people out there.”

  “You’re a lion, Brutus!”

  “Man, I’m old. I can’t see well.”

  I held my hands up in frustration and shook my head. When I looked back Brutus was gazing past me. I turned around expecting to see Nick and for the second time that night I came face to face with our cigarette bumming lion. “What do you want?” I asked. He shrugged his shoulders in answer. “Get out of here!” He turned and shuffled off. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a disposable pen light. “Here,” I said placing the light between Brutus’ lips. “Now you gotta go.” Brutus got up and lumbered off unsteadily. Halfway down the alley he fell over in a pile of trash. I shrugged in defeat; at least he was out of sight. I turned back to the truck and reached it just as the boys from Control arrived. I waved them off and got back in. Nick was looking at me furiously.