Texas Bluff

  Texas Bluff

  Robert J. Randisi

  Professional gambler Ty Butler knows he should keep moving to stay ahead of the killers who wiped out his family and are now gunning for him. But when a serious card player finds a challenging game in an honest house, he wants to stay awhile.

  For Butler, a certain gambling hall is paradise—though the emporium's notorious owner, Little Luke Short, can't seem to steer clear of Hell's Half Acre, a corrupt and festering boil in the middle of Fort Worth. Short's been waging an ongoing war with a crooked kingpin, and now he's making it Ty's fight as well. The stakes get higher when the criminal is murdered and the law comes gunning for Little Luke. But Ty Butler recognizes a bluff when he sees one—not to mention the unmistakable hand of a hired killer. He may end up taking a bullet, but he's not cashing out of this game until real justice is done.

  Robert J. Randisi

  The Gamblers: Texas Bluff

  CHAPTER 1

  Butler had decided to try to hit every major gambling hall in Texas before he continued on his way to California. What he didn’t expect was that it would take him a year.

  Upon leaving Colorado after an adventure in Denver with Bat Masterson and Doc Holliday he drifted for a while, stopping here and there along the way when he found a likely poker game. He worked his way down toward Texas, and when he heard about a saloon or a gambling hall that sounded interesting, that’s where he went.

  Once he got to Texas he found himself playing poker in Jack Harris’s Saloon and Vaudeville Theater in San Antonio. This was after Harris had been killed by Ben Thompson, who went on trial for murder. Butler knew Thompson, but did not get to see him during that time.

  Then he played for a while at the Iron Front in Austin, which was actually owned by Ben Thompson. But Thompson was still having trouble over the Harris thing, so once again Butler did not get to see him.

  In El Paso he won quite a bit of money in Ben Dowell’s Saloon. This was after Dowell had died on his ranch, just outside of town.

  The reason Butler remembered these three stopovers more than others was that, in addition to doing well in all three saloons, there was an attempt on his life in all three places. Obviously, the price put on his head by someone back East was still enforced. He’d thwarted dozens of attempts on his life over the years, and he remembered every one of them.

  Approximately one year after the events in Denver, Butler rode into Fort Worth, Texas. He checked into a hotel down the street from the White Elephant Saloon, which was his ultimate goal. This would be his last Texas stop before he finally continued on his way to California.

  He chose the hotel because it was large, had its own livery stable and a doorman in front. In other words, it reeked of luxury. He’d been doing so well at the tables lately that he decided to treat himself.

  Butler was no stranger to luxury. Growing up in the East, his family had been well off. Later, when he was exiled to the West and started to make his living playing poker, he would treat himself whenever he was flush. And the better he became, the more often he was flush.

  His room was a two-room suite. The bedroom had a large bed with a thick mattress, and not only a dresser for his clothes but a wardrobe to hang his suits in.

  The outer room was set up like a living room or sitting room, complete with plush armchair and sofa and a small sidebar with decanters for various types of liquor. The furnishings were maroon and gold, very rich feeling. He approved of his new digs, which was important, because he planned to be there for a while. He’d learned the word digs from a Brit he played poker against in Chicago. He liked it, but never said it out loud to anyone.

  After a bath he put on a clean black suit, a boiled white shirt, and a black string tie. He did not wear jewelry, probably never would, no matter how much money he had. He looked at gamblers who wore diamond cuff links and stickpins and thought they were too flashy, like tinhorns. The last thing he put on was his flat-crowned black hat with a silver band and a three-and-a-half-inch brim.

  He was ready to check out the White Elephant Saloon.

  Luke Short was the new one-third owner of the White Elephant. His partner, Bill Ward, had been determined to change the image of the White Elephant, to hopefully bring in some big-name gamblers. For that he needed a partner who knew some big-name gamblers. When he met Luke Short he was sure he’d found his man.

  Short’s first move was to change the physical image of the saloon. He had the public area decorated with fancy rosewood and mahogany fixtures that he had brought in from back East. He also brought in something that became known as the “Luke Short Bar.” It was mahogany, made in three pieces, and covered most of one wall of the saloon. He added onyx and crystal to the décor, immediately giving the place a touch of class. The last thing he did was to introduce the game of keno to Fort Worth, which caught fire and added substantially to the saloon’s profit margin.

  “Little Luke” had placed his personal stamp on the White Elephant and—just as Bill Ward had hoped—the big-name gamblers began to come.

  CHAPTER 2

  Butler was impressed with the White Elephant Saloon as soon as he entered. It was easily the largest gaming hall he’d ever been in, and it apparently had some other, private, rooms where—more than likely—its high-stakes games took place.

  Butler had heard that famed gambler Luke Short was now part owner of the White Elephant. He knew that Short was good friends with both Bat Masterson and Wyatt Earp, two legendary lawmen and gamblers who had become his friends over the past couple of years. Both of those men admitted that Luke Short was probably a better man with a deck of cards than either of them was. Butler was looking forward to meeting the man he’d heard so much about.

  He approached the vast bar and easily found a place for himself, even though the saloon was buzzing with activity.

  He ordered a beer, and when it came the mug was frosty, almost too cold to pick up.

  “Is this place always this busy?” he asked the bartender.

  “You ain’t never been in here before, have you?” the man asked.

  “No,” Butler said. “I just got to town.”

  “The answer is yes,” the bartender said. “It is always this busy in here.”

  “I heard you have private rooms.”

  “We’ve got lots of rooms,” the man said. “The owners live upstairs, and Mr. Short has a special room for high-stakes poker games.”

  “Ah,” Ty Butler said, “that’s the one I’m interested in.”

  “I thought you had the look of a gambler when you walked in,” the bartender said, “but people only get to play in that game by invitation.”

  “And how do I get invited?”

  “Do you know Mr. Short?”

  “No, but—”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Butler.”

  The man shook his head.

  “I don’t know the name” he said, “so you ain’t famous.”

  “No,” Butler agreed, “I’m not famous.”

  “Then you ain’t gettin’ invited,” the man said. “Not unless you do something to get yerself noticed by Mr. Short himself.”

  “I might just have something,” Butler said.

  “Well, you better trot it on out, then,” the bartender said. “Gotta go. Duty calls.”

  The bar was so long there were two bartenders serving drinks.

  “’Scuse me,” the man next to him said.

  Butler turned to look at him. He was well dressed—although not as well dressed as Butler—and had the look of a man fresh from a bath and shave. He smelled of bay rum and his mustache was carefully curled on the ends.

  “I couldn’t help hearin’ your conversation,” the man said. “I’ve been tryin’ to get into one of Luke S
hort’s private games for weeks.”

  “Pretty tough to do, huh?” Butler asked. “The bartender seems to think I’d need to know somebody.”

  “I know Short’s partner, Bill Ward,” the man said, “and I still can’t get invited.”

  “Wow,” Butler said, “that does sound tough.”

  The man put his hand out and said, “Al Newman. I heard you say you just got to Fort Worth. I live here. Welcome.”

  “Ty Butler,” Butler said, shaking the man’s hand.

  “I come here every night, have a beer, gamble upstairs, and hope I’ll do something that will attract Luke Short’s attention.”

  “Well,” Butler said, “you could shoot somebody.”

  “I don’t want that much attention.”

  “Doesn’t look like there’s much going on here in the way of gambling,” Butler said. “Upstairs, you say?”

  “That’s where the real casino is,” Newman said. “You go up this long stairway, passing the losers who are comin’ down.”

  “Well,” Butler said, “that sounds like the place I should be.”

  “Finish up your beer, my new friend, and I’ll show you how to get up there.”

  Butler was really in no hurry to finish the beer. It was cold, and the taste was excellent. Newman had a similar brew in front of him. So they finished up together while Newman told Butler he had a business in town.

  “I’m a lawyer,” he said.

  “Criminal lawyer?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes,” Newman said.

  “Since you say you’re a friend of Luke’s partner, I’m going to guess that you’re a fairly prominent lawyer.”

  “I’d say you were right,” Newman said. “Fact is I ran for district attorney one year. Didn’t win, but yeah, I guess I’m fairly well known.”

  “And even that can’t get you into one of the private games?” Butler asked.

  “Luke Short is impressed with what people can do at a poker table, not what they do in their everyday lives.”

  “Well,” Butler said, “I guess I’m ready to go up and have a look at where all the action takes place.”

  They both drained their mugs and Newman said, “Follow me.”

  CHAPTER 3

  “Why not Al Newman?” Bill Ward asked Luke Short. “You say you’re lookin’ for another man?”

  “I’m not just lookin’ for another body, Bill,” Short said. “I’m lookin’ for a poker player.”

  “Well, there are plenty of them downstairs, too,” Ward said. “Pick one.”

  “Do you know why all these men want to get into the private games, Bill?”

  “I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”

  “Because they are private,” Short said. “If anybody could sit in, these men would be lookin’ elsewhere.”

  “Look, Bill,” he continued, “when I bought in we agreed I’d handle the gambling—especially the big games with the big names, right?”

  “That’s what we said, Luke.”

  They were in the office that was generally considered to belong to Bill Ward. Since it was Short who bought into Ward’s property, he insisted Ward keep it. Now he approached Ward, who was seated behind the desk, and put his hand on the man’s shoulder.

  “So why don’t you stop tryin’ to get me to let your friends in to play?”

  Ward threw up his hands and said, “Okay, okay, I’m done.”

  “I’m gonna go out and see how we’re doin’ tonight,” Luke said.

  “I’ll go downstairs and say hello to some friends,” Ward said.

  He stood up and they both left the office together. They were standing in a hall that would lead them each to where they wanted to go. This was another of Luke Short’s improvements. He had the hall built, and they could get downstairs or upstairs from there.

  “Have a good night,” Ward said to Short.

  “Let’s just have a productive night,” Short said. “That’s what counts.”

  Ward shook his head as Luke Short walked down to the other end of the hall. Once again he silently congratulated himself for having chosen the right partner…this time around. Short was his third partner in as many years, but Bill Ward felt that this time he’d finally gotten it right. He turned and walked to the other end of the hall.

  Butler was impressed with the setup.

  As Newman had predicted, they walked up the long enclosed stairwell and had to step aside to let some grim-looking men down.

  “Losers,” Newman said to Butler.

  “Is there another stairway for the winners?” Butler asked.

  “Who are you kiddin’?” Newman said. “Nobody leaves here a winner.”

  “Then why do they come?” Butler was a good card player. At this point in his life he hardly considered it gambling. He usually won. If he never won another game, he wondered how long he would go on playing?

  “They can’t not come,” Newman said. “They each have their game, and they have to come and play it. It’s not like they have a choice.”

  Butler had known compulsive gamblers, but he did not understand the malady.

  They continued up the stairs and when Butler came out into the casino, he was impressed. There were some poker games being played downstairs, and the faro game, but this…everywhere he looked a game was going on, and the room seemed to have every game imaginable. He saw blackjack, poker, faro, red dog, roulette, craps, and a couple of tables of games he did not recognize.

  “What’s your game?” Newman asked.

  “Poker.”

  “No,” the lawyer said, “I mean other than poker.”

  “I usually just play poker, Al.”

  “Well then, that explains why you’re so much better dressed than I am,” Newman said. “If I can’t get into a poker game I’ll play almost anything else. I prefer blackjack, but there are times I can’t resist the lure of the roulette wheel, or the dice.”

  Yes, Butler said to himself, that is why I’m better dressed than you are.

  “Well,” Butler said, “you go ahead and find a game. I’ll walk around and take a look. I have been known to play a few hands of blackjack, though not often. There are just too many times the dealer has twenty-one to your twenty for my taste.”

  “I know what you mean,” Newman said.

  “Good luck,” Butler said.

  “Thanks. If I catch up to you later I’ll buy you a drink—or, if I’m broke, you can buy me one.”

  “You’re on,” Butler said.

  He had a feeling he knew who was going to be doing the buying.

  CHAPTER 4

  Butler found a smaller bar upstairs, got himself another cold beer to carry around as he looked the place over. Every table was filled to capacity, but there always seemed to be room for one more, especially at the roulette wheels and the crap tables. All the seats were filled at the blackjack and faro tables. The only place he could have gambled with cards seemed to be the red dog table, but he wasn’t interested.

  There were women working the floor, carrying drinks and carrying on with the men, distracting them from their gambling any way they could. It was a good ploy for the house, getting the players liquored up, or just getting them thinking about something else—like what was going on in their pants.

  Butler was a serious poker player. He didn’t drink to excess at the table, and if a woman wanted his attention she was going to have to wait until he was finished with his business.

  He was nursing the beer he had now because he’d had one downstairs already. If he ended up in a poker game tonight, his head had to be clear.

  He kept his eyes open for Luke Short. Bat Masterson had described Short as a natty little dresser, prone to wearing a silk top hat and carrying a walking stick. He also told Butler that “Little Luke” was a hell of a man to have behind you in a fight. He said a lot of men had been fooled by Short’s size.

  Armed with this description, Butler was able to spot Luke Short with no problem. Sporting both the silk hat and cane,
the man was working his way through the assemblage of gamblers, slapping some on the back, exchanging waves with others. He seemed to be very popular with the gamblers.

  Butler wasn’t sure how to play this. Should he approach Short and announce their mutual friendship with both Bat Masterson and Wyatt Earp? Or just wait and see if he could impress him, attract Short’s attention through his normal play?

  Butler decided to take another look at the poker tables. Maybe he’d see somebody he knew, somebody who could simply introduce him to Luke Short. But not only did he not find anyone who would fit that bill, there were no open chairs at the table. He watched for a while, but it soon became clear that there were no professionals in the bunch. He could have waited for an open chair and fleeced some sheep, but there was no challenge in that.

  He needed to find a real game. That was what he came to the White Elephant for.

  “You don’t look happy,” someone said.

  He turned and found Luke Short standing next to him, looking amused.

  “Luke Short,” Butler said, surprised.

  “You know me?” Short said.

  “Just by reputation, and a friend described you to me.”

  “A friend?”

  “Bat Masterson.” Hell, why not? It had fallen in his lap.

  Now Short looked surprised.

  “You know Bat? Where from?”

  “Dodge City,” Butler said. “I was there with Jim for a little while, and then Bat. Later Trinidad, and then Denver.”

  “The Doc Holliday thing in Denver?”

  “That’s right.”

  Now Short looked delighted.

  “You’re Butler.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Tyrone Butler, if I remember correctly.”

  “Yes.”

  “Sir, what a pleasure! Why, I must have just missed you in Dodge.”

  Short stuck out his hand and Butler shook it.

  “How long have you been here? Why didn’t you look me up?” Short demanded.

  “I just arrived today, and I had no idea you’d know who I am,” Butler said.