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Each man peered into the eyes of the others. Some twitched. Was it the heavy smoke or was he bluffing? Poker chips were sprawled about the table at each man’s seat like it was laundry day. Someone was going home happy and the rest were going to get cleaned out.
Among the faceless gamblers were again, Clark Griffith and Jack Chesbro. Each were in on the current hand, but after Griffith raised, the others left in folded.
“I’ll call.” Jack’s voice was barely audible but moving his chips to the center of the table clearly indicated he at least had a pair of jacks.
Griffith eyed the pitcher with a deliberate stare. “You got guts Jack, I’ve got kings,” declared the new New York Highlander manager.
“Kings are meant to be dethroned ya know,” Jack said rather confidently.
The hand continued but ended when the Old Fox turned up three kings. Jack had his jacks, but nothing else. Money swept into Griffith’s war chest. It was growing. Several more hands passed.
“Okay, maybe I am the pauper, but one more game. Blackjack, you and me Clark, mano a mano.” It was obvious Chesbro picked up some Spanish while in California.
“Whatever that means,” Griffith laughed, still looking at the amount of his winnings.
“I’ll match what you have if you win, and if I win, I’ll come with you to New York.”
Griffith stopped counting his chips and looked up at what was just said. “You’re on. Dealer!”
Clark was quickly dealt two kings. Stand. A big grin came to the manager’s face.
“This is rigged! Aww man…” Chesbro couldn’t back down now, the others were watching intently.
Jack. Figures.
“Hit me.”
Jack. Sweat came down from the pitcher’s forehead.
“Hit me.”
“Ace in the hole! Happy Jack Chesbro is going to New York!”
***
It was later learned that Win Mercer killed himself by gas inhalation at the Occidental Hotel in San Francisco earlier in the week. Gambling debts were thought to be the cause. For Chesbro, that's all he needed to make his decision to head back. Obscure or not, out here, it was cutthroat.
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