Bart – The Bella Union

Leaving the Houston River Belle when she docked was a blessing, as far as I was concerned. It meant we left the trouble-making cardsharp behind . . . and he wasn't the only one I'd be more than glad to see the last of. I was hoping that Miss Olivia Ames would have more to do in New Orleans than keep company with Pappy. I'm sure Bret was reveling in the thought of no more Martin Langley.

I was pleased to discover the hotel had done a much better job of booking our reservations correctly than the riverboat did. This time we had a stateroom with three separate bedrooms. We each retired to our bedroom to take care of our clothing, with an agreement to meet in the stateroom in thirty minutes. I thought I was the first to finish, but when I returned to the stateroom, I found a note from Pappy.

Boys – I'm going downstairs to meet Olivia. I'll see you at five o'clock in the dining salon. Olivia will be joining us. Pappy

So much for not having to see Olivia. Which probably meant that Martin would be doggin' my brother's heels, too. When Bret's door opened I showed him the note and watched the storm clouds gather in his eyes. "Now what?" I asked, sounding more rattled by the whole thing than I intended. Much to my surprise, Bret's eyes cleared and he put his arm around my shoulders.

"Let's go find some trouble of our own and remember what we agreed to on the boat."

"You're serious?"

"I am," he answered, and gave me a dimple-filled grin. So we set off to see what kind of trouble we could get into.

XXXXXXXX

Sometime later we'd taken a tour of the casino and found games that we were both attracted to. I left Brother Bret at a Five-Card Draw game and wandered on to one of the roulette wheels. I have to admit that it was the croupier that attracted me more than the game itself – the croupier was a magnificent looking brunette, somewhere around twenty-five, with long hair and a dazzling smile. I watched the wheel for two or three spins and then placed a small bet on twenty-three.

I was too busy watching her work to pay any attention to the numbers, and I was astounded when I heard her call "Twenty-three red."

"Let it ride," I heard somebody with my voice tell her, and it took a minute to realize it was me. Boy, when I go lookin' for trouble, I really go lookin' for trouble.

"Place your bets," she called, and I was tempted to move my winnings. Then she looked right at me and smiled. And just a minute later called "Twenty-three red."

Now I was really in a jam. Everything inside of me was telling me to take the money and run, as far and as fast as I could go. But way in the back of my head was this little voice that kept saying, 'She's not through with you yet.' What the heck. My original investment was just a few dollars, and I could afford to lose that. Besides, she kept smilin' at me. So once again I squeaked out, "Let it ride," and a gasp went up at the table. She spun the wheel and I waited, sure that I was finally going to hit it big. Only this time what she said was "Twenty-four black." And I watched her rake all those beautiful chips back to her side of the table. When I looked up, she'd found somebody else to smile at.

I wandered over to the bar and ordered a cup of coffee, determined to regain my sense of balance. That's when I saw them . . . Pappy and Olivia. They were playing Faro – rather Pappy was playing Faro, and Olivia was standing at his side encouraging him. It was the first time I could remember Pappy ever playing anything besides poker. Ever. I drank as much of my coffee as I could, put the cup back on the bar, and hurriedly backtracked to find Bret. I was lucky; they hadn't started the next hand. "Come with me. You have to see this."

I grabbed the sleeve of his jacket and pulled him with me. When we got close enough to see them, I let go of his coat and pointed. "What?" he asked. I thought his eyeballs might fall out of his head when he realized where I was pointing. "Oh . . . my . . . God. Pappy's playin' Faro!"

"Is this a sign of the Apocalypse?" I asked.

"Must be. What kind of a spell has she put on him?"

"I don't know, but I think we better go rescue him before this gets serious."

Bret shook his head. "I'm afraid it already is."

The two of us hurried over to the Faro table and stood right behind them. It took Pappy a minute to acknowledge our existence, much less our presence. "Well, hello boys. I didn't expect to see you until supper."

"Pappy, what are you doing?" I blurted out.

"That should be fairly obvious, Bartley. I'm playin' Faro."

"That's gamblin', Pappy," Bret wasn't any more subtle than I was.

"Yes, Breton, it's been called that."

Bret and me stared at each other. Who was this man, and what had he done with our Pappy?

"But Pappy . . . " Bret started.

". . . you don't gamble," I finished.

"It's my fault, I'm afraid," Olivia explained. "I wanted to know how the game was played, so Beauregard offered to show me." She paused and smiled sweetly at both of us. "And it seems he's rather good at it."

Pappy gawked at us with a big smile on his face. "Evidently I am." That's when I looked at the pile of money Pappy had in front of him. It was considerable.

"But, Pappy, you're . . ." I almost said 'too old to change,' but I caught myself in time.

". . . too smart to keep playin' a game you can't win," Bret finished, savin' my hide.

"I know, I know, I just wanted to show Olivia how it was done. Come, my dear, let's see what else we can find to do. Boys, we'll see you at five o'clock."

Pappy picked up his money like it was nothing and walked towards the poker table, with Olivia on his arm. Bret and me just stood there and watched them go, as if we hadn't seen the most astonishing thing happen right in front of our very eyes.

"I . . . need . . . a drink," Bret kind of stammered out.

That pronouncement was almost as astonishing as Pappy gamblin'. "Come to think of it, I could use one myself," I replied, and we headed back towards the bar.

XXXXXXXX

One glass of brandy and two cups of coffee later and my brother and me were both feeling steadier, if not better. We'd had time to sit and talk about the things we'd just seen and heard, and decided we were hallucinating. We had to be. Pappy had refused to gamble his entire life . . . had even lectured the two of us endlessly on the problems a man has if he's a gambler. Not that either one of us had taken it to heart; both of us had not only played Faro or Roulette on occasion, I'd done a fair amount of croupier work on the wheel, and Bret had been known to take whatever job was necessary in a casino to get by when the going got rough. But it had shaken both of us to our very core to see Beauregard Maverick playing Faro.

We were nursing the last of our coffee when I saw something on the far side of the house, just sittin' down at a poker game. Mr. Singer, the card cheat from the River Belle. I seriously began to wonder, was this the only hotel in all of New Orleans? How could Olivia Ames and Singer both end up here, when we had gone to so much trouble to find just the right place to take Pappy? I nudged Bret's arm and pointed again while telling him, "More trouble."

Bret just shook his head. "Do you suppose he followed us?"

"I don't know. Shall we go find out?"

So the two of us got up and walked across the casino floor, standin' behind the players directly opposite Mr. Singer. It took a few minutes before he noticed us, and when he finally did, there was a look of pure disgust on his face. "Oh, no, not the guard dogs."

"Good afternoon, Mr. Singer. We just wanted to say hello, and let you know that we're keepin' an eye on you."

He let out a sigh of disgust. "So the old cardsharp's here too?"

"He is. And if you become inclined to go lookin' for him, we would just like to make it perfectly clear that he is to be left alone. Because if he isn't, it could become exceedingly uncomfortable for you. Do you understand?"

"What are you, his bodyguards?"

I laughed at that one; Bret just kind of smiled. "Something even more troublesome than bodyguards. We're his sons."

Singer muttered something under his breath that sounded like "Wonderful," and gave us a wry smile. "I understand, gentlemen. You'll get no trouble from me."

I tipped my hat; Bret followed suit. "In that case, Mr. Singer, have a pleasant evening." I headed back upstairs, towards our stateroom.

When Bret caught up with me, he asked, "Everything alright?"

"Yep," I told him. "But I think I need a nap before supper. I feel a headache comin' on."

"You know, a nap sounds good. Think I'll join you."

I pulled out two cigars, lit one and handed it to my brother. Then I did the same for myself. We finished the walk back to the stateroom in silence, hoping and praying for a calm, peaceful meal.