The Cypress House(10)

“Well, Arlen Wagner, I’ve developed what some might call an unusual ability—I can feel luck in the air. I mean, just taste it, like when you walk into a room where something good’s been on the stove. And I’m telling you, sir, that luck rides with you tonight. There’s no question about it. Luck rides with you.”

Arlen thought of the station platform again, all those men with bone faces and bone hands climbing back onto the train. His mouth was dry.

“All right,” he said. “Sure. I’ll put in a dime.”

“There you go. Now, pick yourself a number. One through one hundred.”

He waited with a wolf’s grin.

“One,” Arlen said. “As in, how many times I’ll try this game.”

“Very nice, very nice.” Sorenson chuckled and sorted through the balls until he found the number one. He held it up so Arlen could inspect it, then leaned it against his whiskey glass, which was now mostly ice. “I’ll rest it right there so you can keep an eye on it.”

“I’m going to expect such a game is illegal in this state,” Arlen said.

“A good many of the best things are.” Sorenson spent some time studying his betting sheet, cleared his throat, and called, “All right, boys, gather round, the losing is about to begin for most, and the winning for but a single soul.”

He scooped the balls off the bar and into the bag. By now the crowd had gathered around Sorenson, and he wrapped the top of the bag until the balls were hidden from view, then gave it a ferocious shake.

“Here,” he said. “Someone else take a try.”

A man with skeptical eyes stepped forward and took the bag. He shook it for a long time. Sorenson took the bag back, opened the neck, and slid his right hand inside. He closed his eyes and let out a strange humming sound. This persisted for a moment as he felt around the inside, and then he snapped open one eye and told the crowd, “I’ve got to tune into the winner, you know. It’s not so simple as just pulling one out. There’s one man here who deserves to win tonight, one whose destiny is victory, and I must be sure that I hear his selection calling my name.”

“You’re so full of shit,” one onlooker said, “I’m surprised it don’t come out your ears.”

Sorenson smiled, then snapped his hand out of the bag, his fist closed. “Gentlemen, I give you our winner.”

He unfolded his hand and twisted the ball so the number was visible: 1.

“And who had number one?”

Arlen lifted his hand, and a few of the men grumbled.

“He come in here with you,” the one who’d shaken the bag said. “It’s a damn swindle you’re running.”

“Ah, but you’re wrong,” Sorenson said, unbothered. “I’ve not met this man till this evening, and he’ll tell you the same. But if that’s how you feel, then I suggest another round, only this time our current winner must sit out.”

There was no interest in further wagering.

“Hard to believe it here,” Sorenson told Arlen, “but there are places where this little game is treated with respect. I’ve known men who became millionaires off this little game.”

“Running it,” Arlen said, “not playing it. And thanks for cheating me into the profit.”

“Cheating?”

Arlen nodded at the glass of melting ice near Sorenson’s hand. “You left the ball up there long enough to hold the cold. Then you could pick it out of the rest. It’s a neat trick, but it may get your arm broken with the wrong crowd.”

Sorenson gave a low chuckle. “You’ve got a sharp eye, Mr. Wagner.”

Arlen lifted his hand and got Pearl’s attention, asked for two whiskeys. When she’d shuffled off again, he said, “So is this your business, Sorenson? A traveling entertainment, that’s what you are?”

“Oh, no. This little game is nothing more than a pastime.”

“So what is it that you do?”

Sorenson smiled as Pearl set their drinks on the bar. “You’re an inquisitive man. What I do has evolved a bit, but these days I’m an accounts manager.”

“Accounts manager?”

“That’s right, sir. I check in on clients all over the hellish backwoods of this forsaken Florida countryside. And once in a while, I get to the coast to do the same. I’ll assure you, the ladies are of a finer breed on the coast.” He nodded at Pearl’s enormous rear end. “Ample evidence, you might say.”

“Quick with a pun, Sorenson. Mighty quick.”

“Quick with so many things.”

He laughed at that, so Arlen laughed, too. Arlen’s whiskey glass was empty, and Pearl had disappeared, so he slipped his flask out and poured his own. The flask was nearing empty now itself. Sorenson watched him and gave a soft sigh.