Red, black and gold. Eighth notes on the piano, chord changes accentuated by the rhythmic pulse of overly synthesized bass lines. My shoes, freshly polished alligator skin, looked tarnished against the impeccably clean marble floors as I marched through a sea of designer clothing pulsating to the beat of the music. Calls, holds, folds, reds, blacks, runs, and the cursing of a man who shouldn’t have gone all in. Black marble columns rose twenty feet into the air, adorned with golden ivy helixes rising towards ceilings plastered with faux Italian paintings framed by more golden flora.
I brought my eyes back to the floor, looking over the sea of high limit tables and the wealthiest gamblers the strip could attract. No slot machines. No AR assisted tables. Everything was done in meat space, even drink orders. Clay chips exchanged for real, hard red backs. Signal jammers drowned out any coherent wireless signals. Walking into The Golden Gilt was like stepping into a completely different time. It was an interesting enough place, but not one I would have gone to, given the choice.
A tall, leggy blonde in a sequenced flapper walked by with a trey supporting a rainbow of colored champagnes. I took an amber one and brought it to my lips. I tasted honey on the tip of my tongue and vanilla on the back as I took my first sip of the chemical infused elixir. My heart kicked up a few notches, and then I really saw the floor. The bright dresses took on a glow of their own, the faux paintings came alive, and I could almost swear I saw golden leaves falling from the ceiling. I don’t make much time for drinks, but it was one of the best I’ve had the pleasure of indulging in. It might have been a problem if my employer hadn’t demanded to have my tox filters manually set before the job. After a few minutes later, my heart settled down and the room returned to its original luster. Which wasn’t quite as impressive as before. Which was all right. I wasn’t being paid to drain my creditor’s bank accounts on chempagne and table games.
The identification my employer provided was the best I’d seen in all of the New Republic’s states and territories. Maybe even imported from Kuala Lumpur. Word is they have the best forgers in the world. Whatever the case, it was a nice change from the usual B&E work. Sort of.
“Turn off your Verse,” Moth said behind the haze of his third Cuban of the night. By now, even his buzz cut looked messy, complimented by off-balanced, thick-rimmed glasses and unbuttoned polo. He furrowed his bushy grey brows and pursed his lips in an even more disapproving look than he usually wore. Moth was one of the best and oldest card sharks in Vegas. But he must have been off his game. My verse had been off before the lesson even started.
“It’s been off,” I said.
Moth took off his glasses and stared intently for a moment. “I know you turned the device off. But it’s still on.”
I didn’t know if he had a few too many at this point but pissing him off wasn’t really going to go over well whatever the case. I kept my mouth shut and waited for him to continue.
“You’re playing a verse game. You fold when a verse player would, you check raise when a verse player would, hell you take a piss like your damn verse is still telling you when to do that,” Moth settled back into his chair and shrugged. “I can’t teach you if you already know how to play. Problem is, you actually don’t. Not really. I can see right through it, and so will they.”
He wasn’t wrong. It had been the worst game I’d ever played. Or seen. “So, what’s next then?” I asked.
“We get piss drunk and start again tomorrow,” he said, pushing the pot to the side with a careless sweep of his arm. “And no more of that weak sauce,” he said as he slammed a new glass in front of me and filled it to the top with scotch. Over the next two weeks Moth trained me in the fine art of playing actual poker.
I made my way over the high limit black jack tables and looked for my first mark. Gregory Chisum would be greasing the wheels before the private game at the Pullman Car, and I needed to ingratiate myself if I was going to get an invite. My employer got a tip that there would be an open spot and that Chisum would be the most likely way to take advantage of that spot. I needed to get into that game if I was going to get close enough to Carlos Huntington, the railroad commissioner. Word had it, he was negotiating a deal between a new coal supplier and the New Republic – and it was supposed to be big. There were plenty of people who would want information on the deal – suppliers, transport companies, energy companies, politicians. I didn’t know who was asking, but it didn’t matter. I did what I was told. I got paid. That’s more than most people can say, and it’s more than enough for me.
After a few seconds, I spotted the cattleman’s pink suede ten-gallon hat and made my way over to the table. Thankfully, there was a spot open. I sat down between a young man in a zoot suit and a brunette in a flapper failing to hide her age. A few hands in, I won with a five card Charlie and bought everyone a round of Sam Houston’s whiskey. I’d heard it was Chisum’s favorite.
“Shoot, boys got balls and good taste,” Chisum said with a laugh.
“And good company,” I added, looking in Chisum’s direction, before downing the whiskey in one go and losing the next hand.
After several more hands, I looked over at Chisum again, raised an eyebrow and asked, “So, partner. What’s the story with the hat? Braid looks genuine.”
He took a moment to respond. Probably trying to wager if I was serious or sarcastic. “The braid is from my first head of cattle. And I like pink.”
“A cattleman?” I feigned surprise. “You don’t say – my great uncle used to be a cattleman before the Dustin’.”
“Well I’ll be!” Chisum replied. “Where did he raise ‘em?”
“Wyoming, somewhere,” I lied. “I don’t exactly know where, but he would talk about how he missed it when I was a boy. He always told this joke, maybe you’ve heard it… let me see if I can remember it…” I waited about as long as I could before pretending to give up. “I don’t know if I can remember it well enough to tell it. Anyways, I’m sure you would have heard it a hundred times.”
He leaned forward, tapping on the felt of the table with his pointer and index finger. “Now, I’m sure you can remember. Cattelman are a rare breed these days – if I’ve heard it before, you’ll never know.”
“All right, all right – let me think,” I stared off into the smoke filled, golden gilded distance for a few seconds before responding. “Okay, I got it. You know Roy Rogers?”
“Know him, I’ve got the archive collection on my verse at all times!”
“All right, good… Well when he got his ranch in California, did you know there was actually quite a big fuss with protestors? Lot of folks asked that the sale be annulled and didn’t want Roy moving there.”
“No, no I didn’t… Why?”
“Well, apparently the animal rights nuts in California heard old Roy was a cowpuncher.”
After about as second and a half, Chisum let out a big laugh – and kept laughing. Teary eyes, table slapping the whole bit. “I’ll be, them folks been a pain in my side for years too! Now that’s a good one. Whoo boy! Well, it’s been fun, but I’m afraid losing all this money has worked up quite an appetite. Care to join me, friend?”
“Sure thing,” I replied. I was in. One step closer.
“Oh, and what should I call ya, friend?”
“Gray’s the name. Partner,” I said with a wink.
Dinner was real stakes and ranch talk. At least for Chisum. He seemed to enjoy the conversations the less I talked, which suited me just fine. After we ate, he invited me to a poker game with some friends later in the evening. He handed me a golden ticket about three inches long. A small logo of a train and the word PULLMAN – DISTINGUISHED GUEST was etched into the polished surface of one side, complete with rail tracks. Of course, Chisum didn’t tell me where the Pullman car would be – I supposed one last test to filter out potential riffraff.
The doors were set to close in two hours. I found them in twenty minutes. I’m good at what I do, after all. I stood before a man dressed in an old-time conductor’s outfit, deep red with black and gold trim. He wore a warm smile underneath a thick, pepper grey mustache as he extended a black gloved hand towards me. I handed him the ticket, which he studied for a moment before lifting it to his mouth and giving it a bite. “Genuine,” he said, winking. He placed the ticket into the folds of his uniform and removed the entry rope from in front of the doors. “You’re good to go, sir.”
I walked past the old conductor to the two red wooden entry doors. Each door had a circular window in it, bordered with bronze. I took hold of one of the simple bronze handles, pulled open the door, and walked further back in time.