The Hellfire Club(83)

“Easy with those, soldier.” Street appeared at his side. “You don’t want your poker judgment impaired.”

Strongfellow turned on his radio, and Perry Como’s voice came over the airwaves: A jury may find her guilty, but I’d forgive her if I could see…Two dozen veterans broke into small groups, and the room filled with the sounds of decanters clinking against the rims of tumblers and the fizzing of flat-and cone-top beer cans being cracked open.

Charlie sat with Street, and Strongfellow joined them and began dealing a traditional game of straight five-card poker.

“Weird not having Mac here,” Charlie noted.

“Yep,” said Street.

“Well, this is turning into a fun night,” remarked Strongfellow. The other two chuckled. “As long as we’re being all serious-like, I had the weirdest run-in last week with Abner Lance.”

“Who?” asked Street.

“The Carlin aide,” Charlie said.

“That freaky Nosferatu-looking guy?” asked Street. “Where? Two cards.”

Strongfellow replaced Street’s castoffs. “So there’s a small town in my district, Skull Valley. Five years ago, a pesticide plant opened up there and everything was fine. But maybe six months ago, thousands of sheep started dying. No reason anyone could see; ranchers just walked outside and found the entire herd was hooves-up.”

“Jesus,” said Charlie.

“One of my staffers wrote to the interior secretary, McKay, to try to get some money for the ranchers and make sure it was safe for, you know, actual people to live nearby.”

“How many sheep total?” Street asked.

“Six thousand,” Strongfellow said. “Literally six thousand dead sheep. We got a form letter back from Interior assuring us that we had no business inquiring any further. Saturday night I was in Georgetown at a restaurant, waiting for a table, and Abner Lance shows up out of nowhere and tells me to drop the matter.”

“To drop it?” Charlie asked.

“Yep.”

“That’s madness,” said Charlie.

“Think about what they’re manufacturing,” said Street, “a spray to kill millions of insects. A weapon. To commit genocide against a species. So sheep dying is not surprising. My wife’s family in Louisiana had to deal with something similar with local chemical plants. And we had dead people there, not sheep. But just colored folks, so who cares.”

They sat silent until Charlie, to clear the air, took drink orders and headed for the bar cart, listening to the room’s buzz about the tensions of the world:



All I’m saying is, if Eisenhower looks at Indochina and sees a row of dominoes, then what the hell is the USSR? A Mr. Potato Head? The metaphor is infantile.

Oppenheimer could well be a Commie spy, but he built the bomb for us, so he might also be a pretty bad one.

Before McCarthy loved MacArthur, he was smearing him. Before he endorsed Ike, he was smearing him.

I’d give my left nut to have Palmer’s swing. He’s going to kill when he goes pro.

If you’re going to bad-mouth Hank Aaron, keep it down so you-know-who can’t hear.

But it wasn’t McCarthy who revoked Oppenheimer’s clearance! It was Ike! That’s my point!

You really think the Democrats can take the House back? You’re drunk; we’re going to be in power for a generation.



Charlie returned to the table to find LaMontagne in a fierce poker face-off with Street, Strongfellow having folded early. Street had learned the game Texas hold ’em from a fellow Tuskegee pilot from Dallas; he had made a second living playing cards during the war.

“Trying to think of what you might have there to make you confident about this garbage flop,” LaMontagne said, motioning generally to the three faceup cards in the middle of the table.

Street, expressionless, looked at LaMontagne. He didn’t blink.

LaMontagne smiled ear to ear. After a beat, he reached into his back pocket, withdrew his wallet, and removed a ten-dollar bill.

“Okay, Street,” he said.

Street matched the ten dollars in the pot, then drew the fourth card in the string of shared cards, the turn card. Two of clubs.

“Trash,” said LaMontagne. “As shitty as the Warren Court.”

Street’s eyes darted to LaMontagne’s at the mention of the Supreme Court chief justice who was expected to end segregation in public education any day now.

“Oh, that’s how to get your attention!” said LaMontagne. “Noted.” He reached into his billfold again. “You might not make much of that two of clubs, but I’m a man who gets good cards. You can ask anyone in this town.” He threw down another ten.

Charlie wondered what Street had as his hole cards. It wasn’t unimaginable that LaMontagne had, say, two queens or the king and ace of diamonds and would be gifted with a jack of diamonds when the final, or river, card was revealed—leaving him with a winning straight flush. If LaMontagne was dealing, Charlie would indeed bet on that happening, and if he’d managed to get his greasy paws on the deck before Street began shuffling, who knew if LaMontagne literally had an ace up his sleeve?

Expressionless, Street met LaMontagne’s ten with ten one-dollar bills that he pulled from a roll in his inside jacket pocket.

Street tossed the river card from the top of the deck. It was the king of diamonds.