Nan Ryan (14 page)

“Miss Annabelle, you don’t have to say yes this minute,” he had told her. “Take a couple of days to consider it. Right, Nevada?”

“I need no time to think it over” had been Miss Annabelle’s quick response. She turned at once to Nevada, “Dear, if you’ll help me with the packing, we might be able to catch the four-o’clock steamer to New Orleans.”

“I’ll help, Miss Annabelle,” answered Nevada. “Just tell me what to do.” And the two women went eagerly to work, Miss Annabelle pointing out the few things she wanted to take.

At a quarter to four the trio stepped out into the afternoon sunshine, Johnny loaded down with Miss Annabelle’s valises, one of which contained, carefully wrapped in tissue paper, the prized porcelain vase Johnny had saved from ruin.

Earlier in the afternoon Johnny had gone alone up to the mansion to inform the Morgans that Miss Annabelle was resigning her position and leaving the estate. A sleepy, drunken, underwear-clad Carl Morgan had blinked and coughed and snorted and, finally, scratching his head, had snarled, “So that’s the thanks I get for taking her in and giving her a home. Well, to hell with her. I never did like her noway with her snooty stuck-up ways and all.” He picked up a half-full bottle of whiskey, took a long pull, and suddenly he was grinning, Miss Annabelle completely forgotten. He said, “Wanna join me in a little drink, son?”

The steamer’s whistle gave two loud blasts as it neared the private levee and Miss Annabelle, clutching the crown of her straw hat with a gloved hand as she preceded Nevada and Johnny down the sloping riverbanks, felt the blasts go right through her heart.

Pausing, she turned about to look wistfully up at the huge old mansion high on the bluffs, gleaming white in the broiling sunshine. She trembled, feeling strangely cold despite the heat of the June day. And was amazed by the depth of understanding displayed by one so young when Nevada took her cold hand, squeezed it tightly, and said, “I know how it feels, Miss Annabelle. It hurts your heart to leave your home.”

Miss Annabelle simply nodded and allowed Nevada to lead her on down to the landing. And as soon as they had boarded the
Orleans Belle
for the trip downriver, she began to feel good once more. She, Annabelle Darcy Delaney, was going abroad, something she had dreamed of doing all of her life. And she was going with two handsome young people who were gay and fun-loving and entertaining.

It would be, Miss Annabelle felt certain, a glorious trip with plenty of adventure and excitement. And she was right. When they reached New Orleans and debarked, Johnny said they would stay a while in the Crescent City until he could book passage for them on a New York-bound steamer. He took rooms at the elegant St. Louis Hotel, located right in the heart of the Vieux Carré, and when evening came they dined on steamed pompano and chilled champagne in the hotel’s grand dining hall.

It was nearing ten o’clock when the sumptuous meal was finished and Miss Annabelle, worn out from travel and excitement, expressed her desire to retire.

Smiling at her across the candlelit table, Johnny said, “We’ll see you up to your room. You rest well and tomorrow night we’ll go to the opera,
La TYaviata.
”

Nevada, not one bit tired or sleepy, was relieved to learn that Johnny had no intention of going to bed. Or of forcing her to go to bed. When Miss Annabelle was safely inside her room, Johnny, smiling and taking Nevada’s bare arm, guided her outside into the sultry southern night, hailed a taxi, and instructed the black driver to take them to Pradat’s.

The Canal Street gambling house was crowded with men of wealth and prominence who, Johnny told her, thought nothing of pouring a hundred thousand dollars a year across the green baize gaming tables. Johnny led Nevada through the closely pressing throng to a roulette table near the back of the opulent room.

“Have a seat, sweetheart,” he said, indicating a padded tall-backed chair of supple black velvet.

Nevada eagerly took the chair between two gray-haired distinguished-looking gentlemen and giggled happily when the croupier, a thin brown-haired man with expressionless gray eyes, placed a stack of bright red checks directly in front of her.

“Johnny?” She wasn’t quite sure what she was to do.

A brown hand on the back of her chair, Johnny leaned down and said near her right ear, “Nothing to it, Nevada. Just pick the number on the layout that you feel will come up on the wheel when he spins. Choose and place some chips on the number.”

“How many chips?”

“As many as you like.”

Nodding, Nevada looked at the thirty-six black and red numbers and the one green zero and quickly calculated that there was only one chance in thirty-seven of picking the correct number. If she placed a lot of chips on a number that did not come up, she would lose money for Johnny. On the other hand if she placed only one chip on a number and it came up, she would lose money for Johnny.

She wouldn’t lose.

How could she, when she was playing roulette—a game obviously named for Johnny. Looking up over her shoulder at him, she asked him, “How old are you?”

“Twenty-eight,” he said. And added evenly, “The wheel’s turning, Nevada. Place a bet before it stops.”

Confidently Nevada shoved every red chip before her onto the number twenty-eight, sat back, and smiled at the two graying gentlemen’gamblers who turned to stare at her. Johnny, admiring her true gambling spirit, threw back his dark head and laughed.

The little white ball flew around the varnished wheel so rapidly Nevada couldn’t keep up with it. She held her breath as the wheel began to slow and clapped her hands excitedly when the white ball finally clattered into the stop on number twenty-eight.

“Johnny, I won, I won!” she shouted.

“You sure did, darlin’,” said the tall, laughing man standing possessively behind her. “Now show me you’re really a gambler after my own heart.”

“How?”

“Let it all ride.”

She snapped her head around to look at him. “Damnation, that’s a lot of money!” She wasn’t sure how much, but there was an abundance of shiny red chips.

“Exactly nine hundred dollars,” said Johnny calmly. “Let it ride.”

She did and she won.

The lucky, laughing girl began to draw stern looks from the club’s manager, who was nervously pacing nearby, his worried glance returning again and again to the stack of red chips growing taller and taller before her. Finally Johnny put his hand on Nevada’s bare shoulder, squeezed gently, and said, “It’s time to cash in.” He tossed some checks to the dealers.

Thousands ahead, they left Pradat’s.

“Are we done?” Nevada’s eyes glittered with exhilaration as they stood outside on the banquette.

“Not on your life, my little Lady Luck,” assured Johnny, and impulsively hugged her close. He hailed a cab and took her on a breathless round of all the fancy gaming halls. Elkin’s and Charton’s on Canal Street. Hawlett’s and Toussaint’s and St. Cyr’s on Chartres Street.

And finally to McGrath’s on Carondelet Street, a gambling palace where the richness of appointment and elegance and variety of services outshone all the others. A sumptuous buffet supper served free each evening to the well-heeled patrons was the talk of the town. Upon seeing the mounds of Russian caviar and Gulf shrimp and crawfish gumbo, Nevada told Johnny she was starving. Johnny gallantly fixed her a plate and took her into a small intimate alcove, but he could hardly wait for her to finish so he could get her back to the tables.

It was almost three in the morning when the pair stepped out of McGrath’s. In the carriage on the way back to the St. Louis Hotel, Johnny was in a magnanimous mood, so he didn’t object when Nevada sleepily leaned her head against his shoulder.

Instead he smiled, lifted his arm, brought it around her and gripped her shoulder with his big hand. Nevada sighed and gratefully laid her cheek on his chest. His slow, steady heartbeat beneath her ear, the touch of his warm hand on her bare shoulder, his clean, unique scent made her gloriously happy.

Johnny Roulette, his firm chin resting lightly atop Nevada’s dark head, was happy too. Happy because his tired little good-luck charm had won him more than thirty-three thousand dollars at the tables. Delightfully content yet still aglow from the thrill of gambling, Johnny felt as he often felt after a long, profitable interlude of winning. Calm yet strangely tense. Amorous. Warm. In the mood for love-making.

Nevada stirred, instinctively cuddling closer, pressing her soft breasts against his chest, gripping his ribs with her hand. Johnny felt his blood begin to heat It had nothing to do with Nevada Hamilton—she just happened to be the warm sweet female draped across him.

At the St. Louis, Johnny hurried Nevada upstairs and to the door of her suite. “You were wonderful, sweetheart,” he said, anxious to be gone. “Good night.” He started to walk away.

She caught his arm. “I won you lots of money, didn’t I?”

“You sure did.”

“Then I deserve a good night kiss.”

In a hurry, in no mood to argue, Johnny took Nevada’s face in his hand and bent to brush his lips hurriedly against hers. But when his mouth met hers Nevada threw her arms around his neck and kissed him with all the love and passion she felt for him, her warm lips opening beneath his, her tongue seeking his.

His response was instinctive and immediate. Groaning, Johnny deepened the kiss, his lips opening wide, his tongue sliding deep into her mouth. His hands clasped her narrow rib cage to lift and press her closer to his hard body as he gave himself up to the hot sweetness of her kiss.

When at last Johnny tore his burning lips from Nevada’s, they were both breathless, trembling, and Johnny fleetingly considered taking her into his darkened hotel room, stripping the pink silk dress from her tempting curves, and feasting on them just as he had feasted on her lips.

Nevada sensed the war going on inside him and prayed his passionate side would win. Anxiously she pressed an open-lipped kiss to his brown throat just above his stiff white collar and said, “Yes, Johnny. Yes.”

“No!” He firmly set her back. “No! Goddammit, no!”

He released her shoulders, turned, and stalked off down the carpeted corridor, down the stairs, and out into the sweltering humid night.

Sighing, Nevada went inside, quietly undressed in the room she shared with Miss Annabelle, and lay awake for a long time, burning for the big dark man whose lips she could still feel on hers.

Johnny, burning too, headed straight for the most expensive, luxurious brothel in all New Orleans. He climbed the steps of the lighted brick mansion and, within minutes, was upstairs in a spacious bedroom with a gorgeous red-haired young woman in a black satin evening dress. She called herself Belinda. She called him her dark lover. And when she kissed him with wet red lips, Belinda let her hand slide between their pressing bodies to expertly unbutton his tight black trousers and slip her hand inside to examine his impressive erection.

“Oooooh, my dark lover!” she exclaimed. “Is that really for me?”

“Who else?” said Johnny Roulette.

14

The sound of music, the clatter of chips. Each evening, every night. Opulent gaming halls with scarlet moiré walls and marble floors and gold-framed mirrors. Gentlemen in dark evening clothes and lushly gowned ladies in diamonds and pearls.

The world of Johnny Roulette.

A gambler’s glamorous life. Thousands bet on the turn of a card, a toss of the dice, a spin of the wheel. Unreadable faces, cool exteriors, negligent postures. Heartbeats quickening, throats tightening, breaths cut short.

Fortune. Chance. Destiny. Fate. Break. Godsend. Windfall. Fluke
. Words often on the lips of every gambler, from the nervous young novice shooting craps in an alley to the imperturbable seasoned veteran playing cards in a lavish club.

Whether in an darkened alley or chandeliered hall, the thrill of gambling was much the same. A kind of exquisite torture, a feeling of being vitally alive, of standing on the threshold of untold riches. At the same time, the sense of being in peril, of purposely courting danger and destruction. Only a true gambler could appreciate the anguish and the ecstasy.

Johnny Roulette was one of those. He made his living by gambling, but it meant much, much more than simple livelihood. At the gaining tables he had found his place. His calling. His home. While some gamblers suffered from bouts of guilt and despair and vowed they would give up the cards, the dice, the horses, Johnny was perfectly satisfied with his chosen lot. He was, he would tell anyone who asked, a gambler. It’s what he did, who he was, how he planned to spend the rest of his days. He had no one to account to but himself, and anyone who did not approve of his profession would do well to stay away from him.

And it was gambling that took him to London each season. A highest-stakes game that attracted sports from around the world. The winner-take-all game was played each autumn within a stone’s throw of the Queen’s palace. Johnny, like so many of the other players, liked to arrive several weeks early so that by the day of the big game he was well rested from the ocean crossing and adjusted to Britain’s damp, drizzly climate.