Chapter 6-1
2010 Words
Chapter 6
The management of the Golden Palace had been in business for
many long, dreary, profitable years, and each member of the staff
thought he or she had seen just about everything there was to be
seen. And those that were new felt an obligation to look
as if they'd seen everything.
Therefore, when the entourage of Queen Elizabeth I strolled into
the main salon, not a single eye was batted. Not a single gasp was
heard.
Nevertheless, the staff kept a discreet eye on the crew. Drunks,
rich men or Arabian millionaires were all familiar. But a group out
of the Sixteenth Century was something else again.
Malone almost strutted, conscious of the sidelong glances the
group was drawing. But it was obvious that Sir Thomas was the major
attraction. Even if you could accept the idea of people in strange
costumes, the sight of a living, breathing absolute duplicate of
King Henry VIII was a little too much to take. It has been reported
that two ladies named Jane, and one named Catherine, came down with
sudden headaches and left the salon within five minutes of the
group's arrival.
Malone felt he knew, however, why he wasn't drawing his full
share of attention. He felt a little out of place.
The costume was one thing, and, to tell the truth, he was
beginning to enjoy it. Even with the weight of the stuff, it was
going to be a wrench to go back to single-breasted suits and plain
white shirts. But he did feel that he should have been carrying a
sword.
Instead, he had a .44 Magnum Colt snuggled beneath his left
armpit.
Somehow, a .44 Magnum Colt didn't seem as romantic as a sword.
Malone pictured himself saying: "Take that, varlet." Was varlet
what you called them, he wondered. Maybe it was valet.
"Take that, valet," he muttered. No, that sounded even worse.
Oh, well, he could look it up later.
The truth was that he had been born in the wrong century. He
could imagine himself at the Mermaid Tavern, hob-nobbing with
Shakespeare and all the rest of them. He wondered if Richard Greene
would be there. Then he wondered who Richard Greene was.
Behind Sir Kenneth, Sir Thomas Boyd strode, looking majestic, as
if he were about to fling purses of gold to the citizenry. As a
matter of fact, Malone thought, he was. They all were.
Purses of good old United States of America gold.
Behind Sir Thomas came Queen Elizabeth and her Lady-in-Waiting,
Lady Barbara Wilson. They made a beautiful foursome.
"The roulette table," Her Majesty said with dignity. "Precede
me."
They pushed their way through the crowd. Most of the customers
were either excited enough, drunk enough, or both to see nothing in
the least incongruous about a Royal Family of the Tudors invading
the Golden Palace. Very few of them, as a matter of fact, seemed to
notice the group.
They were roulette players. They noticed nothing but the table
and the wheel. Malone wondered what they were thinking about,
decided to ask Queen Elizabeth, and then decided against it. He
felt it would make him nervous to know.
Her Majesty took a handful of chips.
The handful was worth, Malone knew, exactly five thousand
dollars. That, he'd thought, ought to last them an evening, even in
the Golden Palace. In the center of the strip, inside the city
limits of Las Vegas itself, the five thousand would have lasted
much longer—but Her Majesty wanted the Palace, and the Palace it
was.
Malone began to smile. Since he couldn't avoid the evening, he
was determined to enjoy it. It was sort of fun, in its way,
indulging a sweet harmless old lady. And there was nothing they
could do until the next morning, anyhow.
His indulgent smile faded very suddenly.
Her Majesty plunked the entire handful of chips—five
thousand dollars! Malone thought dazedly—onto the table. "Five
thousand," she said in clear, cool measured tones, "on number
one."
The croupier blinked only slightly. He bowed. "Yes, Your
Majesty," he said.
Malone was briefly thankful, in the midst of his black horror,
that he had called the management and told them that the Queen's
plays were backed by the United States Government. Her Majesty was
going to get unlimited credit—and a good deal of awed and somewhat
puzzled respect.
Malone watched the spin begin with mixed feelings. There was
five thousand dollars riding on the little ball. But, after all,
Her Majesty was a telepath. Did that mean anything?
He hadn't decided by the time the wheel stopped, and by then he
didn't have to decide.
"Thirty-four," the croupier said tonelessly. "Red, Even and
High."
He raked in the chips with a nonchalant air.
Malone felt as if he had swallowed his stomach. Boyd and Lady
Barbara, standing nearby, had absolutely no expressions on their
faces. Malone needed no telepath to tell him what they were
thinking.
They were exactly the same as he was. They were incapable of
thought.
But Her Majesty never batted an eyelash. "Come, Sir Kenneth,"
she said. "Let's go on to the poker tables."
She swept out. Her entourage followed her, shambling a little,
and blank-eyed. Malone was still thinking about the five thousand
dollars. Oh, well, Burris had said to give the lady anything she
wanted. But my God! he thought. Did she have to play
for royal stakes?
"I am, after all, a Queen," she whispered back to him.
Malone thought about the National Debt. He wondered if a million
more or less would make any real difference. There would be
questions asked in committees about it. He tried to imagine himself
explaining the evening to a group of Congressmen. "Well, you see,
gentlemen, there was this roulette wheel—"
He gave it up.
Then he wondered how much hotter the water was going to get, and
he stopped thinking altogether in self-defense.
In the next room, there were scattered tables. At one, a poker
game was in full swing. Only five were playing; one, by his
white-tie-and- tails uniform, was easily recognizable as a house
dealer. The other four were all men, one of them in full cowboy
regalia. The Tudors descended upon them with great suddenness, and
the house dealer looked up and almost lost his cigarette.
"We haven't any money, Your Majesty," Malone whispered.
She smiled up at him sweetly, and then drew him aside. "If you
were a telepath," she said, "how would you play
poker?"
Malone thought about that for a minute, and then turned to look
for Boyd. But Sir Thomas didn't even have to be given instructions.
"Another five hundred?" he said.
Her Majesty sniffed audibly. "Another five thousand," she said
regally.
Boyd looked Malonewards. Malone looked defeated.
Boyd turned with a small sigh and headed for the cashier's
booth. Three minutes later, he was back with a fat fistful of
chips.
"Five grand?" Malone whispered to him.
"Ten," Boyd said. "I know when to back a winner."
Her Majesty went over to the table. The dealer had regained
control, but looked up at them with a puzzled stare.
"You know," the Queen said, with an obvious attempt to put the
man at his ease, "I've always wanted to visit a gambling hall."
"Sure, lady," the dealer said. "Naturally."
"May I sit down?"
The dealer looked at the group. "How about your friends?" he
said cautiously.
The queen shook her head. "They would rather watch, I'm
sure."
For once Malone blessed the woman's telepathic talent. He, Boyd
and Barbara Wilson formed a kind of Guard of Honor around the chair
which Her Majesty occupied. Boyd handed over the new pile of chips,
and was favored with a royal smile.
"This is a poker game, ma'am," the dealer said to her
quietly.
"I know, I know," Her Majesty said with a trace of testiness.
"Roll 'em."
The dealer stared at her popeyed. Next to her, the gentleman in
the cowboy outfit turned. "Ma'am, are you from around these parts?"
he said.
"Oh, no," the Queen said. "I'm from England."
"England?" The cowboy looked puzzled. "You don't seem to have
any accent, ma'am," he said at last.
"Certainly not," the Queen said. "I've lost that; I've been over
here a great many years."
Malone hoped fervently that Her Majesty wouldn't mention just
how many years. He didn't think he could stand it, and he was
almost grateful for the cowboy's nasal twang.
"Oil?" he said.
"Oh, no," Her Majesty said. "The Government is providing this
money."
"The Government?"
"Certainly," Her Majesty said. "The FBI, you know."
There was a long silence.
At last, the dealer said: "Five-card draw your game, ma'am?"
"If you please," Her Majesty said.
The dealer shrugged and, apparently, commended his soul to a
gambler's God. He passed the pasteboards around the table with the
air of one who will have nothing more to do with the world.
Her Majesty picked up her hand.
"The ante's ten, ma'am," the dealer said softly.
Without looking, Her Majesty removed a ten-dollar chip from the
pile before her and sent it spinning to the middle of the
table.
The dealer opened his mouth, but said nothing. Malone,
meanwhile, was peering over the Queen's shoulder.
She held a pair of nines, a four, a three and a Jack.
The man to the left of the dealer announced glumly: "Can't
open."
The next man grinned. "Open for twenty," he said.
Malone closed his eyes. He heard the cowboy say: "I'm in," and
he opened his eyes again. The Queen was pushing two ten-dollar
chips toward the center of the table.
The next man dropped, and the dealer looked round the table.
"How many?"
The man who couldn't open took three cards. The man who'd opened
for twenty stood pat. Malone shuddered invisibly. That, he figured,
meant a straight or better. And Queen Elizabeth Thompson was going
in against at least a straight with a pair of nines, Jack high.
For the first time, it was borne in on Malone that being a
telepath did not necessarily mean that you were a good poker
player. Even if you knew what every other person at the table held,
you could still make a whole lot of stupid mistakes.
He looked nervously at Queen Elizabeth, but her face was serene.
Apparently she'd been following the thoughts of the poker players,
and not concentrating on him at all. That was a relief. He felt,
for the first time in days, as if he could think freely.
The cowboy said: "Two," and took them. It was Her Majesty's
turn.
"I'll take two," she said, and threw away the three and four. It
left her with the nine of spades and the nine of hearts, and the
Jack of diamonds.
These were joined, in a matter of seconds, by two bright new
cards: the six of clubs and the three of hearts.
Malone closed his eyes. Oh, well, he thought.
It was only thirty bucks down the drain. Practically
nothing.
Of course Her Majesty dropped at once; knowing what the other
players held, she knew she couldn't beat them after the draw. But
she did like to take long chances, Malone thought miserably.
Imagine trying to fill a full house on one pair!
Slowly, as the minutes passed, the pile of chips before Her
Majesty dwindled. Once Malone saw her win with two pair against a
reckless man trying to fill a straight on the other side of the
table. But whatever was going on, Her Majesty's face was as calm as
if she were asleep.
Malone's worked overtime. If the Queen hadn't been losing so
obviously, the dealer might have mistaken the play of n***d emotion
across his visage for a series of particularly obvious signals.
An hour went by. Barbara left to find a ladies' lounge where she
could sit down and try to relax. Fascinated in a horrible sort of
way, both Malone and Boyd stood, rooted to the spot, while hand
after hand went by and the ten thousand dollars dwindled to half
that, to a quarter, and even less… .
Her Majesty, it seemed, was a damn poor poker player.
The ante had been raised by this time.
Her Majesty was losing one hundred dollars a hand, even before
the betting began. But she showed not the slightest indication to
stop.
"We've got to get up in the morning," Malone announced to no one
in particular, when he thought he couldn't possibly stand another
half- hour of the game.
- Writer
