Now Emmett had his sister’s undivided attention. “Next time you see me, I’ll be drivin’ a brand-new car with a fistful of cash in my pocket.”
Before Carmen could pick her jaw up out of the dirt and respond, Emmett had stridden away, his back as straight as a carpenter’s edge. He later said it was not just the backbreaking fieldwork but also the Methodist upbringing that finally got to him. “If we’d been Baptists, I’da left two years sooner.”
Emmett had seen how hard his father worked to support his family and how hard the family worked in return, and he decided at a fairly young age that while the benefits of “honest labor” were many, he wasn’t averse to searching out a few shortcuts on the road to prosperity.
And that road, on that day, left Pottsboro and turned due south through Grayson County, leading to his cousin Decimer Green’s place. Decimer Green had a reputation in Grayson and several other counties as either a card shark or a card cheat, depending on how much the person had lost and how amenable they were to losing at cards to a woman.
The fact was that Decimer was such a good poker player that she didn’t have to cheat, although the general rule with cards is that the better you play, the more you understand how to win—both legitimately and illegitimately.
If you want to know how to get away with murder, just ask a homicide detective.
So, Cousin Decimer took Emmett under her wing and taught him everything she knew about stud poker, draw poker, blind poker, and every other kind of poker, none of which she considered “gambling,” which was lesson number one.
“Emmett,” she said, “always remember: there’s no such thing as gambling. There’s only winning.”
Well, maybe Cousin Decimer did occasionally mark a deck or two.
Emmett never forgot those words or their meaning, and for the rest of his life, he dedicated his efforts to winning as much as he possibly could, one way or another. No one he played cards with went very long before hearing him repeat Decimer’s words, usually after losing another hand to him.
Emmett took to cards like a duck to water, and after only a couple of months, he rivaled his mentor in ability, so she sent him packing with an entire case of brand-new decks.
“There’s only room for one of us in Grayson County,” she told him, only half joking, but Emmett didn’t mind.
He had plans for fistfuls of cash and brand-new cars, and he suspected those things would come a lot more quickly elsewhere than in tiny Grayson County, although later in life he’d learn there was always money to be found, no matter where you traveled.
Now he had the wherewithal; it was just a matter of where.
Emmett hit the road, hopping trains and hitching rides, taking odd jobs when he had to and making his way west, just as Horace Greeley had advised that young fella some fifty years before. He was bigger than most fourteen-year-olds but not yet the imposing figure he would later become, with a shock of thick black hair and a strong, pleasant way about him.
By the time he made Benson, Arizona, he was itching to make some real money, so Emmett checked into the nicest hotel in town, which was also the only hotel in town, Benson being little more than a rail junction between Tombstone and Tucson. But he’d seen a vast herd of cattle a few miles outside town, and Emmett was sharp enough to know that where there were cattle, there was money. He might have quit school after the third grade, but he would eventually earn a PhD in life, and that more than made up for what he’d missed in the classroom.
Emmett buddied up to the desk clerk as soon as he settled in.
“S’cuse me, sir. Can you tell me about this hotel?”
The clerk looked him up and down. Emmett seemed a little young to be on his own in a place like Benson, but he shrugged it off. “What do you wanna know?”
“You offer any extra . . . amenities?” Emmett asked innocently.
“‘Amenities’?”
“You know. Food, games . . . maybe a little gambling.”
The clerk gave him a sly smile. The kid was young, but he knew what he wanted. He leaned across the counter. “Got a game in back. Straight poker.”
Emmett smiled. “Who plays?”
The clerk was more impressed with each question Emmett asked. “Local ranchers.”
Emmett nodded. He didn’t say anything for a moment, waiting for the desk clerk to offer him a spot at the table, but the older man was sharp, too. He knew better than to offer up a favor for free before it was even asked.
“Think you could get me into that game?” Emmett asked.
“I reckon I could.” Unspoken was, If you make it worth my while.
Emmett took out a couple of bills, nearly the balance of his stash from his last job building a fence for a farmer outside Douglas. But if the game was all local ranchers, he had a feeling there would be plenty of money to replace his “entry fee.”
He slid the money across the counter, and it vanished in a practiced motion so quickly Emmett figured the clerk could moonlight as a magician.
Which was a very good sign.
If the clerk was used to being bribed for a seat at the table, that meant the table was worth spending money on. On the other hand, Emmett himself could be the mark. As the saying goes among card players, “If you look around the table and don’t see the sucker, that means the sucker’s you.”
He’d soon find out.
“Tell me about these ranchers,” he said.
After the clerk gave him a rundown on the various personalities who would be playing that night, Emmett went back up to his room and returned with several of his “special” decks. “When I run my fingers through my hair like this,” he said, demonstrating for the clerk, “bring in these.”
The clerk chuckled. This kid is something else. But he remained noncommittal, so Emmett slid another bill across the counter, his last, and it disappeared as quickly as the other two had. The clerk smiled. “You got it.”
Emmett made sure to walk in a minute or two past seven o’clock that evening, not wanting to seem too eager and knowing the players would probably engage in a little small talk before they sat down.
Sure enough, the players were all standing around the table chatting and smoking cigars when Emmett walked in the door, immediately quieting the room. Emmett knew the moment was very important, since you never get a second chance to make a first impression.
He smiled amiably at what appeared to be a very prosperous assemblage of farmers and ranchers who had no idea the young kid who had just walked in was about to pick their pockets. “Hey there, fellers,” he said. “Sorry I’m late.”
One of the men laughed. “Where you from, son?”
“Emmett Long from Pottsboro, Texas,” Emmett answered and stuck out his hand.
The big man shook it and laughed. “We’re just gettin’ started,” he said, and everyone relaxed. “Grab a chair, boys. Emmett Long from Pottsboro, Texas, has arrived.”
The big man settled in and started shuffling the cards. “Name’s John Mackey,” he said. “Game’s straight poker.” He suddenly stopped what he was doing and looked across the table at Emmett, staring intently. The entire room was silent for a very long moment. “Straight poker all right with you?”
Emmett grinned. “Looks like it’s my lucky night, fellers,” he blurted. “That’s all I know how to play!” The entire room burst into laughter.
“Oh, we’re gonna get along just fine, Emmett Long from Pottsboro, Texas!”
And for the first