Read Online Crooked Hearts by Patricia Gaffney - Free Book Online Page A

holding one arm across his middle. At the top of the stairs, he turned toward the bathroom, and she followed him in without hesitation.
    “What happened?” she asked again. “You look like a cable car ran over you!”
    He went directly to the sink and peered at himself in the mirror. “Unhhh,” he groaned, and she could only echo his dismay: blood trickled from any number of places, most alarmingly from a jagged gash at the side of his mouth; one eyebrow was divided in half, possibly by a flying ring finger; if his nose wasn’t broken, it had at least been grossly insulted.
    “Sit down,” Grace ordered, taking his arm in what she thought was a gentle clasp, but he winced and yelped, “Ow!” She jerked back, startled. “What’s wrong with you?”
    “Mph,” he said, closed the lid to the w.c, and carefully lowered himself until he was sitting on it. “They hung a shanty on me.”
    “Who did?”
    “The Croakers.”
    “No!” She thought of all five of them seated on the couch, like puppies in a humorous photograph. “I don’t believe it.”
    “Believe it.”
    “What happened?” She found a clean towel and began to run hot water into the sink basin.
    “Rough story, Grace. Not fit for delicate ears.”
    She muttered an indelicate word. “Why did they do it? What have they got against you?”
    “Ow!” he yelled again when she held the hot cloth to his eyebrow. “Ow! Damn it!”
    “Don’t be such a baby. Sit still, I have to clean it.” She followed his retreating head until it struck the pipe to the overhead water tank, preventing further escape. “Don’t give me any trouble, Jones, or I’ll use alcohol,” she warned darkly.
    “Alcohol!” His battered face brightened. “Gus, go into my sock drawer—top right, bureau—and bring me that pint of bourbon at the bottom.”
    Without a word, she dropped the towel in the sink and obeyed. In his bedroom, she unscrewed the top to the pint bottle and took a delicate swig. Well, she rationalized, smothering a cough, cleaning blood and gore from a man’s face was no picnic for her either.
    “Thanks,” he said when she handed him the bourbon. “Care for a nip?”
    “No, thank you,” she said virtuously, “I never touch hard liquor.”
    He toasted her and drank deeply. After that, things went a little more smoothly. Reuben grew more talkative in proportion to his acquaintance with the bottle; by the time she’d cleaned his wounds and applied sticking plaster to the worst of his cuts, she knew the whole story.
    It had all started about a month ago, when he’d gone to Stockton on “business,” and also to locate a good poker game. Business over, he got into a high-stakes showdown with five men, four of them brothers. He’d figured out after a couple of hands of stud that somebody was cheating, but he couldn’t pin down who; it wasn’t until they were hours into the game that he realized it was all five of them, taking turns. By then he was practically broke.
    On the last hand, he decided to bet Old Blue, a pet name for the faithful, but fake, silver mine for which he’d been carrying around phony stock certificates for years, betting or selling them as the need arose. They were allegedly worth about two thousand dollars. The Croakers beat him again—three aces and a pair of queens to four miserable treys. He handed over his stock certificates and got the hell out of town.
    So who did he run into at McDougal’s Card Palace on Kearny Street not two weeks later? All five of them. They’d lied about being Stockton boys for the same reason he had, so their deeds couldn’t follow them home. Not surprisingly, they were annoyed with him. Using his natural charm, however, he’d placated them and bought a two-week extension on his debt. It had come due this morning.
    Grace shuddered, remembering the leader’s gravel-voiced solicitousness. “And I thought he was nice. Now I just think he’s spooky.”
    “Yes, there is that about Lincoln,” Reuben