House of Thieves

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Authors: Charles Belfoure
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girl of Mary’s set had one who followed her like a shadow.
    â€œHello, Miss Morse.”
    The lack of enthusiasm in George’s voice brought a look of disappointment to Mary’s face. She had hovered about him at his graduation party like a fly around horse manure—to his annoyance.
    â€œIt’s so nice to see you here,” she said brightly. “We’re stopping for a few days before traveling to Newport. This afternoon, we’re going on a walk in the Catskills to visit the waterfall. It’s most beautiful. I do hope you might join us. Mrs. Rampling, my mother’s great-aunt, will be with me.”
    Mrs. Rampling gave George the iciest of smiles. There would be no monkey business on her watch.
    â€œI’m sorry, Miss Morse, but I’ve made other plans,” George said. “Maybe later this week, if you’re still here, I could call on you.”
    â€œOh yes! We’re in room—”
    â€œHoly shit, I had a helluva time fightin’ my fuckin’ way up there to get the goddamn key. Oh, hello there,” said Flannigan, trotting up to them.
    â€œMiss Morse, this is Mr. Flannigan…a friend of mine,” George managed.
    â€œDamn glad to meet ya,” Flannigan said, thrusting his broad red hand toward Mary. She shook it gingerly, as if it were dipped in blood. “And who’s this other gorgeous dove?”
    â€œMrs. Rampling,” snapped the chaperone, stepping back. Clearly she had no intention of touching Flannigan.
    â€œHey, what do you say we all have a drink in the bar, huh? I’m buying.”
    â€œMiss Morse was on her way to take a walk in the mountains, Mr. Flannigan. Maybe another time,” George said.
    â€œSure. What’s your room number? I can come by later to get you.”
    â€œI already asked them, but unfortunately, they’ve made plans for later.”
    â€œOh, that’s a goddamn shame.”
    â€œMiss Morse, maybe we’ll run into each other again.” George bowed and dragged Flannigan away by the arm.
    â€œGood-looking babe, George. Were you making time with her? I hope I didn’t butt into anything.”
    â€œNo, Tommy. In fact, you rescued me, and I’m eternally grateful,” George said, laughing.
    Mary was like all the girls in his world. Marriage was their only vocation; it was what they were brought up for. With his looks and family background, he was a prime candidate—or victim—for their machinations.
    Flannigan and George walked to their room on the sixth floor of the east tower, the best spot in the hotel. The room was large but not fancy. It had plain white walls, two beds, a chest of drawers, and a bright carpet. A green recamier stood in the corner; George flopped down onto it, rubbing his hands over his face. His mind was racing. When—and how—had his life changed?
    George knew the answer. He could picture the winter night he’d first stepped through the door of Pendleton’s, the most exclusive den of iniquity in the city. Some Harvard upperclassmen had taken him during Christmas holidays in ’84. At Pendleton’s, gentlemen of the highest pedigree could gamble, drink, and seduce chorus girls, free from the disapproving eyes of Aunt Caroline’s New York society. Tucked away in a brownstone on East Forty-Fifth Street, the interior of the club was lavishly designed, with walnut-paneled walls, marble floors, and crystal chandeliers. In private gambling rooms, one could play faro, poker, baccarat, or roulette. Liquor and food flowed freely. It was as if George had opened a trapdoor and walked down a stair into a magical world of enchantment and pleasure.
    Being a mathematician, George had an innate talent for gambling. He loved everything about it—analyzing the probabilities, calculating odds, counting cards, the throw of the dice. But it was the incredible rush of excitement when he won that thrilled him most. Pure euphoria.

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