Free Gone South by Robert R. McCammon

stared’ at his cards, a cigarette clenched between his teeth. His lightless eyes ticked to the player next to him. “I believe I got you this time, Mr. Lucky.”
    The man in the sharkskin suit was engrossed in his own cards. His eyes were pallid blue, his face so pale the purple-tinged veins were visible at his temples. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, his body as lean as a drawn blade. His black hair was perfectly combed, the part straight to the point of obsessiveness. At the center of his hairline a streak of white showed like a touch of lightning.
    “Put up or fold ’em,” Ambrose said.
    “See the five and raise you ten.” The chips clattered down.
    “Fifteen dollars,” the man in the sharkskin suit said, his voice so soft it neared a whisper, “and fifteen more.” He tossed the chips in with a flick of his right wrist.
    “Oh, lawwwwdy!” Ambrose studied his cards with heightened interest. “Talk to me, chillen, talk to me!” He picked up his cigar stub from an ashtray and puffed on it as if trying to divine the future in smoke signals.
    Nick, the pool hall’s bartender, came in while Ambrose was deliberating and asked if anybody needed their drinks freshened. Junior said he wanted another Budweiser, and Vincent said he’d have a refill of iced tea. The man in the sharkskin suit downed his cloudy drink in two long swallows and said, “I’ll have another of the same.”
    “Uh … you sure you don’t want some sugar in that?” Nick asked.
    “No sugar. Just straight lemon juice.”
    Nick returned to the front room. Ambrose puffed out a last question mark and put his cards facedown. “Nope. My wife’s gone have my ass as it is.”
    Royce stayed in and raised another five spot. Junior chewed his lower lip. “Damn it, I’ve gotta stay in!” he decided. “Hell, I’ll raise five to you!”
    “And fifteen more,” came the reply.
    “Sheeeeyit!” Ambrose grinned. “We gots us a showdown here!”
    “I’m out.” Royce’s cards went on the table.
    Junior leaned back in his chair, his cards close to his chest and fresh sweat sparkling on his face. He glowered long and hard at the man beside him, whom he’d come to detest in the last two hours. “You’re fuckin’ bluffin’,” he said. “I caught you last time you tried to bluff me, didn’t I?”
    “Fifteen dollars to you, Junior,” Ambrose said. “What’cha gone do?”
    “Don’t rush, me, man!” Junior had two red chips in front of him. He’d come into the game with over a hundred dollars. “You’re tryin’ to fox me, ain’t you, Mr. Lucky?”
    The man’s head turned. The pale blue eyes fixed upon Junior, and the whispery voice said, “The name is Flint.”
    “I don’t give a shit! You’re tryin’ to rob me, I figure I can call you whatever I please!”
    “Hey, Junior!” Royce cautioned. “Watch that tongue, now!”
    “Well, who the hell knows this guy, anyhow? He comes in here, gets in our game, and takes us all for a ride! How do we know he ain’t a pro?”
    “I paid for my seat,” Flint said. “You didn’t holler when you took my money.”
    “Maybe I’m hollerin’ now!” Junior sneered. “Does anybody know him?” he asked the others. Nick came in with the drinks on a tray. “Hey, Nick! You ever see this here dude before?”
    “Can’t say I have.”
    “So how come he just wandered in off the street lookin’ to play poker? How come he’s sittin’ there with all our damn money?”
    Flint snapped the cards shut in his left hand, drank some of the fresh lemon juice, and rubbed the cold glass across his forehead. “Meet the raise,” he said, “or go home and cry to your mommy.”
    Junior exhaled sworls of smoke. Crimson had risen in his cheeks. “Maybe you and me oughta go dance in the alley, what do you think about that?”
    “Come on, Junior!” Ambrose said. “Play or fold!”
    “Nick, loan me five dollars.”
    “No way!” Nick retreated toward the door. “This ain’t no bank in here,