A Hanging at Cinder Bottom by Glenn Taylor Read Free Book Online

now.” He pushed his chips forward, and Faro Fred pulled them with a brass-handled cane.
    “Three hundred and seventeen after the rake,” Fred said.
    Trent opened a leather bank pouch and counted out the money.
    Floyd Staples stood up and smacked the table with the flat of his hand. He looked from Abe to Henry Trent. “You going to let Jew cheaters run your tables?”
    Abe stood up. He looked at the expanse of table between himself and Staples.
    He straightened his shirt cuffs. He smiled and kept his temper.
    It was quiet. Two men took out their watches and looked at their laps.
    Rutherford stepped from the wall and handed Abe his winnings.
    Abe nodded to him and peeled off two ones. He folded them one-handed, and on his way to the door, he slid them to Faro Fred, who had pitched the fastest cards Abe had ever seen.
    It was then that Floyd Staples said, “Baach, I will fetch my rifle and shoot you in your goddamned face.”
    Henry Trent quick-whistled a high signal.
    Rutherford drew the hogleg from his holster and held it at his side. He told Abe to step back, and then he opened the office door and directed Floyd Staples into the light.
    When the door shut behind them, Trent said, “Let’s us all just stretch our legs and visit a minute.”
    And they did. They stood up and smoked. Abe spoke briefly with a man in octagonal spectacles who was more refined than his present company. He was not accustomed to threats of death and foot-long revolvers.
    Rutherford stepped inside the room again. “He’ll be alright,” he said. “Talbert’ll get him a whore.” He swallowed tobacco juice and coughed into his hand.
    Trent said, “Well he damn sure won’t play at this table ever again.” He gave Rutherford a look and turned to the other men. “I apologize for the unpleasantness. You gentlemen play as long as you like. I’ve got solid replacement players ready to rotate. Rutherford will pour your drinks and light your cigars, and if you are in need of company, he can arrange that too.” He put his big-knuckled hand on Abe’s shoulder, opened the door and said, “After you.”
    Abe stepped into the office.
    Before he followed him through, Trent bent to Faro Fred and whispered a question in his ear. Fred whispered back an answer.
    The glass rattled when Trent shut the door behind him.
    A two-blade palmetto fan hung from the ceiling on a tilt and did not spin. It was yet untethered to a turbine belt drive. Trent had plans to tether it by summer, when he’d salary a man just to turn the crank. The big bookcase was empty, its glass fronts showcasing nothing. Atop the case sat two cast-iron boxing glove bookends.
    Abe sat where Trent pointed, a handsome chair with a green pillow cushion on the seat. It faced Trent’s double-top desk. He stood behind it and shook his head and laughed at the magnificent young man before him. Trent looked ten years younger than the sixty he was, but he knew his face had not ever carried Abe’s brand of chisel.
    He opened a drawer and produced a clear glass bottle with no label. “Evening like this one calls for the best.” He set two glasses on a stack of ledgers and unstuck the cork. “You heard of Dorsett’s shine?”
    Abe nodded that he had.
    Trent smiled. There were two silver teeth in front. His brow had gone bulbous and so had his nose and chin. “You drank it?”
    Abe nodded that he hadn’t. He’d only been to Matewan once. Dorsett’s shine didn’t much travel outside Mingo County.
    Trent handed over a glass with little more than a splash inside. “Here’s to you,” he said. Then he drank his down and sat himself in a highback chair of leather punctuated by brass buttons. He coughed twice and took a deep breath and smiled.
    Abe sniffed at the rim and smelled not a thing. He swallowed it and set the glass on desk’s edge. There was no burn, only a tingle below his bellybutton.
    Trent lit his pipe. “Your daddy is a fine man,” he said.
    Abe nodded that he was. He’d long