The River Card

A crime fiction story inspired by a song. See if you can figure out which one.

Photo by Fiona Murray-deGraaff on Unsplash

Willie Jay Cutter didn’t believe in God. But he believed in luck. He believed very much in the everyday holiness of a straight, the divinity of a four of kind, and the miracle of a full house. His eyes had seen the glory of the coming of a royal flush and he had been redeemed. Willie Jay had devoted himself to the mysteries of his faith with the fervency of the saved. Jesus was for drunks and ploughmen who whispered unanswered prayers as the dealer revealed the cards and their respective fates. It was the man penitent only about the cards he held that would enjoy the pleasures of paradise. Willie Jay considered himself to be such a man.

The green felt table was, far and away, the nicest piece of furniture at Bookman’s which, despite the literary name, had not a single book in the place. Old Sol Bookman was the owner, and he prided himself on offering the cheapest whiskey in Pine Mountain, Georgia. Not that there was much competition for such a title, but Old Sol prided himself on the distinction all the same. Old Sol had bought the felt table a few years back when a brothel down in Columbus had gone out of business courtesy of the county sheriff. It was a fine piece, perfect for poker, and laced with strikingly realistic carvings of nude women which had been carved into the solid oak of the table. When Willie Jay saw such a table, he knew it would be a crying sin not to play poker on it. But he had not chosen this game because of the table. Willie Jay had chosen this game because of the man sitting across from him.

Sheriff Crombley Smathers was not just the high sheriff of Harris County, but he was also the chair of the local Democratic party, sat ex officio on the county roads commission, was vice chair of the Rotary Club, and potentate of the local Shriners group. He had first become Harris County’s “man to see” when Richard Russell – now Senator Russell – had first gone to the governor’s mansion in Atlanta and Smathers had maintained that unofficial office for almost a decade. Now then, Willie Jay couldn’t give a hoot about a man’s politics because Willie Jay liked to play games that he had a chance of winning. It was not the political games that Sheriff Smathers played which concerned Willie Jay. It was poker.

It was a well-known fact in Pine Mountain that Crombley Smathers had always loved the poker tables. His old man had run a gentlemanly game out of the back of the family dry goods store that had produced the Smathers fortune and funded Crombley’s political ascension. The game had gotten its hooks in him then and he loved it like a man loves his paramour: quietly, but with the intensity of a longing for the forbidden. In public, the high sheriff railed against the wickedness of games of chance that were so regularly accompanied by the demon alcohol. But in the backroom of Sol Bookman’s whisky saloon, Crombley Smathers had little compunction about spending his luncheon watching Bookman’s nephew, Enoch, flip the cards while he sipped Makers’ Mark. Contradictions were for other people.

Getting into the game had required some fancy dancing on the part of Willie Jay. A slow cultivation of Enoch over three Fridays and a Tuesday at the local honky tonk had greased the skids. And so it was that Willie Jay Cutter had come to sit across from Sheriff Crombley Smathers in the backroom of Bookman’s whiskey joint around the gorgeous green felt table with all the naked ladies carved in it.

The game was no limit Texas hold ‘em though no one called it that at the time. Willie had indeed played a high stakes version the game a few years before in Robstown, Texas. But that was with white people. He had first played the game with a group of Black riverboat workers in New Orleans who had taught him how to play the flop, the turn, and the river. They had called it Delta Poker and claimed the game had originated in that fertile area of Mississippi where it was first played by slaves. However the game had started, Willie Jay believed that hold ‘em poker was a thinking man’s game that could be won by outsmarting your opponent. Which was exactly what he intended to do to Sheriff Crombley Smathers of Harris County, Georgia.

Two and half hours after he’d first sat down, Willie Jay had Sheriff Smathers on the hook. Smathers had initially objected to Willie Jay even sitting down at their poker table. But Smathers knew hold ‘em poker and said he’d play because so few people in Pine Mountain had even heard of it. “Five games,” the Sheriff had snarled. But Willie Jay had a plan for that too. On his second hand he had upped the ante by throwing a diamond ring in the middle of the pot and then promptly lost it to Smathers who laughed nastily and put the ring in his breast pocket just under his lawman’s star. Smathers won the first four of the games, clucking in his chair like a rooster after each victory. But on the fifth game, Willie Jay took him for $52 which was real money in the Year of Our Lord 1951. Smathers fumed a little but muttered something about “dumb ass luck” and proceeded to play a sixth game. And a seventh. That’s when Willie Jay knew he had him.

Like an expert angler letting a hooked fish run, Willie Jay managed to lose enough hands to keep Smathers feeling confident and win enough hands to make the high sheriff chase his defeats. Eventually, he decided that it was time to make his play.

“Sheriff whaddya say we make this hand more interestin’?” Willie Jay drawled.

“The hell you talkin’ bout boy,” gruffed the sheriff, watching like a hawk as Enoch shuffled the deck and flipped each man two cards. Smathers’ chief deputy, a wan, humorless man named Earl Foggett, had crapped out of the poker game an hour ago after Willie Jay had lifted $76 off of him and given the chief deputy sudden indigestion. Two other players had already left and returned to their regular jobs as the county clerk and minister of the Methodist church, respectively.

“Talkin’ about interestin’, Sheriff.”

Enoch dealt each man two cards, called the hole cards. Each man looked at his cards. Judged. Strategized. Before Enoch dealt the next three community cards face up, each man would get a chance to bet. The dealing of the community cards was what the New Orleans riverboat men had called “the flop”. The betting that preceded it was called the “pre-flop”. For his pre-flop bet, Willie Jay dropped $500 in cash onto the table.

“Awfully eager to lose all your money, ain’t ya, son?” The Sheriff clucked, looking at Chief Deputy Foggett who nodded.

“Mebbe so, Sheriff. Mebbe so.”

Smathers slipped the cards into his palm and gently tapped their edges against the felt table for a moment, his eyes locked on Willie Jay. Without turning his head, the Sheriff said: “Doggett take that money out yer boot.”

“Sheriff –”

“I ain’t gonna ask again, Earl.”

With a pained expression, Doggett slid his khaki pant leg up over the edge of his boot and fished out some folded bills which he threw into the pot.

“Now it’s interestin’. Ain’t it Sheriff?”

“More like foolish, ya ask me.”

When both men fell silent, Enoch discarded one card from the top of the deck and flopped three cards in the middle of the felt table. King of Spades. Seven of Diamonds. King of Hearts.

With the flop cards on the table, Willie Jay felt the Sheriff looking at him for any kind of giveaway about the two cards that Willie Jay had set before him. Willie Jay just looked at Foggett. Foggett looked uncomfortable.

“Well sir, I may try my luck at this. I may indeed.” Willie Jay slipped his pant leg up and, out of his boot, came more cash. Another $500. “You look like a brave man, Sheriff.”

“Small difference between brave and foolish.” This time it was the sheriff who reached into his boot to pull out his own secreted stash of greenbacks. Another $500 was thrown onto the green felt.

“That’s what my Sarge said when we landed at Anzio,” Willie Jay chuckled.

Enoch dealt the card that the boys in Texas had called that the “turn” card. The riverboat men had called it “fourth street”. Queen of Diamonds.

A cool as a drink of lemonade on the third Sunday in July, Willie Jay Cutter reached into his other boot and retrieved five, crisp, one hundred dollar bills which were folded in half. He slid them across the felt to join the other bills.

“Boy you must think I’ve lost my mind—”

“You’re already in for a grand, Sheriff. You fold it now, you just hand it to me as easy as you please,” Willie Jay said evenly, “but you still got my ring in your pocket, and I’ll take that as your bet.”

“I tell you what I’ll do, young son,” the Sheriff said, menace in his voice, “I’m going to give you a chance to win your ring back but this here’s the last hand.” The Sheriff’s index finger was fixed in a point. “You read me?” He waited until Willie Jay met his eyes and, when he did, he flipped up the flap on his uniform breast pocket, took the ring out with two meaty fingers and tossed it onto the pile of bills already on the felt table. The diamond glinted despite the dull glow of the naked light bulb that hung from the ceiling.

“It’s not even the ring I want Sheriff.”

“What’s that now?”

“I said, it’s not even the ring I –”

“Goddamit boy, I heard you. You’re just talking nonsense.”  

“Been talking nonsense all day, Sheriff,” contributed Earl Foggett. It was the most he’d said in an hour.

“Don’t I know it.” Smathers glared at Willie Jay.  

“That’s Helen’s ring. But it’s her I’m after.”

It was like someone had sucked all the air out of the room. Foggett’s jaw had dropped. He closed it and looked at Sheriff Smathers like he’d seen a ghost. Smathers eyes had widened but the lawman quickly regained his bluster.  

“You best be very careful what you say next, mister.”

“I’ve been calling on her, Sheriff. Five, mebbe six months now—”

“My daughter wouldn’t be seen with trash like you.”

“’Fraid she would, sir. She has. Been seen with me at the picture show. Been seen with me having fried chicken at Sammy’s on the square. Been seen with me –”

Smathers’ hand crashed down on the fine felt table like a thunderclap driving both Foggett and Enoch back from the table as if caught up in the shock wave.

“THAT’S A DAMN LIE!”

Wille Jay turned his cards over in his fingertips for a minute before he fixed his gaze to Sheriff Smathers.

“’Fraid not, sir. You know it’s true. She’s been comin’ home late. Whispering with her little sister.” He shot the sheriff a wry grin. “You know it’s me they’ve been whisperin’ about, sir.” Smathers looked like a pipe ready to burst. Which is when Willie Jay made his play. “But I’ll make you a deal right now Sheriff. You win this hand you can take all my money, the ring I done bought Helen, and…” his voice trailed off for a long moment, “I’ll leave town tonight and you’ll never see me again.”

Foggett, still dumbfounded by this turn of events, looked at Sheriff Smathers agog. Smathers eyes were mean little slits. Finally, Willie Jay saw Smathers’ eyes flick down to the fifteen hundred dollars in cash and the diamond ring on the table. As he knew it would, the greed in the man’s heart showed through.

“And if I win, I’ll put that ring on Helen’s finger, and you’ll sign the marriage license.”

Smathers gritted his teeth for a moment then hissed to Enoch:

“Deal the goddam card.”

The riverboat men had honored the provider of their daily bread with the name of the last community card dealt, an homage to the Mighty Mississippi. The river card.

Ace of Spades.

“What’ll it be, Sheriff? You in? Or are you out?”

Sheriff Crombley Smathers snorted and flipped over his hole cards with all the confidence of a man used to winning. His King of Spades and Deuce of Clubs, when paired with the cards on the table gave him a Three of a Kind, all Kings. It was a strong hand, and he knew it.

“Eat that, you pissant,” Smather said, a hateful joy in his voice.

Willie Jay Cutter made a show of hanging his head in shame. It was so convincing that Earl Foggett made a wet noise that could be considered a laugh. Then Willie Jay turned his cards over.

Seven of Hearts.

King of Diamonds.

A Full House.

Enoch Bookman couldn’t help but gasp. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph”, Earl Foggett prayed under his breath.

Willie Jay reached out and, with great deliberation, took the greenbacks, folded them, and put him in his pocket. He looked at Sheriff Smathers when he picked up the ring. With a wink he said:

“Be seein’ ya, Sheriff.”

The shots were so loud in the backroom that an empty whiskey bottle fell off a shelf and shattered on the floor. The blood that spattered on Old Sol Bookman’s prized felt table never fully came out despite years of attempts. As Willie Jay lay on the floor, he tasted the blood in his mouth. The light in the room seemed to be dimming though the single bulb still burned the same overhead. Standing over him, with his service revolver still smoking his hand, Sheriff Crombley Smathers looked down at Willie Jay and saw that the boy was trying to say something. Smathers leaned down only to hear the young gambler croak with a dying breath:

“She’s already gone, Sheriff.”

By the time Helen Smathers had learned about the death of her beloved she had been in Macon for nearly two weeks, hiding out from her father in a two-bit hotel room and waiting for a man who’d never arrive. It was her little sister who’d told her what happened, and she’d cried and cried in the phone booth at the back of the pharmacy until she finally stepped out to face the ugly world. She made her way to Atlanta, and found work as a waitress. Before long she learned that the upset stomach she’d been having wasn’t due to big city food or being on her feet all day. By the time she was staring to show, Helen had written a heartfelt letter to Willie Jay’s brother and sister-in-law in Valdosta. Talbott Cutter sent a telegram agreeing to take her in, and his wife Erma would help with their baby nephew.

The Greyhound bus was rolling Southbound towards Valdosta when the contractions started coming faster and harder. She thought maybe her water had broken near Perry but, being on her own, she had no real idea. Despite herself she had cried out and the old man sitting next to her at the back of the bus rousted from his slumber long enough to ask if there was a doctor aboard. Blessedly, there was. A kind-faced man with round glasses and a thatch of gray hair made his way to the back of the bus. The bus driver, who was already forty-five minutes behind, had kept his eye on the commotion but his foot on the gas pedal.

“Gotta get her to a hospital, doncha think doc?” Asked the old man. They now had Helen laying across the two seats and other riders were standing in the aisle giving the young mother-to-be some space.

“It’s a little too late for that,” the doctor said, calm radiating through his voice, “this young lady is going to have this baby right here on Highway 41.”

The delivery had been quick, the doctor later estimated that Helen had already been laboring for hours before the trip started. He was now a pediatrician, but he had delivered a number of babies while stationed in France during the war and had put that experience to good use. He wrapped the squalling baby in an offered jacket and let the new mother hold her son. The bus driver had caved to the loud insistence of several passengers and had promised to deliver the mother and baby to a hospital in Tifton just a few miles up the highway.

“What’s his name, dear?” The doctor had asked as the mother cooed at her newborn who had quieted down.

“Forrest. Forrest Richard,” Helen said proudly.

“It’s a splendid name,” the doctor replied.

“I can’t thank you enough, Doctor…”

“Allman,” the doctor furnished. “You’re a lucky young lady to have come through his way. And he’s a lucky baby boy.”

With misty eyes, Helen Smathers looked at her newborn son and said:

“His father was lucky too.”

Authors Note: Forrest Richard “Dickey” Betts wrote “Ramblin Man” after being inspired by a jam session in Gatlinburg, Tennessee. The song, a country rock classic, peaked at number two on the Billboard Charts in August 1973 and was the only Top Ten hit for the Allman Brothers. A song of the same name was recorded by Hank Williams, Sr. in 1951. This is not either song’s origin story. But it is an homage.