Page from a Tennessee Journal (AmazonEncore Edition)

at the table swung toward Bubba Johnson. With his thick November coat and porkpie hat, Mr. Johnson looked like Miz Zeola had mistakenly sent him to the wrong poker game. This one looked and sounded like he meant business. Maybe John would get a decent cut tonight, after all.
    “It’s up to you all.” John remembered the drill.
    Zeola had insisted that her pot men give the appearance of being absolutely neutral. That’s what made a man good at the job, she offered. The players had to trust the man guarding the dollars they’d anted up for the play. And a good pot man could show no favorites. He not only had to look well fed, but he had to be dressed in Nashville’s latest to show the players that their money didn’t mean a thing to him.
    “How long did it take you to get that hayseed out of yo’ head? Even a conk in yo’ nappy hair ain’t gonna make you look like you from the city.” Pistol Pete’s meanness grew with each passing minute. “A country boy is a country boy and they ain’t no two ways ’bout that.”
    The man with the starched collar gave out a quick, nervous laugh then, just as fast, washed it away with a hardy swallow of bourbon. John watched Bubba cut his eyes at Pete.
    “Like a lot of folks, I started out in the country.” John pulled out the fifth chair and sat down, setting the bottles next to him. “And I ain’t learned it all, that’s for sure, but I do know my way around a big city poker table, and that’s all that matters tonight.” John peeled the tape off the card box and pushed the unopened carton to the center of the table.
    Mr. Plaid Shirt, sitting next to John, took in a deep breath. Bubba slapped his hand on the table as he squinted approval at John.
    “I can deal,” the plaid-shirted man responded as he pulled the cards from the carton and began to shuffle.
    The starched-collared one was the first to lay his dollar on the table. The dealer added a second as did Bubba. Pistol Pete tossed in two. John made sure that nobody could see it, but his smile almost broke out wide all over his face. This Thanksgiving could be his first truly thankful one in a long time.
     
     
    “That’s it for me.” The fellow in the starched collar pushed back from the table and pulled out his pocket watch from his makeshift suit. “It’s ’bout nine o’clock. I been here for close to fo’ hours. I’d best be headin’ home.”
    “I’m goin’ upstairs and lay me a woman. Pot man, I’m comin’ later to get my money back. Come on, Bubba.” Pistol Pete knocked over his chair as he stood and glowered at the plaid-shirted dealer. “Pot man, this ho house got any new gals fresh from the country?”
    Bubba leaned over to John, ignoring his friend. “See if you can get me into a bigger game when I come back downstairs.” Bubba spoke low as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver dollar. He slid the coin across the table toward John.
    Nodding his thanks, John smelled the perfume before the wearer pushed open the hidden door.
    “Evenin’ gentlemen.” Zeola, and her favorite fragrance, almost overpowered the small room.
    Even Pistol Pete, with all of his senses drowned in alcohol, reeled backward.
    “Woman, I wants yo’ best gal tonight and I wants her fo’ two hours.” Pete scowled at Zeola who didn’t break her smile as she nudged him in the side.
    “All my girls never stop talkin’ ’bout Mr. Pistol Pete. I got one set aside special just fo’ you.” She leaned in close to his ear, but her whisper came out as loud as a rooster crowing at dawn. “And I’m gonna give her to you fo’ two hours for only three dollars, and I guarantee she won’t disappoint.” Dismissing Pete, Zeola swirled her chiffons toward Bubba. “I do hope you enjoyed the evenin’, Mr. Johnson.” She held out her hand.
    “I’ll enjoy it even more in about forty-five minutes.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a billfold. He laid a five-dollar gold piece in Zeola’s palm. “I wants yo’ next game.” He winked at her as he helped a very drunk Pistol Pete through the door.
    “Well, who’s the big pot winner, tonight?” Zeola stuffed the gold piece into her bosom.
    “That would be me, ma’am.” The plaid-shirted dealer finally lifted his eyes from the pot.
    “Ain’t you the one.” Zeola sounded impressed as she turned to John. “Pot man, how big is it?”
    “Sixty-six dollars and fifty cents, Miz Zeola.” John had already run the figures through his