The Last Days of a Rake

the cards, and the others, those what can’t help themselves, but play one more hand, and one more hand, and one more…you know the ones.”
    Lankin nodded. He was wealthy, and he stayed wealthy because he was able to walk away when the cards were against him. “Come to the point, Merkin. I’ll drink your brandy all night—and I appreciate that you’ve given me the good stuff, not the watered down horse piss you give club members—but I won’t pay for it in some other way.”
    “Aye,” Merkin said, eyeing the other man with appreciation. “Always did like that about you, sir…your straight-to-the-point manner.” He set his glass aside and leaned forward, one hand planted on each knee. “So, I seen you bringing some young gentlemen into my club, an’ we been winning off them pretty good. But they leave too early. I want to dig into their pockets, y’know? I know they got more money.”
    “Greedy bastard, aren’t you?” Lankin said with some irritation. “What are you asking?”
    “If you could keep them here a little longer, let us get some more of the gold outta their pockets, I’d see you right.”
    “I have no interest in bankrupting young men.”
    “Not asking you to do that, sir, just let us dig a little deeper.” Merkin eyed him with a sly look. “If you don’t think yer up to it, sir, I’ll understand.”
    It was a masterful touch, that combination of insult and challenge. “I would bet I can,” Lankin said, squinting over his glass at the other man. He held it out to be refilled.
    “Nah…I ain’t takin’ a bet on that,” Merkin said, tipping the decanter and generously pouring. “Be crazy.”
    “What, are you backing off?” Lankin thought for a moment, and said, “Let’s say I bring in a fellow, what would be enough to win such a bet?”
    Merkin had not run a gambling house for so long without knowing when a man was bored and in need of diversion, and Lankin had that look about him, the irritability, the shifty gaze, the quick moodiness. “I’d need some honest proof the fella was about to leave, and I’d need to witness his change o’ heart.”
    Lankin again drained the glass. “Say I get him to stay at the tables another…three hours, after such a display? Would that do it?”
    “Done,” Merkin said, quickly. “But he’ll have to lose a pile. Otherwise how would I know you hadn’t set it up with the fella to just stay one for a while?”
    “Are you implying I would cheat you? You, sir, are no gentleman.”
    “No, I ain’t. Thank God.”
    Mollified, Lankin chuckled. Terms of the bet were discussed and they shook hands on it. The very next evening Lankin surveyed the suitable youngsters at White’s, and found several new candidates, inviting them one at a time to Merkin’s gambling club. In a season of overwhelming boredom, the challenge added some spice to his bland life.
    The first fellow was adamant and unshakable. Once he had lost a few thousand pounds, he headed for the door and Lankin was unable to persuade him to stay to try to “change his luck.” Merkin smirked at that, and raised his eyebrows. Lankin swore to do better with the next fellow. Alcohol, the sly demon that perched on many a man’s shoulder for his whole life, digging at him and urging him on to downward paths, must be his tool.
    The next night, Lankin came to Merkin’s club with a fresh-faced sprig of the noble tribe. Viscount Trilby, a stripling of twenty-one, strolled into the gambling hell with an excited quiver, like a hound that has scented the game. Three hours later, as he lost a thousand pounds more than his yearly allowance, he began to look haunted, and miserably told Lankin he had to leave. Four hours after that, Trilby was staggering drunk and had signed markers for ten thousand pounds.
    Merkin nodded in appreciation as he sidled up to Lankin. “I underestimated you, sir,” he murmured, his words concealed from the other patrons by the noise of the tables. “You got him in nice and deep.”
    The praise merely spurred Lankin to fresh efforts. “You haven’t seen anything yet. Watch this.” With a deftly timed barb aimed at the young man’s gambling acumen, he incited him to add his signature to another marker, extending his credit by another ten thousand pounds. By dawn, the young viscount had committed himself to fifty thousand pounds.
    That very day the lad was banished to the country by his father. The marker was paid, using loans from the moneylenders, and