My Honor Flight Read Online Free Page A

Fatty, pointing at Trumbull.
     “Nah, he’s
just some kind of card genius,” said Chartelli.  “He wins all the time.  I
think I’m paying for a new car for him back home, all by myself.”
     “He doesn’t
win every hand.  No one wins every hand.”
    Chartelli’s
eyes got real wide, and he dropped his chin in astonishment.  “You sayin' this
guy beat you at EVERY hand?”
     “Yes!” nodded
the loser.
    Morelli’s
eyes got real wide too.  “How many hands?” he asked.
     “Probably
twenty,” said the loser.
    Chartelli
slapped his forehead in disbelief. 
    Morelli let
out a whoop.  “Jesus, you’re right!  No one can win that many hands.  Unless
they are playing one hell of a dumb son of a bitch!”
    About half of
the room erupted into laughter.  The rest cautiously eyed each other.  Several
guys used the laughter as an excuse to turn and walk away. 
    But the twins’
cracks were more than the loser could handle.  His head shook and his face got
all bright red.  It looked like he was holding his breath, trying to keep it
all inside.  He looked around the table and made eye contact with three or four
guys.  They must have been in his platoon, because I watched them nod at him as
he looked at each of them.  He looked at the twins, then looked back at Kozlowski,
who was just itching to get started.  Then he looked at Petey, who stood a good
four inches taller than him.  Then he looked at me, and then Trumbull.  He was
really frustrated.  I imagine he was trying to figure out if he and his boys
could kick our asses.
    Trumbull's squeaky
chair broke the silence as he stood up.  He cleared his throat, and everyone
turned to watch him.  He looked like one of those bankers you see in old Westerns—a
puny little guy with glasses.  He looked up over his glasses, making brief eye
contact with the loser.  “Could you empty your pockets?  It appears some cards
are missing.”
    Have you ever
seen a tire spring a fast leak?  One of those times where it's not instant, but
over the course of a few seconds it goes flat?  This guy was the tire.  All his
bluster disappeared instantly, and his eyes widened a little bit in surprise. 
Then he tried to cover it up by sticking out his chin and sneering.
     “I ain’t
never been so offended in my life!”  His voice was much quieter now, and there
was just a little bit of tremble in it.  His eyes panned the room.  “First I’m
cheated, and then I'm accused of cheating?”
     “Oh, I see,
I see!” Chartelli nodded vigorously. 
     “Yeah, me
too!” said Morelli.  “Yeah, I get it, man.  That’s just offensive!”
    There was a
really long pause.  It felt like a couple of minutes.  No one said anything,
and the silence became real uncomfortable.  Fatty just stared at Trumbull, his
lips pursed tight and his head shaking.  Trumbull stared back, unblinking. 
Finally, the loser snapped out of it, and turned away from Kozlowski, toward
the door. 
     “Well!”  he
said.  “I apologize to you, pal.  I know that no good American here would cheat
at cards.  I just was a sore loser, and I’m sorry to have raised a stink about
it.”
    We looked
back at forth at each other, trying to decide what to do.  Do we make the guy
empty his pockets or let him off the hook?  After a few seconds, all of our
eyes fell on Trumbull.  He looked around the room at us and then just barely
shook his head.  The loser, his nose high in the air, nodded slightly as he
passed the twins and left the tent.  We all relaxed, and the crowd broke up.  We
gathered around Trumbull.
     “So was he
cheatin’?” asked Kozlowski.
     “King of
diamonds has been missing for about the last six rounds.  King of clubs
disappeared two rounds ago.  I haven’t seen the ace of hearts at all.”
     “Why didn’t
you call him on it during the game?” I asked.
    Trumbull
looked up at me and flashed a mischievous look.  “I figured it was a good
handicap.  I wanted to