It was a fairly large room, a combination of business office and playroom. On a small table set near the wall there were an adding machine, some stacked ledgers and various papers scattered about. Adjacent to the table an ancient slot machine stood on rusty legs. It showed the three black bells of the jackpot, just to let all viewers know it was on the level. Set slantwise, near the one-armed bandit, an age-darkened, rolltop desk leaned wearily on one shortened leg. At a respectable distance from the outdated desk, there was a brand-new filing cabinet, glimmering green, its edges reinforced with brightly shining nickel. On the wall above the filing cabinet were several neatly framed photographs that showed racing rowers in double-oared sculls.

In the center of the room there was a big round table, and seven men were seated at it. They were playing stud poker. Some of them were in undershirts; others were bare to the waist. Despite the breeze from an electric fan, they were all dripping with perspiration. Very intent on the cards, none of them looked up as Corey entered.

He moved toward the table to get a closer look at the action. It wasn’t big money, there were less than thirty dollars in the kitty; but even so the action was tense. Some of them were chewing hard on cigar stubs and others were biting the corners of their mouths. While the winner was raking in the money, a loser got up and walked out of the room. Corey glided toward the empty chair. As he lowered himself into it, someone’s heavy hand reached out and pushed him away.

“What goes?” Corey asked mildly. He smiled amiably at the big man who’d pushed him away from the empty chair.

“You weren’t invited,” the big man said. He was very big around the middle, of average height, and weighed around two-sixty. He looked solid, his bulk mainly in the chest and shoulders. The man’s name was Rafer.

Corey continued smiling at him, saying, “You kidding me, Rafer?”

“No,” Rafer said. “No, I ain’t kidding you.”

“I don’t get it,” Corey said. He mixed the smile with a slight frown. “It’s a Friday night game and it’s open. It’s always open on Friday night.”

“Not for you,” Rafer said. His face was hard with authority; and then as he looked across the table his expression changed to the putty softness of a well-trained lackey. “Ain’t that right, Walt?”

The man named Walt was sipping from a glass of cold buttermilk. He was concentrating on the buttermilk, his mouth moving in little circles as he tested its flavor. He didn’t look up.

Rafer tried again. “He don’t believe me, Walt. You say the word and I’ll get it across to him. I’ll toss him outta here on his head.”