A way back a while ago there was this tough guy named Schultz who was a
gambler and a womanizer. He didn't like to work, but he did like money,
flashy clothes and diamond pinkie rings. He thought that watches of filigreed
gold were nice, and he liked expensive cars too. He was always lucky at
cards and usually made himself a pretty good living off of the pasteboards.
There was a whole slew of poker games, and he was good at all of them.
Five Card Stud was his game, but he'd play any game where a buck could be
made, and he wasn't too particular who he played with. Schultz was a
professional.
Yup, Poker was his game, and it was said that Schultz had the strength of
character to win a Poker game on a pair of duces. He had luck on his side
too. That's why some people called him "Poker Face Schultz." It was
because he never gave any hint as to his luck of the draw by any facial
expression, a blink of his eye or an unconscious scratch. He didn't nod either.
There was no doubt about it, he was good at what he did. One night in
Kansas City, Schultz got himself into a big poker game that went on until
dawn. Everybody who was anybody with the mob was there, and the booze
flowed like water. Women of every description floated from table to table,
trying to make a score by getting next to a guy who was winning strong.
Figuring that they would make off with some of the loot, they were real
friendly.
One good looking blond squeezed in next to Schultz, but he wasn't having any
just then. He was a man with a job to do, and he was doing it. She wasn't
too dumb either as she recognized what was happening and kept quiet. Once
in a while, she fed Schultz a sandwich and a cold beer to keep him going.
She took a chance as she figured that Schultz would stick with her when the
game was over. Then along about three in the morning, the soul death hour,
when people die in their sleep and spirits are lowest in the living, Schultz
kicked back from the table and took a break. He went into the head and
washed his face, wet his hair, combed it and put on the clean shirt that he
carried in his valise. Refreshed and awake, he went back to the table and
proceeded to play Poker.
The cards changed hands time after time as dealers fanned the cards and
flipped them on the green, baize table-top in front of the players. Guys came
and went, smoked cigars and drank beer. Mostly, they just blew their wad
and tapped out. Some lasted a few hands, but most dropped out after only a
hand or two. The money moved around like it was on wheels, but most of it
stayed in front of Schultz as he was hot. Playing Poker like a machine,
Schultz dealed, bet and called his way through the competition until the last
man was out. The blond kept shuffling Schultz's winnings into his valise,
making sure that nothing was left on the table. As the clock turned around
and the hours grew small, those guys at the tables became increasingly
unhappy with old Schultz as he had cleaned them out, one by one quicker
than a Federal Judge with a song bird on his shoulder. You see, Schultz had
broken the cardinal rule of a professional gambler and took too much from
one table at one time. Learn a lesson from that and never do it yourself. All
you have to do is lose a small pot now and again to take the heat off. Then
when you have harvested all you dare, you lose another small pot and tap out
with no body getting upset.
Well, as it turned out, Schultz overplayed his hand, won too much money
from the wrong people and had to leave town in a hurry or else have his
thumbs busted. This connected guy named Roselli, a rat-faced little punk
who worked the numbers on the docks, thought he was a lot better than he
was. He sat down across from Schultz and started talking big and playing bad
Poker. Schultz spotted him for a sucker and let the little rat-faced man play
into his hands. Well, Roselli ranted on as he went through the motions of
playing cards about some of the jobs he'd pulled off. Then he started flapping
his lips about how tough he was and the usual gangster crap. However, as he
did, he proceeded to lose a roll as big as your fist to Schultz on a pair of one-
eyed jacks. The money crossed the table as if by magic, but the rub was that
the bankroll wasn't his. The money belonged to Roselli's boss, and was he
ever going to be pissed. Roselli though he could buy the bank so-to-speak,
thinking that nobody could come up with that much money to call him. Well,
Roselli's ploy didn't work, and Schultz took him to the cleaners and didn't
even leave him bus fare.
Well when the last of his money was gone, Roselli, jumped up, kicked over
the table and hollered that Schultz had cheated him. He made a hell of a fuss
there in the gambling parlor, and his last word was that he'd get even
whatever it took. Nobody was going to get into him like that and get away
with it. Roselli was vindictive about it all right, and it was a good thing that
he wasn't packing a rod that night or Schultz might have not lived to spend his
winnings. Well, Schultz wasn't stupid, so he didn't waste any time clearing
out of town while he could-- the blond went with him. It was a good thing
too as those boys played rough, and it wouldn't have been a good idea for
either of them to stick around any longer. Those gangsters wouldn't stop to
think about it before giving a guy like Schultz a "Chicago Necktie" or the
blond a pair of "Cement Overshoes."
What do you know, summer found Schultz in Chicago, gambling with the
stockmen and roustabouts that worked for the railroad when they were sober
enough to get up in the morning. Schultz was holed up with the blond
upstairs at the "Cattleman's Hotel," one of the busier hotels of the day, but he
spent most of his time downstairs in the casino plying his trade. The blond
knew that she had a good thing going, and generally kept watch on Schultz in
case he needed her to handle the winnings. Too, she kept an eye out for
trouble or strangers in town. It was natural for her to keep looking over her
shoulder as this wasn't the first time she had to skip town to keep on
breathing regular.
It was a pretty good life for Schultz and the blond as they moved from city to
city, and as the years passed they found that they made a pretty good team.
Often they laughed and compared themselves to Doc Holiday and Big Nose
Kate Elder... Of course, the blond always said that she didn't have a big nose,
but Schultz always came back with: "But you've got big tits!" Ha, Ha, Ha.
They had a good time together, but all good things must come to an end
sooner or later.
Many years later, the blond had passed on from cancer, but Schultz still
played his beloved poker. Oh, he didn't play as hard and fast as he once did,
but he did play to win. One night, in another fair-sized Poker game, Schultz
pretty much cleaned everyone out, but one guy. This guy was tapped too, but
wanted to play one more hand. The fella said to Schultz: "Look, you've got
all of my money, but I got something you can use up in my room. It's all that
I have in the world, but I'll bet it against this one last hand." Schultz was
intrigued by the idea and wanted to know what the old fella had, but the old
guy wouldn't say except that he figured that Schultz needed what he had more
than anyone he had ever known. Well, Schultz was so far ahead of the game
that even if he lost this one hand-- so what? It wouldn't matter much. Schultz
looked the man square in the face and said in his usual even voice, "You're
On."
Schultz let the old guy deal the fateful hand, but Lady Luck was across the
table, setting next to his opponent. Schultz always did attract women.
Anyway, the old man pulled a pair of threes while Schultz drew a straight
flush. The game was over. The old man said that Schultz had one fair and
square, and if he would come upstairs with him, he would hand over his
treasure.
It seemed like an eternity, standing in front of the elevator waiting for the car
to come, but finally it did as the pointer touched the lobby floor. Schultz and
the old man entered the brass and oak paneled car and slowly ascended to the
fourth floor where it stopped with a lurch. The metal doors slid open in their
channels, and the pair stepped out upon rose-floral patterned carpeting. The
lights were dim, but you could see enough to get where you were going.
They paused in front of room 421 for a moment as the old man fidgeted with
his key, and then the door swung open to reveal a room with an unmade bed.
The old guy didn't waste any time as he opened the dresser and removed a
small box. Well actually, it was a wooden case with a hinged top. Painted
black with red lettering and some sort of gold scroll work, Schultz thought
that he had won a harmonica and broke out laughing. The old man just
looked Schultz in the eye and waited until he regained control of his mirth
before speaking. Then depressing the catch and opening the lid, the old man
revealed an old, silver railroad signaling whistle-- the kind that conductors
use to attract the attention of the engineer when it was time to go or stop...
The old man then began to tell his story about how many years ago, down by
the crossroads, he had sold his soul to the Devil in exchange for happiness.
Well, the Devil had given the old man that shiny, silver railroad whistle and
explained that whenever he was really and truly happy and desired nothing
more that he should blow the whistle, and time would stop right there. The
Devil said that the old man could live out eternity right there in complete
happiness-- yes, forever and a day. The trouble was that the old man had
never found happiness. It seemed that if it weren't for bad luck, he would
have no luck at all. That's why he never blew the whistle. Now, he was old
and for him, there would be no happy days. He knew that it was about time
for him to pass on and go meet the Devil, so he figured that before he did, he
would pass on the whistle to someone else. Maybe they could get some good
out of it.
That card game was his last chance, and he blew it. The old man figured that
he'd be better off in Hell anyway-- it couldn't be any worse than here in
Chicago in the summer. Well, now it wasn't so funny, and Schultz wasn't
laughing when he took the whistle from the old man. The moment he touched
it, he felt a shiver as a wave of cold hit him, but it was just for a second.
Schultz didn't know whether to be frightened or to throw down the whistle
and run like hell. He could do neither, so he silently placed the whistle in his
pocket and gave the old man a hundred dollar bill, telling him to drink it up
and forget the whole thing.
Well, it's "Different strokes for different folks," and where the old man had
nothing but bad luck, Schultz had nothing but good luck. Money, booze and
broads came his way in profusion. Anything Schultz wanted, he got. If he
wanted a car, he got it. If he wanted a house, he got it. If he wanted a
woman, he got her too. After a while, he became bored with life as there was
no challenge anymore. If he went to Vegas and flipped a silver dollar over
his shoulder onto a Roulette wheel, he won. If he played craps, he won. If he
said "Hi" to some woman, he'd be sleeping with her before he knew it. What
the hell... Poker was his game.
This went on until one day when his heart could take no more. Schultz had
never blown his "Devil's" whistle because he always figured that someday
he'd even be happier than he was, but now it was too late. So one night, he
found himself walking down by the railroad yards just looking at the trains as
they passed by and rattled the tracks. It wasn't long before he felt a sharp
pain in his chest and a dull ache in his left arm. He was frozen with fear, for
he knew that he was going to die right then and there. He couldn't speak a
word or yell for help. It was over. His face started to flush and he sank to his
knees. It was only a moment or two before Schultz lost consciousness and
fell to the earth in death. Funny, though, his ghost was still on his knees
holding his chest with both hands looking down at his expired physical body
there on the cinders. His consciousness had passed from his physical body to
his ethereal body and he was taking it all in.
Well, at least it didn't hurt any more. Let's not kid ourselves, Schultz had just
undergone a profound experience, and he was a might confused. Things
didn't look any different, and he felt fine. He didn't know how to explain that.
Then all of a sudden, he heard the most forlorn sound that he had ever heard
in his whole existence. Off in the distance, he heard the ethereal whistle of
Old Phantom #9, The Ghost Train from Hell. Instinctively, he knew that the
ghost train was coming for him, and there was nothing he could do about it.
In good time, the #9 rolled to a stop right in front of him. The door hissed
open and there stood the Devil in his shiny black conductor's cap and
uniform. It seemed the most natural thing in the world as the Devil held out
Schultz's ticket in his hand... "Come on board, Schultz," said the Devil,
"This is the Ghost Train to Hell, and you've got a reserved seat." Well, there
was nothing for it, and Schultz knew it. Never once had he went to church or
even listened to those preachers who once in a while had the audacity to
make the rounds of the gambling halls and bars. He sure didn't belong to the
Nazarene or his Father. In his own heart, Schultz knew that he belonged in
Hell with the rest of his kind, so he got to his feet, shook hands with the Devil
and climbed on board.
What the Hell! It wasn't so bad. On board, the Devil ushered him to the
gambling car where he met all of his friends. Why, even the blond was there.
She had rode out to welcome him and bring him home. Schultz sat down at a
table, picked up a deck and started to play Poker. Soon, they had a fine game
going and the waitresses brought the drinks. The blond sat down next to him
and started shoveling money into his valise and every now and again , she
would feed him a sandwich and a cold beer.
It was great! At last he was just where he wanted to be, and he was as happy
as he knew he would ever get. All was well, and the money kept pouring in.
The people laughed, the booze flowed, and the Devil announced that Hell
was the next stop in about 10 minutes. OK, Schultz was as happy as he could
ever be, and then he remembered the old man as he patted his vest pocket
where he felt to lump that was the Railroad Whistle from Hell that would stop
time right then and there wherever he happened to be. It was then that
Schultz had his greatest, grandest idea. The Devil wasn't looking, and it was
but the work of a second... Schultz reached into his pocket, pulled it out,
took a deep breath and BLEW HIS WHIS---
