Uploaded June 10,1998
Chapter9
New Jersey Jack
His area of
expertise lay in the graphic arts, painting, illustration,
penmanship. George had a fine eye for detail and a steady hand and
would regularly turn out little masterpieces of art for school
fairs, academic prizes and birthday gifts. He was also able to turn
his hand to fine sculpturing, using his dextrous fingers to produce
lifelike models of objects around him. Those same dextrous fingers
were employed in his hobby, card tricks. The man was so proficient
at making cards appear and vanish into the most unlikely places
that he was even called on occasionally to perform at social
functions. He was immensely popular with his pupils, particularly
those of the fair sex, and would flirt shamelessly with them both in
class and after school. Herein lay the path to Lancelot's downfall.
He was a young man of 22, cast into a position of authority and
maturity over students who were only four and five years his
juniors. It is one thing to be Mr. Lancelot, Sir in a class of
twenty students. It is a whole different situation when on picnics
and social functions one is thrown into close proximity with those
self-same students on a one-to-one basis, in the same age group,
with similar interests in dancing and fun-fairs and trips to the
Boardwalk in Atlantic city. Well, the inevitable had to happen,
(that's what inevitable means) and George found himself in the
awkward position of having to grade papers from Monday to Friday of
a young woman whom on Saturday he was seeing a great deal. A very
great deal, as he had, among other things, persuaded her to pose for
him while he painted her portrait. Considerably under-clad. And then
they were found out. Now in the early part of this century a scandal
such as this could travel like wildfire from one end of a small
community to the other and back again faster than a new groom could
turn off the light. And it did. And when it reached certain female
ears, it brought forth further tales of similar activities with
other young ladies. George
apparently was a man of great charm and persuasive ability, and
going on the number of young ladies who developed attacks of the
vapors on hearing the gossip, apparently also great stamina. Now
this was in a time where the father was the undisputed head of the
house and it was his duty to support his family and to right all
wrongs perpetuated against it. Not the way we do these days, in
courts. Rather by physical intervention. In a country where not only
do the citizens have the right to bear arms, but are damn fools if
they don't, a man finding himself in the invidious position of being
accused of a crime and knowing that not only will his protestations
of innocence not be heeded, they are also wrong, does himself a
great favor by removing his person from the immediate surrounds. In
other words, when six irate fathers come knocking at your door to
discuss matters with you, all of them armed with products from the
Smith & Wesson factory in Massachusetts, the best way to greet them
is from the next county. So that is what George Baker Lancelot did.
He packed his carpet-bag, he pocketed his special deck of cards and
he left through the back door with considerable alacrity.
Lancelot's travels took him rapidly away from New Jersey into Ohio.
He thought of re-establishing himself there as an artist, but heard
that the Plainfield fathers had each contributed to the employment
of a Pinkerton man who's charge was to return George dead or alive,
and dead travelled cheaper because the coffin went at baggage rates.
The era of the steam boats was coming to an end on the Great Rivers,
mostly due to the irrepressable onslaught of the railroads as they
took away freight and passenger services from alternative methods. A gambler earns his living by playing the odds using a
deck of cards. No longer as George Baker Lancelot,
though. Scared by the Pinkerton pursuit, George had quickly changed
his name to Jack Lazyacre, calling himself after the name of a
property owned by a former professor of his from the Polytechnik.
Anyone who depends on the arrival of fresh wallets to empty is
welcoming of a new face at the table, and Jack had space made for
him with courtesy and civility. Poker can
produce strange hands, times when a pair of twos can win thousands,
times when four kings isn't good enough. It
takes either a brave or a foolish man to be so blatant in the
presence of professionals, and no-one would believe that the
perpetrator could walk away unscathed. But
life had changed in one way on the boats since the old days after
the end of the Civil War. Gambling debts had been ruled by the
Supreme Court not to be binding on Federal Territory, and while
underway, a riverboat in the middle of a river was on Federal
Territory. So a man caught cheating could laugh in the face of his
accuser and walk away from the table. This of course didn't mean
that he was off scot-free. It just meant that he could walk away
from the table. He then was faced with the distinct possibility of
middle-of-the-night callers, around-the-next bulkhead lurkers,
through the next doorway knife-wielders, or once again transporters
of Messrs. Smith & Wessons merchandise, requesting immediate
redemption of funds.
Jack was not a stupid man.
As has been seen, he was highly intelligent as a child,
well-educated in his youth and young manhood, had had experiences
the envy of story-tellers, and had done his homework. In his
carpetbag Jack had packed certain items prepared in his cabin before
he had entered the gambling saloon on the stern-wheeler. He had a
long wig.
He left the gambling saloon on the second deck of the Mississippi
riverboat, the Proud Myrtle, pausing to light a cheroot in the
doorway. He turned to the right, heading for his cabin. Jack
had rehearsed this a number of times in Ohio, so with no delay, he
donned the black shirt, cassock, wig, beard. He attached the stiff
collar backwards, he grasped his bible and exited the room, dropping
the now empty carpetbag over the railing to be churned into the
muddy water by the paddle-wheel. At midnight, the Proud Myrtle
docked at Rock Island in Illinois, the site of the first railway
bridge over the mighty river. Lazyzcre was on the dock via the
engine room deck before the bow and stern ropes were tied. In his
black cassock he was invisible in the gloom of the night, and into
that gloom he disappeared, un-noticed although sorely missed by his
former playing partners who at that moment were standing with hands
under coats waiting at the gangplank for the appearance of their
sporting companion.
Lazyacre spent the night in a little hotel on the Moline road and in
the morning crossed the river to Davenport in Iowa. Here he
temporarily established himself in a boarding house, charming the
landlady and his fellow residents with his wit and humor and above
all, his gentle piety. So impressed were some of these aquaintances
that before long Jack was asked to baptize the infant nephew of the
landlady's sister. He accompanied the family down to Credit Island,
just downstream, and in the backwater he called on the Lord to bless
the child. Now it doesn't matter if an un-ordained person baptizes a
child, they are still baptized.
Not so with a wedding.
While resident in Davenport, Jack performed a number of weddings,
producing legitimate looking licences and registration forms for
signature. His favorite venue was on the river levee, where he would
exhort the newly-wed couple to labor in the Lord and be fruitful and
multiply. Then he would pocket his fee and repair to his room to
print off more licences and registration forms.
(To this day, Davenport is suspected of having one of the biggest
collections of progeny of unlawful couplings that is to be found in
the continental United States.)
Jack Lazyacre spent a pleasant and financially beneficial summer in
Iowa and then, using the technique at which he had become expert,
disappeared without trace. The overweight, cleanshaven and spectacled
businessman who boarded the train heading west from the Davenport
station above 6th St at Main drew not a glance from the local people
gathered on the platform, and Reverend Lazyacre was gone from their
lives.
Each unknown to all the others.
But the occasional old stern-wheeler still plied its trade from
Cinncinatti down the Ohio River and by stages, a passenger could
still make his way to New Orleans at the delta end of the
Mississippi, or travel north to the frigid waters of Minnesota.
And
because Federal regulations hadn't caught up with them, the
river-boats still were the mecca for the man wanting to support the
professional gambler in the manner to which he had become
accustomed.
If the game is honest, the skill lies in knowing when
to hold them, when to fold them, when to run.
And with that skill
comes success. Of course, in the hands of a very skilled card
magician, a deck can do whatever he decides it should, regardless of
the odds.
A man practiced in the art of sleight-of-hand using 52
pieces of pasteboard can, with little effort, make every hand a
winner, every hand a loser.
In a living-room, this is called
entertainment.
On a riverboat, at a table with professional
pokerfaces, this is called sure suicide.
But until you get
caught, it is a licence to print money, and so that is exactly what
Lancelot proceeded to do.
Which continued all the way through
the first few hours as poker chips criss-crossed the table in an
even ebb and flow.
Then the flow seemed to outweigh the ebb a
little.
Especially when it was Jack's turn with the deal.
And that is accepted and
understood by every poker player.
But not sixteen hands straight.
Or at least unchallenged.
He had a false beard.
He had a black cassock.
He had a
stiff white collar.
He had a black shirt.
He had a Bible.
As soon as
he was out of sight he climbed the rail and dropped to the lower
deck. Opening a cabin door he slipped inside where he had previously
stashed his bag. The curtains were drawn, the light was out.