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Games of Chance

by Jenthegypsy
June 15, 2005

He found the lad sitting alone, back to the wall, hat pulled low to hide his youth. Jack had marked the boy’s arrival early in the afternoon, gliding through the crowded harbor in a sweet little catboat right full with the day’s catch.

“A hand for a measure of rum, sir?”

Jack Sparrow was not one to play games of chance; his life was a game of chance, but maybe, as means to a particular end….

“What’s in it for me when I win, son?” he asked, taking a chair opposite the boy and setting a bottle of the dark libation at the table’s center. “I got me own rum.”

Fine boned fingers, creamy brown to his golden, moved on the table to reveal a small pile of coin. “If you win, sir, the coin is yours. More likely that bottle will be mine when the cards ‘r turned.”

If you win. Cocksure little bugger and far too fetching to be sitting in a place like this alone. “I’ve no need of your coin, boy. Why risk it, when you could just buy yourself a bottle an’ be done with it?”

The boy tipped his head back to peer out from under the hat, and Jack saw the flame from the candles reflected in those slow black eyes. Near perfect lips twitched, a smile narrowly averted. “Where’d be the fun in that, sir?”

Jack raised one brow, tilted his head to the side, and graced the lad with the warm gold of his smile.

“You’ve got the goods, I’ll say that for you.” A moment’s more contemplation and then, “All right!” He clapped his hands together once and pulled the deck of well-worn cards to him, surreptitiously checking for marks while apparently making a witless shambles of the shuffle.

“What’s your name, young master?” Jack slid the deck back across the table, registering the ghost of a frown that flitted across that otherwise neutral face. There was just the slightest of hesitations as the boy quickly fit the lie.

“Anatole,” was the reply, as the cards were cut and pushed back for the deal.

“Well then, Anatole, what’s say we put the fun in this game by raisin’ the stakes a bit, eh?” A small leather purse appeared from the internal depths of the pirate’s greatcoat, and was set with a weighty clunk on the table before him.

“A hand, as you said. One hand. I put up me purse, an’ you?” Jack looked directly into those defiant black eyes as he twirled one beard braid between thumb and forefinger. “You put up your little boat.”

“The Jolly Mon?”

“Is that what you call her?” Gold flashed again, predatory now, reflected in brown eyes that were no longer playful.

“Aye. You put up the Jolly Mon against me purse, an’ may the best man win.”

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