Diamond Jack was created for the roleplaying game Deadlands by Pinnacle Entertainment Group, and most recently, for the Savage Worlds version of Deadlands, also by PEG.
Concentrating on the hex, Jack fanned the cards – faintly shimmering with some internal mystic energy – that materialized in his hand.
“’Dat chew, Diamon’?”
Looking up from the cards toward the deep voice that rumbled out of the sudden darkness, Jack saw that he was once again in The Joint.
From the inside, the place appeared to be some backwoods booze shack, a gathering spot for Negroes to live it up, whooping and dancing, drinking and gambling; spending their hard-earned pennies in the small hours of the morning. None were around now, but once in a while, the wind howling around the place carried the clatter of beer glasses or a peal of faraway laughter to Jack’s ears.
The place was dimly lit by several low-burning candles on crude shelves adorning each wall. Gaps between the bare wooden wall slats themselves revealed only inky darkness. A low bar ran along the far wall, and behind it, bottles of various colors and shapes glittered in the dimness; some ordinary booze bottles, others bearing more mysterious contents.
Most of the floor was a wide-open expanse, whether for dancing or some other business Jack did not know, for he had never seen anyone in the place except for The Joint’s lone occupant, seated at the nearest of three small tables against the left wall.
“You gon’ stan’ they a-gawkin’ all night, boy, ‘r ya come ta play?”
“Clubborg.” Jack tipped his hat and moseyed toward the table where the massive black man waited. The wooden chair fairly groaned under his rolling bulk. Dressed in a stylish but rumpled black suit, the man held a poker hand of faintly-glowing cards balanced on the tabletop in a meaty grip, and a tumbler of some dark beverage sat close. A big, ebony-black bald head sat necklessly atop broad shoulders, jowls shaking with a rolling chuckle, oddly-pointed yellowed teeth glinting. As always, the eyes were impenetrable pools of shadow.
“Why now, Diamon’, I done tol’ you time an’ again ta jes call me Club.” The chuckle died out. “Ain’ no call for True Names aroun’ here.”
Jack grinned as he slid out his chair and took a seat. “Oh, but I wouldn’t want to forget you, now, Club. I find our little…entertainments…so engaging!”
The black man’s cheerful demeanor had vanished. “So what you be wantin’ out ol’ Club this time? You wantin’ a tetch bettuh line o’ bull to impress some cooze down in da Quarter?”
Jack chuckled at the manitou’s words. “Think I’ve got that one covered. Naw, all I need this time is for you to hide this here magic for a few hours.” Jack waved his hand and a small ghostly image of brushy ground appeared, superimposed on the tabletop. A small mound of rocks were prominently visible in the image.
Club leaned over toward the image and, shooting Jack a quick grin, sniffed at the image.
“Oh, yeah, I sees whut ya mean. ‘Deys sumpin’ hid dere real good, sho’ ‘nuff. So you wants ol’ Club ta cover up that magic for a spell. Well, let’s git to it.”
The two men compared their cards, and Jack’s pair of aces, albeit completed by a wild Joker, won the hand. Jack noticed Club’s eyes widen slightly when he saw the Joker. “Playin’ de Joker, eh, Jack? Mus’ want ta hide dem rocks pow’ful bad, no? You knows what dat Joker dere mean?”
“My pair of Aces means you’re gonna hide ‘em for me, aintcha, CLUBBORG?”
Club grinned foully and waved his hand. “Dere, dey’s hid. But dat Joker means I gits me some, too, Diamon’… Ain’ all you dis time…not dis time!”
As the juke joint faded around him, Club’s laughter rang out loud and evil in his ears. At the last instant, before the Joint was fully replaced by pastoral brushland, the candles lining the walls flared brightly, forming a ring of flame around the disoriented gambler.
Blinking his eyes, Jack found that he was once again in the sticks. Oddly, though, the candlelight had not faded. Jack realized with growing horror that, where the candles once lined the walls of the Joint, small, but rapidly growing flames festered in the underbrush. Jack was surrounded by a spreading ring of fire.
“Damn you, Clubborg, damn you to HELL!” Grabbing the horn of Black Pete’s saddle, Jack clumsily mounted the skittish horse. “C’mon, boy. We gotta get us outta this fire. Nudging Pete in the withers, the horse started forward, but balked at the flames. Pulling the reins toward a quickly shrinking gap in the fire-ring, Jack kicked Pete hard, yelling “Hiyaahh!” Pete got the message, and, snorting with fear, skittered through the gap before breaking into a fast canter once he was out into the darkness. Jack rubbed the horse’s neck soothingly. “Good boy.”
As he hit the river road back toward New Orleans, Jack glanced back toward the small grass fire his misadventure had spawned. The smoke from the blaze formed a perfect arrow pointing down, straight down toward the very site Jack had sought to conceal.
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Next post - Diamond Jack's background story.
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