Shadows Bend

by David Barbour

  Glory’s sister, Beatrice, appeared to be about five years her elder.

  Her station was behind the ornate wrought-iron grillwork of the cashier’s booth, and when Glory surprised her and they embraced through the bars it looked as if she were in a baroque jail cell. Glory made introductions, Beatrice eyeing the men, particularly Lovecraft, with a hint of suspicion. But she was pleasant, and after she signaled for someone to cover for her, she motioned the men over. “Here, please accept a complimentary chip on the house.” She gave Lovecraft and Howard each a fifty-cent chip. “You can only spend it here. Good luck.” Taking the hint, Lovecraft and Howard excused themselves to wander about the casino while the sisters absorbed themselves in their sisterly talk.

  The casino was hardly full. As they walked about, obviously at a loss for what to do, a dealer motioned them over to an empty blackjack table.

  “Afternoon, gents. Care to try a hand of blackjack?”

  Howard looked down at the chip in his hand as if he had never seen one before. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Howard pulled at the dressing on his arm and produced the chip Imanito had wrapped there. It bore the symbol of a rock-exactly like’ the chips Beatrice had given them. “Now how do ya suppose he knew,’ huh?”

  “Once again, I must beg your pardon, Bob. I have no clue regarding your allusion.”

  “Imanito gave me this chip from this club.” When Lovecraft didn’t share his wonder, Howard simply shrugged. “Whaddaya say, Hp? We’ve both got a chip, and now there’s this extra. How’ bout some blackjack? ”

  “No thank you, Bob. I believe I’ve experienced enough cheap parlor tricks for one trip with our Indian companion last night.” He handed his chip to Howard. “By all means though, you go right ahead and give this fine establishment its money back.”

  “Since you’re insistin’.”

  Howard placed both chips on the table and on his first hand he hit blackjack: a queen of spades and an ace of clubs. The dealer stopped with eighteen, and Howard had doubled his money. He grinned with pleasure and let the money ride, winning again. “Hey,” he said. “This could get to be fun.”

  The dealer lost the next four hands in a row, busting each time after a sixteen or seventeen and Howard was up to sixteen dollars. Lovecraft was suspicious, but was not sure why until he realized that Howard had never been dealt a red card. Lovecraft paid close attention to the dealer now, but there was nothing amiss about his dealing except for the occasional twitch in his neck-probably just a nervous tic from working in such a stressful establishment. Now Lovecraft turned his attention to Howard, watching from behind as he flipped his facedown cards over to examine them. There was also nothing amiss, but once, as Howard was in the process of turning the card over and it still faced the table at an oblique angle so that its suit was still hidden to Howard, Lovecraft was sure he saw a seven of hearts. He was certain of it-it flashed a brilliant red, but then as the card angled up between Howard’s thumb and forefinger, it seemed to shimmer for a split second, and what Howard saw was a nine of spades. Lovecraft rubbed his eyes and shook his head. He tried to follow the turning of other cards, but Howard never again flipped one at just the right angle.

  Finally, Lovecraft pulled Howard aside. “Doesn’t this seem to be the least bit strange to you?”

  “What? I’m up to thirty-two bucks already.”

  “I do not profess to know much about games of chance, but this dealer seems suspiciously inept. And have you noticed that you haven’t held a single red card? That flies against the laws of probability.”

  “Look, I know you see Cthulhu arid your Great Old Ones in every dark corner, but I don’t think he hangs out in a damned casino. Leave me be, okay?”

  The dealer was looking off toward the dining area where a pair of well-dressed gentlemen were nursing their drinks. He turned back to Howard and nervously interrupted his conversation to challenge him to go double or nothing on one last hand.

  “What-am I winnin’ too much for ya?”

  “No, sir. I’m going off duty in a minute. You’re more than welcome to continue with the new dealer, but I thought I should do you the honor.”

  Lovecraft could not fail to notice where the dealer’s eyes kept looking. Howard accepted the challenge and won again. “That was fast,” said Howard. “How about another hand before you’re off?”

  “Sir, ah…”

  Lovecraft pulled Howard aside and whispered, sternly, “Bob, listen to me very carefully. I would strongly suggest that you heed the old maxim ‘quit while you’re ahead.’ ”

  Howard took a deep breath, ready to argue his point, but the genuine concern in Lovecraft’s eyes sobered him, and in a moment he regained control of his senses. “You-you’re right, HP. Hell, I’ve got more than enough to get my car fixed up.”

  “Yes, you do. Now, shall we see if Miss McKenna has returned?”

  Howard swept up his winnings with a flourish and thanked the dealer while Lovecraft eyed the man warily and cast a furtive glance back toward the dark corner booth. There was something familiar about that palpably thick darkness, and a sense of dread made Lovecraft hasten his steps to follow Howard out of the room.

  They found that Beatrice was back in the cashier’s booth and Glory was loitering just in front of the bars, talking to her. Howard proudly scattered his winnings on the speckled marble counter in front of a rather surprised Beatrice and announced jubilantly, “Miss McKenna, I just won fifty dollars at the blackjack table thanks to the chips you gave me an’ HP.”

  Beatrice was incredulous. “In ten minutes? With only a dollar to start with? Why you must be a regular card shark, Mr. Howard.”

  Howard beamed with misplaced pride; Lovecraft rolled his eyes as Beatrice exchanged the chips for cash and counted it out. “Glory,” said Howard, “now we can get that damn suspension fixed so ya won’t be bangin’ your head on the roof no more.”

  “I need to talk to you boys for a minute,” said Glory, her voice almost grave. She led the puzzled men away from the counter and her, sister. She hesitated before she said, “I-I’m staying here.”

  “What?” Howard suddenly realized how much he wanted her to come with them. It was some unconscious assumption he had made, but now the thought of her staying in Vegas made him feel an unexpected desperation. “But you can’t—” He stopped himself as he realized that she had no way of knowing all the things the old shaman had told him and Lovecraft the night before.

  Lovecraft quickly interjected to cover his companion’s gaping question mark. “Miss McKenna, Bob and I think that owing to the strangeness of the situations we’ve encountered recently, it might perhaps be in everyone’s best interests for you to accompany us on the remainder of our journey. Or at least until we can get things sorted out.”

  Howard glanced over at Lovecraft, impressed by the subtle way he had just pleaded with Glory, but when he looked at her to see if she had bought any of it, she was frowning.

  “What does that mean?” she asked. “Whose best interests? Yours or mine?”

  For once, Lovecraft found himself at a complete loss for words.

  “Look, I appreciate the ride and all—” Glory stopped in mid-sentence and laughed at what she had just said. “No, actually I don’t appreciate the ride at all, it’s been pretty god damn hellish for the most part!” The men were forced to acknowledge her candor with subdued, nervous chuckles, but she didn’t let that disarm her. “To tell you the truth, I’m just plain scared of whatever it is you two are mixed up in, and I’ve got a terrible feeling in the pit of my stomach that it’s going to get worse if I don’t get out of it right now.”

  They knew she was right. And yet, even with what Imanito had told them about her still ringing in their ears, they had to admit that they did not fully believe him. They looked at each other, both thinking that they must tell her what the old shaman had said. Howard began:

  “Look, Glory—ah, I don’t even
know what the hell’s really happening here, but there’s something we’ve gotta tell ya—somethin’ the Indian told us about—”

  Glory interrupted forcefully, “You both thought he was a crazy old man, right?”

  “For the most part, yes,” Lovecraft reluctantly agreed.

  “Right, so I couldn’t care less whatever it is he said when you all had that little powwow I couldn’t see. Look, I’m sorry, but I’m staying here with my sister and my little nephew-and that’s that.” Glory stood with her arms folded defiantly at her stomach, but her tone was soft now. “I wish you both the best on this quest or whatever it is you’re on.”

  They had lost the argument.

  “Thank you,” said Lovecraft. He saw that Howard’s posture was sagging, and yet tense, as if he had not decided whether to accept defeat or explode in anger.

  “Thanks,” Howard said, shoving his hands into his pockets.

  Glory stepped up to them, lowering her arms, and then she suddenly hugged them both at the same time, much to their astonishment and embarrassment. “Good-bye,” she said. “Say hello to your friend Smith for me when you get to California and tell him that I loved ‘The Litany of the Seven Kisses.’ I think it’s the best poem he ever wrote.”

  Lovecraft pretended to straighten his already too-wrinkled suit. “Ah-I will gladly pass along your compliments to our dear friend, although I believe ‘The Hashish Eater’ to be his finest achievement myself.”

  Glory smiled at Lovecraft’s maddening habit of always having to have the last word. As she walked away from the two men she turned. “Never thought I’d say this, but I’m thinking I might actually miss you, HP.” She gave a tiny wave and went on her way.

  Lovecraft was puzzled but secretly flattered; he turned to Howard to say something, clearly unable to hide the pleasure on his face.

  “Now what the hell does that mean?” said Howard. “‘I think I might actually miss you, HP.’” He did a coy imitation of Glory’s voice. “There somethin’ you ain’t tellin’ me?”

  “Not a thing,” Lovecraft replied. “Not a thing.”

  IN THE SHADOWED corner booth across the large game room, two dark figures sat watching. It appeared that they were playing five-card draw, but it was either a laughable imitation or some perverse variation of their own making. The men held their five-card hands splayed out, faces directed at the other player. They did not draw from the pile in front of them, and they did not discard. At first glance they seemed merely to be showing each other their hands, holding the cards still as if the other had difficulty reading them; but on closer examination one would have seen subtle changes-the red ink on the two of hearts bleeding into a six of diamonds, the face of a one-eyed jack contorting into that of a suicide king. To fix your gaze on a single card would have been like trying to hold down a bead of quicksilver under a finger only to have it scatter and re-form elsewhere. What the shadow men played at was a test of wills, each holding his hand while trying to change his opponent’s into something inferior, and when they were done they scattered the rectangular cuts of paper across the tabletop, entirely blank.

  THE CHEVY CLANKED and clattered especially loudly as if it were on its proverbial last legs, and Howard could have sworn he felt potholes in the immaculately paved Vegas street. At the garage he ordered the cracked windshield and suspension to be repaired, slipping the elderly mechanic an extra five to have it done by nightfall instead of having to wait overnight.

  “I can give you a deal on some new paint,” the mechanic said, running his fingers over a patch that had been sandblasted in the storm.

  “I ain’t concerned about the looks of her,” said Howard. “She can look like a nag as long as she runs like a mustang.”

  “There’s fine-looking mustangs and there’s ugly ones, if you know what I mean.”

  “Look, I don’t need no paint, old-timer.” Howard walked back to the car and told Lovecraft they should split up while he took care of some business.

  “What business would you have in Las Vegas?” Lovecraft asked, rather puzzled.

  “Man like me’s got business in lotsa places, HP. Why don’t ya take in the scenery and we can meet later at that restaurant down the street. You remember what it was called?”

  “The Grand Gallery? It hardly seems auspicious to dine at a place named for a tomb.”

  “What?”

  “A certain interior feature of the Great Pyramid is called ‘The Grand Gallery’.”

  “Well, what do I care? It ain’t like we’re gonna get beaned by some fallin’ bricks, right?”

  “I suppose not. Very well, I shall meet you there, although I find this business of yours highly unlikely.”

  “You go on and think whatever ya like. Two hours. Just don’t be late, hear?”

  “I understand.” Lovecraft stood for a moment and looked around, scanning north to south and east to west as if getting his bearings. He really had no place in mind, but the thought of wandering through this just-established town had a certain appeal. He gave Howard a nod and headed up the street toward what seemed to e the denser part of town.

  Lovecraft found himself oddly out of sorts as he walked along the streets. He didn’t understand what it was at first-he enjoyed wandering through towns and cities without any real destination—but then he realized that it was a sense of unrealness he felt. The buildings were all new, so freshly constructed that they seemed almost to have sharp edges, and the streets were all too wide and too orderly, the paved streets too neat and clean. Under the big sky with nothing on the near horizon, the buildings seemed two-dimensional. He wouldn’t have been surprised to discover that they were mere facades like those Hollywood towns propped up on wood braces with nothing more than empty lots behind them.

  On one of the side streets he found a low stucco building that announced itself as the public library. Inside, he found it impossibly dim until his eyes adjusted, and then he was disappointed to see how pitifully inadequate it was. He had seen reading rooms better stocked. For a moment he entertained the notion of staying and browsing through their selection of magazines, but when he saw their pathetic selection he approached the librarian’s counter. “I beg your pardon,” he said, “but might you have a title called Weird Tales among your periodicals?”

  The librarian was in the back room, and when she emerged, Lovecraft immediately knew the answer. She had her spectacles dangling from a chain around her neck, and if it weren’t for the heat, she would surely have worn a cardigan sweater with index cards protruding from the pockets. “Weird Tales?” she said. “I can assure you we carry only wholesome periodicals, sir. You’ll have to check the tobacco shop for that.”

  “I beg your pardon,” said Lovecraft. “But if you would bother to look beyond the covers of that journal, you would find some fine examples of popular writing.”

  “I beg your pardon,” replied the woman.

  “And are these all your books? Or perhaps I’ve stumbled unwittingly across the Las Vegas branch library?”

  The woman gave a wry smile at this. “This is Las Vegas, sir. Strangers don’t usually come here searching for reading material. Unless maybe they’ve lost all their money and are waiting for their companions to do the same.”

  Lovecraft left with a terse “good day” and walked out again into the red glare of the early-evening sun. A steady wind blew from the east it would have been cold blowing so hard if not for the desert heat it carried. All along the eastward horizon, from one end to the other, a vast pall of ominous clouds hung so low the sky underneath was no more than a ribbon. Jags of lightning flashed in the distance, and yet no sound carried in the quiet roar of the wind. Lovecraft turned west to put his back to the wind; he wandered, meandering through the still-forming idea of a town until the first neon signs lit up the semidarkness, and then he walked back to the Grand Gallery. By then the wind was strong enough to carry an abrasive cloud of Nevada sand, and as Lovecraft squinted to keep it from his eyes and hunched his shoulders to ke
ep it from his neck, he remembered how, years ago, he had dreamed of visiting the great Giza pyramids across the Nile from the ancient city of Cairo.

  At the restaurant, the waitress placed Lovecraft by a window away from the other tables. He sat there, fiddling with his pen, trying to get ink out of its recalcitrant tip. He shook it vigorously, and tapped it, and nearly dug through three layers of paper with its clogged point, but all he got was a few blackish clots. “Confounded pen!” he exclaimed before he suddenly realized that the clots were dried animal blood from their siege in the desert. He had just given up on the idea of writing when Howard appeared over him, laughing at his misfortune much to his annoyance.

  “It appears you are late for our appointment,” declared Lovecraft. “And it is no laughing matter for a writer to be without a reliable pen.”

  “Wouldn’t know about that, HP. I’m a confirmed typewriter myself.” Howard scooted into the seat opposite and pointed out the window, where Lovecraft could see the Chevy looking somehow refreshed—though he knew nothing had been done to improve its outward appearance.

  “I don’t know how anyone can compose on those loathsome clattering machines. To my dying day, longhand will always be my preferred method.” Lovecraft lifted his pen again, then decided against another futile attempt and let it drop to the table with a clatter.