Dead Man's Hand

by Pati Nagle

  The game at some of the tables was twenty-one, though here it was called “Blackjack,” and again it was too fast and included variations he did not understand. It was being dealt by a uniformed individual, a formality of which he disapproved. It was common enough for faro, where the house often held the bank, but not for twenty-one and such. He saw no faro tables, though there were large tables for throwing dice.

  Continuing to stroll, he saw a light growing stronger ahead of him. He quickened his stride and saw that he was approaching a row of glass doors through which daylight shone. Passing through them, he felt a rush of elation as he found himself on the Boardwalk.

  Like the rest of the world, it had changed. The wooden walk itself was three or four times as wide as it had been in his day. Gone were the beachside bathing machines, the hotels and dance halls. In their place stood enormous buildings aglitter with moving electrical lights of every imaginable color, flashing and gleaming with amazing brilliance even at the height of day. With his newspapers tucked securely beneath his arm, Clive walked slowly along, staring in awe at each glimmering building he passed.

  Some were taller than the Brooklyn Bridge, or so it seemed. These had fanciful names, and all seemed to be called “hotel and casino.” Between them, smaller buildings were adorned with signs advertising all manner of attractions, food, and souvenirs.

  In all, the place had a carnival air, though Clive sensed a sinister undertone. His skin prickled with anticipation, of what he knew not. As he trod the boardwalk, his sense of destiny grew.

  Another of the large hotels caught his attention. Behind a wall of glass doors he saw more lights glimmering, and people moving about. A casino again; gathering his resolve, he went in and was again assailed with a glamour of light, sound, and color.

  A glowing pink sign in the distance read “POKER,” and he could not resist investigating. He made his way toward it.

  The sign marked the entrance to a large room filled with a dozen or more card tables. Most were empty, but two hosted poker games, also with uniformed dealers. The players here, as at the other tables he’d seen, were betting colored markers instead of money. Clive frowned, misliking these changes. The markers might be backed with money—he would have to find out.

  The uniformed dealers were worse. Not being allowed to deal robbed the professional gambler of certain advantages. Clive had personally, on one memorable occasion, dealt four aces to every player at a table, just to prove he could.

  Poker had survived the years of his hiatus, however, and for that he could only be glad. He watched the game for a while, noticing changes. For one thing, the play went so quickly he could scarcely follow it. The dealer, a woman, spun the cards to each player with a speed and precision he could only admire, and managed multiple pots equally as fast. Confounded by what was happening at the table, Clive stood a little apart, watching intently.

  The game seemed to be stud, with seven cards instead of five, and five of them shared cards on the board. There didn’t appear to be much challenge in that, but Clive was willing to give it a try. His fingers tingled at the thought of playing again, but he knew he needed to understand the game first. Five shared cards changed the odds, and threw enormous importance on the two in each player’s hand.

  Fairly frequently a player would say, with a certain ceremony, “I’m all in,” and push all his markers across a line drawn around the center of the table. This was what caused the multiple pots, if other players exceeded the bet. As Clive began to understand the flow of the play his admiration of the dealer grew. She kept track of which players had a stake in each pot, rapidly made change with different colored markers, and raked a percentage for the house, or so it appeared.

  That meant the markers were indeed backed with money. Clive felt a rush of excitement and looked around for a cashier.

  There was no sign advertising such, but a woman stood attentively behind a counter nearby. She was a dusky madame of indifferent years, handsome enough, wearing a close-fitting gown of black. Her face was painted, but this appeared to be commonplace, for most of the women he had seen wore paint. She smiled as Clive stepped up to her.

  “Would you like to play?”

  Clive returned the smile. “Yes, indeed.”

  “Twenty dollars to get in the game.” The woman set two diminutive stacks of blue and white markers before her. “Dollar chips,” she said. “Blinds are a dollar and two dollars. Minimum bet’s two.”

  Clive brought his slip of paper out of his pocket and offered it to her.

  “That’s from the Taj Majal, honey. It’s no good here. Go on back to the Taj and you can use it to play the slots.”

  Hiding his disappointment as well as his confusion, Clive mustered a last charming smile. “Thank you.”

  She raised an eyebrow, then put away the markers—the chips. Clive turned away, feeling a flush of color rise in his cheeks.

  He thought briefly of offering to deal, but discarded the notion. He couldn’t deal as swiftly as the uniformed dealers, nor calculate the pots. There was too much he didn’t understand about this new version of poker. It would take time to learn, and he didn’t have much time. He had enough for one meal in his pocket.

  Suddenly he felt oppressed, overwhelmed by the lights and the noise, confined despite the size of the gaming hall. He hurried away, back to the boardwalk, and almost gasped with relief as he stepped outside into the brisk air.

  Blinking at brightness, he crossed the boardwalk and found steps descending to the beach. He strode across the sand toward the ocean, wanting to be alone and away from all the noise and glitter behind him.

  When he reached the hard surface of damp sand, he stopped and stood gazing at the sea, listening to the rumble of the surf. This was one thing man could not change, and it gave him a sense of stability. Far out on the ocean a storm was brewing, blue-gray clouds hanging low, dulling the water to a stormy greenish blue. It fit with Clive’s mood.

  Why had he come here? Following that small voice. Had it misled him, this time?

  No. He had found what he wanted, a place to gamble, a place to make his fortune anew. That he must first exert a little effort was humbling, but he would not let it discourage him. It was right to be here, he knew it in his bones. He had been called here, and the call was ever stronger.

  A chill shivered through him and he turned, surveying the boardwalk and the monstrous, glittering hotels that stood along it. Called here. He was certain of it. Not just here, to Atlantic City, but to a specific place here, a place he had yet to find. Frowning, he stared at each hotel in turn, trying to sense which of them might be the place he wanted.

  Madness. Jones had knocked him on the head and addled his wits. Clive hoped the bastard was rotting in hell for his sins.

  He closed his eyes, trying to silence his thoughts and let the small voice speak to him. He needed more guidance. A chill breeze ruffled his hair, and his stomach grumbled again. He ignored these distractions as best he could, waiting, waiting for the voice.

  Something touched his right leg below the knee. He flinched, opening his eyes, and saw a pale hound beside him, looking up with hopeful eyes.

  “I have no food to give you. Go away.”

  The hound took this for praise, apparently. It danced upon its feet, uttered a small whine, and licked its chops.

  Clive relented and stroked the animal’s head. The heat and the smoothness of the fur recalled to him how pleasurable the world could be.

  The questions he’d been avoiding ached in his heart. Had he died? He rather thought he had, so why, then, had he been brought here? Who had done it?

  Cold realization poured through him, the same as when he sensed he held a winning hand. Someone had brought him here, not just some chance. Who had the power to do that? God Almighty? He was not a devout man, but he did believe in things beyond man’s knowledge.

  His gaze was drawn once more to the boardwalk. The answer lay there, somewhere amid the carnival games and gambling halls.
Time for him to search it out. Setting his shoulders, Clive strode across the beach toward it, his gait slowing as the softer, dry sand pulled at his feet and sifted its way into his shoes. The hound followed, dancing with joy about his legs, deceived in his intentions.

  ~ Ned ~

  Ned sat in a booth in the back of a strip club that had opened since his supposed departure from the planet. The stage was lit with a lot of pink neon, with bits of apple green here and there for contrast. The music pumped and the dancers were cute, but he wasn’t enjoying himself as much as he would like. The hundred Donny had loaned him wouldn’t go very far, so he’d decided against getting a lap dance.

  He admired this self-restraint very much, feeling only slightly grumpy about it. He was being careful. He’d only bought two drinks. He was just getting comfortable again, had to do that, but he was being conservative. He did, however, want a fix very badly, and a fix wouldn’t cost near so much as a lap dance.

  Fifty bucks ought to score him enough horse for several hits, enough to last a day or maybe two if he was careful. The next dancer that came over, he’d ask her who to talk to.

  He ordered another tequila and watched the tits bouncing on the stage while he thought vaguely about all the things he had to do. Talk to the lawyer, score some horse, get some money. Buy a book and find out what the fuck had supposedly happened.

  A pretty little Mexican girl slid into the seat across from him. She was wearing a low-cut black t-shirt and tight jeans. A heart-shaped pendant glittering with diamonds dangled into her cleavage.

  “Hi,” she said, smiling. “I’ve been looking for you.”

  Ned’s blood froze, recognizing her face. The chica from the limo. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. I was supposed to give you a ride.”

  Ned felt his palms break out in a sweat. “Why do you want to give me a ride?”

  “To the poker game.”

  “Poker game?”

  She nodded. “Texas Hold’em.”

  He loved playing poker. He’d learned it at his father’s knee before he was out of diapers, practically.

  “I don’t have the money for a game.”

  “You don’t need any money,” said the chica, shaking her head and making the diamonds wink in her cleavage.

  “Why bother playing if there’s no money?”

  “Oh, there’s money, you just don’t need it to get into the game. You’re invited.” She smiled proudly.

  Ned stared at her, then shot back the tequila. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Corazon.”

  “That’s nice, but I mean who sent you?”

  “Mr. Penstemon.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “It’s his game, you see?”

  Ned flagged down a waitress and ordered another drink. He glanced at Corazon but she shook her head. The waitress went away, and Ned leaned his elbows on the table so he could get a better view of Corazon’s tits.

  “No, I don’t see. Why should I accept this invitation?”

  Corazon blinked, as if thinking. “For the prize.”

  “And what is the prize? Money?”

  She nodded. “And more. I’m supposed to let Mr. Penstemon explain.”

  “Uh-huh. Listen, honey, I never heard of this guy. There’s no Mr. Penstemon running a Hold’em game in Vegas.”

  “No, not here. In Atlantic City.”

  Ned froze. This was definitely strange. He’d thought being kidnapped for fourteen years was weird, but now this chica was reading his mind.

  Or maybe he’d been brainwashed, given hypnotic suggestions to go to Atlantic City. The whole thing smelled fishy.

  The waitress arrived with his drink. He traded his empty shot glass for the full one, then took the tequila in his mouth and let it burn while he gazed at Corazon.

  She was sure a cute little thing. That was probably why this Penstemon clown had sent her. Whoever he was, he knew what would appeal to Ned.

  But Ned was too sharp to fall for it. Pleased with himself, he swallowed and gave a little shrug.

  “I’m sorry, honey, but I’m not interested.”

  She pouted. “You can have anything you want.”

  “Sure. Got any smack?”

  “We can get it.”

  “Black-tar?”

  “Whatever you like. It’s in the car.”

  Ned’s interest perked up. “You got horse in the car?”

  She looked a little puzzled, then nodded. “If you want it, you can get it in the car.”

  She must mean they could drive someplace and get it. Her English wasn’t too good, though he’d heard a lot worse. He’d had lap dances from girls who knew only a dozen words of English. Want a dance, hunned bucks—

  “Come on, let’s go!” said Corazon, flashing another smile and bouncing in the seat.

  This was looking more and more appealing. Maybe the invitation was legit. After all, why would the nut case who snatched him let him go, only to pick him up again?

  He tried to imagine that he had valiantly escaped his abductor, but even he didn’t buy it. He’d been dumped. They’d decided he wasn’t useful now that his money was gone, and he wasn’t dangerous enough to need killing. He sure as fuck had no clue who had grabbed him.

  Little Corazon couldn’t be working for the mob, either. Unless they were the fucks who’d abducted him—and he seriously doubted that, like Donny’d said, it wasn’t their style—the mob thought he was dead like everybody else did.

  So why not go with her, at least to score some horse? He could decide later about AC and the poker game. He needed some fun and relaxation, dammit.

  He pulled out some money and dropped it by his empty shot glass, then stood up and got out of the booth. He grinned as Corazon got up and he scoped her ass.

  “OK, baby,” he said. “Let’s go see what’s in the car.”

  ~ William ~

  “We’re here.”

  From the tone of his voice, William deduced that Festus’s mood had not improved. Pity. The boy would enjoy life so much more if he learned to relax.

  William was enjoying life quite well, thank you. Aided by the coach-limo-plane’s seemingly endless supply of champagne and a bit of back-seat shuffling, he and Alma had progressed to cuddling, though in deference to Joanie they’d gone no further. It seemed clear, though, that Alma was game for more.

  Poor little Joanie had gone silent, quietly drinking herself into a stupor whilst gazing at the back of Festus’s head. Wretched for her. William was sorry she’d come along, but he supposed Alma would know how to cheer her up. Get her away from Festus, find some fellow who wasn’t oblivious to her plentiful charms. She was a sweet little thing, all she needed was a bit of appreciation.

  The limo, for it had become that again shortly after landing, glided to a stop. Festus got out and pulled open the door beside William, who helped Alma out and then stood back, giving Festus one last chance to be gallant toward Joanie. Festus ignored it. With a sigh, William held out his hand and helped Joanie out of the car.

  It was night, still. Possibly near dawn, though it was difficult to tell, for they were underneath a canopy in front of a hotel lobby. Blue neon lighting traced the edge of the building.

  The car slipped quietly away, leaving them on a broad apron before a bank of glass doors. Through them came a tall blond man in a black suit, smiling in greeting.

  “Mr. Weare, welcome…”

  His smile drooped a bit as he took in Alma and Joanie. William offered an elbow to each of them, and they both clung. The blond man shot a wry look at Festus.

  “He insisted on bringing them,” said the youth.

  “I see.” The man looked back at William. “Friends of yours?”

  “Boon companions,” William said, aware that the papers covering the trial for his murder had described John Thurtell as such.

  The blond man was apparently also aware of that, for his eyes narrowed momentarily. William maintained his smile and waited for the other fellow to mak
e the next move.

  “Well,” the man said, clasping his hands together and making a small bow. “Ladies. Mr. Weare. Welcome to the Black Queen. I’m Simon Penstemon, the owner. Please come in.”

  He led the way through the doors and into a spacious lobby. Walking quickly, he continued past the registration desk and down a hallway, then opened a door and ushered them into a small but nicely-appointed office. Festus, bringing up the rear, closed the door and took up a guard-like stance beside it, crossing his arms over his chest.

  Penstemon invited them to sit. William and Alma shared a loveseat, while Joanie sat in a plush armchair and hugged herself.

  “Coffee, anyone?” Penstemon offered.

  “No, thank you,” said William. Following his lead, Alma also declined. Joanie, who looked like she could use a pick-me-up, said nothing.

  “Well, then.” Penstemon sat behind a desk made of some dark wood and looked them over. “Mr. Weare, I trust Festus told you of my invitation?”

  “A card game, as I understand it.”

  “A tournament, actually.”

  Alma perked up. “Oh, can I play? I love cards.”

  “Unfortunately, this is a special tournament,” said Penstemon, glancing at her. “I’m sorry, but only five players have been invited, each of whom has—a special history with cards.”

  “Aww.”

  Alma looked disappointed. William patted her hand, and she gave him a smile.

  Special history, was it? William’s special association with playing cards was that he’d been killed for it. He settled back into the loveseat, beginning to enjoy himself.

  “So there are four other guests who share my … circumstances, shall we say?”

  Penstemon fixed him with an appraising gaze. “Very good, Mr. Weare. Yes, there are four others.”

  “My, my. What an interesting gathering.”

  “I do hope so.”

  “What can be its purpose, I wonder?”