Dead Man's Hand (10 page)

“Simon Penstemon. You won't recognize his name.”

“You're right, I don't, so why should I accept his hospitality?”

The sheba smiled. “Mr. Penstemon is hosting a poker game. You're invited to play.”

“I don't have a stake.”

“You don't need one. The game isn't for money.”

“Then why the hell should I play? You know, the last poker game I was in didn't turn out so well.”

“That's why you've been invited to this one. It's a chance to rectify that unfortunate incident.”

“Rectify?”

“Mr. Penstemon will explain it all when we get to the casino. Shall we?” She gestured toward the street with a hand, and he heard the car's engine behind him.

Arnold stared at her narrowly, thinking hard. It sounded nuts, but then it was nuts that he was alive, so what the hell. He didn't have much to lose at this point, and he wanted to check out the casino action anyway.

“OK, sugar. I'll play.”

Arnold squared his shoulders and offered his arm. She smiled and laid a hand on it, and he felt as if a chilly mist had touched him. Ignoring that, he walked her to the car. The back door swung open as they reached it. That right there almost made him bolt, but he restrained himself and handed the lady into the back seat. Her green eyes glinted up at him as he got in beside her. The door swung shut, and the car glided forward.

“Nice car,” he said.

“I'm glad you like it.”

“A little conspicuous, though, isn't it? Wouldn't a modern car be less noticeable?”

The sheba smiled. “Not at all. I guarantee you no one will notice this car.”

“I noticed it.”

“That was the point.”

She leaned forward and pressed a button on the back of the front seat. A panel opened toward them, revealing a small bar stocked with tumblers, wine glasses, decanters, and an ice bucket, all fine cut crystal.

“Would you like a drink?”

Arnold leaned back, deciding to enjoy himself. “Don't mind if I do.”

“Champagne or bourbon?”

“It's early. How about the champagne?”

He watched her open a split and pour from it into a flute. “Aren't you joining me?”

“I don't care for champagne.”

He eyed the crystal flute she'd handed him. “There wouldn't be anything else in here, would there?”

“Come, come, Mr. Rothstein. What would be the point of restoring you to life only to kill you again?”

His eyebrows went up. She was implying that this Penstemon guy was responsible for his being alive.

“I don't know. Sadistic gratification?”

She pursed her dainty lips, then took the flute from him and sipped, leaving a faint haze of lipstick on the edge. “Satisfied?”

“Sure, honey.”

She sneezed. Hiding a smile, Arnold filled his mouth with champagne, enjoying the sizzle on his tongue. It was good stuff, as good as the best he'd tasted, and he'd drunk some pretty fine wines in his day. The memory brought a pang of loneliness for Carolyn. He frowned and took another swallow.

“Tell me about your boss.”

She raised a finely arched brow. “My boss?”

“Mr. Penstemon. Isn't he your boss?”

She smiled slyly. “He might tell you I'm his boss.”

“That so?”

She stretched luxuriously, then smoothed her hair with a hand. “He takes care of me.”

“Ah.”

Nice of this Penstemon to send his play-toy to fetch Arnold. Too nice, so Arnold didn't trust it. Maybe she was supposed to get him all comfortable and tipsy, so he'd have his guard down. Arnold took a tiny sip of champagne. He'd get comfortable, sure, but not careless. He was never careless.

Almost never. He'd been careless with McManus.

He looked out the window, which was smoked glass and hard to see through. He had to concentrate to see out of it, and when he figured out where they were he nearly spilled his champagne.

“Hey! We're not driving on the road!”

“The side is less crowded,” said the sheba.

The traffic to his right was a mess of shiny blurs. Arnold looked toward the driver to tell him to slow down, and his heart nearly lurched out of his chest. There was no one in the driver's seat!

“Shit!”

“Calm down, Mr. Rothstein.”

“There's no fucking driver!”

“Yes, there is, you just can't see him. He's a will-o-wisp.”

“The cops are gonna be all over us!”

“I assure you they won't.”

There was a car on the shoulder up ahead. Modern car, with red and blue lights flashing on its roof. Arnold's stomach clenched as the car he was in slowed, then swerved into traffic. They passed the car with the lights and Arnold saw “Police” in big letters on its side. Another car was sitting in front of it. Arnold's ride swerved back to the shoulder again when they were past.

Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to look out the window. He leaned back and looked for a place to put the champagne glass. His stomach was complaining. The sheba took the flute from him and handed him a newspaper instead.

“You might want to see today's news.”

Arnold closed his eyes until his stomach was settled, then looked at the paper. The date was an astounding 2012. That would make his age 130, if you counted from his birth date.

The news was confusing, some of it, and other than that pretty much like it had been in his day. Politicians were still bullshitting. Movie stars were still the subject of endless gossip, and they were doing something called television, some new kind of theater, it sounded like. The country was fighting a war in some godforsaken place he'd never heard of, near another conflict in a place called Israel, which seemed a sorry joke to Arnold.

Airplanes had become a big thing. There were new diseases, old cons, and all the usual flap. The world was still itself, which was comforting.

By the time he'd finished skimming the paper, the car had started to slow down. Risking another look out the window Arnold saw they were in a city. He didn't see anything he recognized, but it must be Atlantic City, because they crossed a street marked Pacific Avenue. It was crawling with scum. Down-and-outs, hookers, and hustlers, mostly negro. Not classy, not at all like the exclusive place he remembered. Town needed cleaning up.

The light changed, making Arnold look up.  It was morning—or not much later than noon, anyway—but now the sky was twilit.

The Packard eased to a stop in front of a high-rise building. The door next to Arnold opened. He flinched, then got out. He could smell the ocean.

They were at a hotel, as elegant as the rest of the town was shabby, all glass and chrome and velvet ropes to retain a non-existent crowd. A black velvet awning stretched out over a blue carpet that extended into the hotel.

The building rose into the sky, a tower of black glass with glowing blue outlining its edges. On top was a gigantic playing card, the queen of spades, all made of light and brilliant against the indigo sky.

Arnold swallowed. Nighttime, not day. What the hell?

Just go with it, he told himself, ignoring the pounding of his heart.

The sheba was standing next to him. Arnold turned to give her a looking over.

She was sleek and glossy, a sylph all in black with pale ivory skin and those green eyes. She had a beaded belt at her hips that he hadn't noted before, fastened in the front with a large triangular clasp crusted with diamonds that flashed and sparkled in the sunlight with every move she made. Black beaded fringes dangled down from the clasp to tickle her knees. She was one classy-looking dame, and Arnold couldn't help but smile. He offered his arm again as the car glided away.

“What's your name, honey?” he asked, suppressing a shiver at the chill of her touch.

“Mishka.”

“Pretty name. Russian, isn't it?”

“I believe you're right.”

They strolled toward the hotel. Despite the weirdness, Arnold was enjoying himself. It was nice being driven in a classy car and drinking champagne, especially after the way he'd spent the night.

Forget about that, he decided. It had just been a bad dream. He'd pick up some cash in a game or two—after finding out exactly what Penstemon wanted to play for—and then start getting himself established. Maybe Mishka would like to help him out, help him find a place to stay and get it set up nice. She could decorate it if she wanted.

He was getting ahead of himself. Mishka was Penstemon's girl, and until he had built up some clout he had nothing to offer.

Uniforms opened the doors for them. Just uniforms. There were no heads beneath the caps that seemed to float in the air above the black coats with polished silver buttons. More whatchacallems, Arnold presumed. Like the driver.

Quiet, jazzy music played as Arnold followed Mishka into the lobby. An albino woman and a bald-headed guy with long, pointed ears stood talking to a young woman behind the counter. Both wore dark leather pants and jackets with a lot of silver zippers and studs.

The albino turned her head, fixing ice-blue eyes on Arnold as he passed, then whispered into one of her companion's astounding ears. He glanced at Arnold and grinned, revealing teeth as long and pointed as the ears. Arnold tensed, remembering stories his grandmother had told. Dubbyks and golems. Stuff to frighten unruly children.

“What the hell kind of place is this?” Arnold muttered as he followed Mishka to the right.

“It's a resort,” she said. “A top-shelf hotel and casino that caters to alternative lifestyles.”

“Alternative? Is that what you call it? Did you see the ears on that guy?”

Mishka smoothed her hair over her own ears and ignored the question. “This way,” she said, leading him along a wide corridor that twined snake-like through the hotel.

He swallowed his misgivings. “They still have good jazz here?”

Mishka shook her head. “Not like you would remember. Most of the emphasis is on gambling these days.”

“Too bad.”

“Mr. Penstemon sponsors good concerts now and then, or so I've heard. I'm not a music lover.”

“Just who is this Penstemon, anyway?”

She gazed back at him, eyes wide with innocence. “He's the owner of the Black Queen. You'll meet him soon.”

They passed some weird abstract sculptures and a couple more fountains, then went through a lounge area where people were sitting on plush sofas and chairs, listening to a trio of piano, sax, and string bass on a glowing blue dais. The instruments appeared to be playing by themselves.

The music was good, though the people listening to it were all a little odd. Too tall, too short, too pale or too dark—or too green—to call normal. Some wore strange clothes. Arnold knew he wasn't up on the current fashions, but he was pretty sure the Thomas Jefferson getup wasn't a hot fad.

A red-haired woman in a silvery dress pointed at Arnold and said something to her friends. Heads turned as he and Mishka walked past. Arnold got the feeling these people knew who he was, a feeling that he was used to, but that had been distinctly absent since he woke up in the cemetery.

Leaving the lounge behind, they followed a curving hallway through an arcade of shops. Tobacconist, liquor store, even a book shop was unremarkable, but some of the other places gave Arnold the creeps.

One marked “Apothecary” looked more like a zoo. It was full of critters in cages and funny-looking plants. Another simply labeled “Boutique” had the weirdest assortment of clothes he'd ever seen. They seemed to be for women, sort of, but there was nothing frilly in there. Most of it was black, and Arnold didn't like the look of the tall, skinny guy who was holding a shiny black dress up to himself in front of a mirror.

Mishka led him into a shop beside a small, tasteful brass sign that said “Gentlemen's Attire.” Racks of suits, from casual to tuxedo, lined the walls around a central display case filled with silk shirts, ties, handkerchiefs, and other fine accessories. Arnold let out a small sigh of satisfaction. The place reeked of money.

A small, wiry young man with sandy hair and a foxy look to his sharp eyes came forward to greet them. Mishka smiled at him.

“Alphonse, this is Mr. Rothstein. Please help him choose some more comfortable clothing.” She glanced at Arnold and quelled his half-hearted protest. “Mr. Penstemon's compliments. He wants you to be comfortable for the game.”

“Very nice of him. Tell him thanks.”

She smiled. “I'll be back in half an hour.”

Arnold watched her stroll out, then looked back at Alphonse, who was regarding him as a sculptor might look at a chunk of marble. “This is not my usual style,” he said.

“Of course not,” said Alphonse. “I could tell that immediately. You belong in silk, of course. A classic cut, I think. Let's look over here.”

Alphonse turned and with quick, busy steps led the way down a wall of suits. One small section was a bouquet of pastel colors that made Arnold want to gag. Another ranged from dull gold to rust to brown. Alphonse passed both by, to Arnold's great relief, and paused before a rack of suits in varying shades of gray and black, with one or two dark blue for variety. He reached in and took down a hanger.

“This one?”

Arnold gazed at a suit that could have come out of his own closet. “Sure.”

Alphonse held the jacket out for Arnold to try on. He hesitated, doubting it would hang right over the heavy shirt he was wearing. Alphonse's brows went up.

“Oh! Stupid of me.”

The tailor waved a hand and a cold wind whirled around Arnold. A second later it stopped, and Arnold was wearing a white silk dress shirt. Goose bumps rose on his arms, and not from the breeze.

“That's better. Here, now.”

Numbly, Arnold slid his arms into the sleeves and stood still while Alphonse walked around him, twitching the jacket and tut-tutting.

“A little longer in the sleeve, I think,” said Alphonse, taking hold of the left jacket cuff, which rode above Arnold's wrist. He gave it a sharp tug, then smoothed it. The sleeve now brushed the back of Arnold's hand.