Dead Man's Hand (15 page)

Granted, there were a lot of things he didn't understand about the world nowadays. There seemed also to be a lot of magic in it, which there hadn't been in his day, or at least not in evidence. He was coping fairly well, he thought.

The familiar sound of a tootling flute made him glance toward Penstemon's pocket. Penstemon put down his drink and took out his little music box.

“Yes? Good, I'll be right there.” He stood up and put the box back in his pocket. “I'm afraid you'll have to forgive me, there's a matter I must attend to. Lunch will be in about an hour. Would you like some company in the meantime?”

James sat up straighter. “Wouldn't mind it.” He took a hit of the bourbon and added, “That little gal you had fetch me was a charmer. Or is she a special friend of yours?”

“Kitty?” Penstemon's brows rose. “She's ah—not available. Let me find you someone similar.”

He smiled, then, and went away, pausing to murmur something to Nichole, who was standing by the bar. James saw that the barkeeper was a big, handsome fellow, Mexican-looking, with two stubby horns sticking out of his forehead. El Diablo, James thought idly. Shaking his head, he finished the rest of his bourbon in a gulp, and the glow in his belly turned to fire.

“Would you like another?”

Nichole was standing over him. James followed those amazing legs up, continuing to her waist and her bosom and finally managing to look her in the eye.

“Sure,” he said as he gawked like a farmboy.

She took the empty glass from his hand, her fingertips brushing warm against his, then added Penstemon's unfinished drink to her tray and sidled off toward the bar. James watched her all the way, only facing forward again when his neck started complaining.

He glanced at the moving picture frame. A cheery-looking woman with short, curly red hair was now talking at him while she put various things into a big, black, burbling kettle. Making soup, he guessed, except some of the things she was putting in there didn't look too appetizing. He thought he saw a lizard go by. She was easier to watch than the people on broomsticks, but since James couldn't hear what she was saying, he quickly lost interest.

Nichole returned with his drink, and he smiled up at her. He was starting to feel more relaxed.

“Here you go, Mr. Hickok,” she said, handing him the glass. “And this is Shavonne.”

She stepped aside to reveal a woman who reminded him more than a little of Kitty, except her eyes were dark brown instead of green, and her lips were fuller and painted a shade of red that in his day, at least, would have been a clear advertisement that her calling was to serve mankind, so to speak. She was dressed in a red shift almost as short as Nichole's that clung to every single line of her body, leaving little to the imagination. She sipped at a tall glass of something dark over ice, and smiled while James took her in.

“I've been dying to meet you,” she said, “ever since I heard you were coming. May I join you?”

Nichole had gone away. James nodded, since he wasn't confident he could speak just at the moment. Shavonne folded herself into the chair Penstemon had sat in and set her drink on the little table between them.

“It's so exciting. I don't play poker myself, but I love to watch.”

Poker was the farthest thing from James's mind, at the moment. He took a swallow of bourbon, coughed a little, then managed to find his voice.

“A pretty gal like you would be a mighty big distraction at a poker game.”

She smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Hickok.”

“You can call me James.”

“Thank you, James.”

She picked up her drink and sipped it again, her eyes watching him all the while. He thought he saw a flash of pointy teeth, but it could have been his imagination. James felt a stirring in his belly that had nothing to do with the liquor. He'd been a long time abstaining, not even counting while he was dead.

“I'd love to get better acquainted with you, James,” she murmured. “Maybe we could go somewhere a little more private?”

“I got a room,” he said hoarsely.

Her smile widened. “Let's go, then.”

Boy, howdy, thought James as they both stood up, abandoning their drinks. She took his arm as they strolled out of the saloon, and he felt it start tingling all up and down, wrist to shoulder.

James glanced around the huge gambling room, knowing he'd be hopelessly lost trying to find his way through it. “You know where them … elevators are?”

“Right this way.”

She steered him past some of the slot machines, their music jangling in his ears. James knew he was sporting a huge, silly grin.

The day just kept getting better.

 

 

 

 

T
he casino bus was more crowded than the first. By the end of the journey, Clive could smell the sea. Excitement was growing in him. The bus deposited him in front of a gigantic building covered in flashing lights that made him dizzy. He followed the other passengers inside and stood in a queue with them, to be given a slip of paper when he showed his bus ticket. The others dispersed into the darkness of what must be the casino, a cavernous room filled with noise and more blinking lights. Clive wandered after them, watching.

There were rows of machines, which were the source of most of the noise. Some of his fellow passengers took seats in front of them and fed their slips of paper into the machines. Clive watched them push buttons, which caused the machines to make more noise. Mystified, he continued deeper into the room.

At length he came to an area where games of cards were being run. There was even a roulette wheel! This he could understand.

The people around these tables were betting round colored markers, vaguely coin-shaped. He watched, hoping to find a game he understood enough to play, but they were all strange and terribly fast, and his courage failed him.

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. Some
one
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.