Dead Man's Hand (16 page)

 

 

 

N
ed 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.”

 

 

 

 

“W
e'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 make 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?”

“Entertainment.”

William raised an eyebrow. “Not just your own, surely.”

“No, not just my own.”

William well remembered the hullabaloo over his murder and Thurtell's trial. The press had gone on about it for months. Of course, that had been nearly two centuries ago, but it was just the sort of thing that could be made into an entertaining little human interest story nowadays.

Which meant that he had leverage on this Penstemon fellow. He could refuse to cooperate, spoiling the man's plans. The threat of such would gain him whatever he wanted, he imagined.

So, what did he want? To continue enjoying himself in company with Alma, of course. For Joanie—well, he was not so sure what might perk her up.

“We'll be having a luncheon with the other players,” Penstemon continued. “I'll explain all the terms then. In the meantime, Mr. Weare, there's a suite at your disposal, and all the services of the hotel, of course.”

“Shall the ladies join us at luncheon?”

Penstemon's face darkened. “I'm afraid not. It's a business meeting.”

“They'll be watching the tourney, though, right?”

Penstemon's gaze locked onto William's. William allowed himself the ghost of a smile.

“I'll see what I can arrange.”

Penstemon turned his attention to Alma and Joanie, looking at them with a troubled expression. Alma cleared her throat.

“Mind if I make a phone call? Me mum'll be worried.”

Penstemon stood up, walked around the desk and handed her a cordless phone. Alma looked at it uncertainly.

“I guess it's an international call,” she said.

“Just dial ‘O' and the operator will help you,” Penstemon said. “Mr. Weare, may I have a word with you?”

William got up and followed him out to the hallway while Alma placed her call. Penstemon pulled the door shut and fixed him with an unsmiling gaze.

“I'm afraid Festus must not have made clear to you that ordinary people are not usually admitted to this hotel.”

William smiled and rocked back on his heels. “Oh, he made it clear. Mundanes, he called them. I'm one, too, aren't I?”

“Not really. You've been brought back from the dead.”

“True. Clever trick, that.”

“Thank you. Now, how can we resolve this, Mr. Weare? Our policy is for the good of all concerned, you see. If they remained here, your friends would see some things that might disturb them.”

“Like invisible drivers and cars that turn into aeroplanes?”

The corner of Penstemon's mouth twitched. “Worse than that, I fear.”

“Well, I'm not packing them off home, if that's what you're suggesting. They've only just arrived, all agog about visiting America! You wouldn't want to break their hearts, would you?”

Penstemon gave him a measuring look, then let out a small sigh. “No, of course not.” His eyes narrowed in thought, then he took a cell phone from his pocket and tapped its face.

“Ramona? I need you to arrange an itinerary for two ladies, mundanes, friends of one of the players. Set up some tours for them—the lighthouse, sights on the mainland. Independence Hall would be good. Yes, exactly. And give them an escort, I don't want them wandering around by themselves, especially in the hotel. No, not Elvira, someone who looks more normal. They're with me at the moment, in Dante's office. Thank you.”

He pocketed the phone again and looked at William. “Believe me, Mr. Weare, the less time they spend in the hotel, the better.”

“But they can stay with me in the suite?”

Penstemon pressed his lips together, but nodded. Pleased with himself, William smiled.

“You know, you might give your man Festus a hint about Joanie,” he said. “She's dotty on him.”

Penstemon's eyes widened. “Festus?”

“Yeah. Maybe he doesn't return the sentiment, but a little kindness would go a long way.”

“She'd do better to forget about him,” Penstemon said flatly.

“Try telling that to a girl in love.”

The hotelier frowned. “You must understand, Mr. Weare, it isn't possible. Festus … isn't human.”

“Well, that doesn't surprise me at all,” said William testily, “but he could make a little effort, couldn't he? The poor girl's all in a mope over him!”