Dead Man's Hand (17 page)

Penstemon closed his eyes. For a moment his calm demeanor slipped and he seemed a man beset by troubles. Drawing a deep breath, he composed himself, looked at William and smiled.

“Shall we go back in?”

William gave an agreeable shrug. As long as Penstemon wasn't trying to get rid of the girls altogether, as long as he took good care of them, William was satisfied.

When Penstemon pushed the door inward, it bumped into Festus. Alma was standing in the middle of the office facing him, hands on her hips. She shot an angry glance at Penstemon.

“He won't let us go to the loo!”

Festus said nothing, just stood with arms crossed and his jaw set stubbornly. Penstemon pinched the bridge of his own nose for a moment, then laid a hand on Festus's shoulder.

“Go on upstairs, Festus. You've done a good job. I'll see to it from here.”

“I'm hungry,” said Festus in a surly tone.

“Yes, all right. I'll be up in a minute.”

Festus cleared out without even a glance at the girls. William sidled into the office and gave Alma a smile and a wink.

“Forgive me, ladies,” said Penstemon. “Of course you want to freshen up after your trip. Why don't we all go up to Mr. Weare's suite, and you can make yourselves comfortable there?”

“A suite!” said Alma. “Coo!”

Penstemon led them back into the hall and out to the lobby, where he paused briefly at the reception desk and murmured to the young lady behind it. She smiled, revealing a row of needle-sharp teeth, and handed him some key cards. He rejoined William and the girls and led them to a bank of elevators.

The doors of one opened as they arrived, and a tall bald man in a floor-length blue-and-white striped robe came out. The robe billowed about his feet, and William realized with a start that he hadn't any—he had some kind of tentacles instead. He bobbed up and down slightly as he left the elevator, saying, “Good morning, Simon,” in a squishy voice.

“Morning, Caractacus,” said Penstemon, exchanging nods. “This way, ladies,” he added brightly, catching Joanie by the elbow and shuffling her into the elevator, where she stood staring after Caractacus in horrified fascination.

“Out for a morning slither?” murmured William as he and Alma stepped into the elevator.

“Probably a breakfast swim,” said Penstemon, punching a button. “The tide's in.”

They saw no more interesting hotel guests. The elevator didn't stop until it reached the 42nd floor, on which Penstemon stepped out and led them down a long hall to a suite. He took a card out of the envelope and slid it into the door, then ushered the three of them in.

“Ocean view,” he said, indicating the curtained window with a sweep of his arm. “Here's your key, Mr. Weare, and one for each of the ladies.”

“Wow,” breathed Joanie as her gaze traveled the sumptuous suite. She smiled a little for the first time since they'd left Elstree.

Alma headed straight for the wet bar. “Look! It's got everything! Champers, single-malt, Guinness! Oh, but no Boodles!”

“Boodles?” said Penstemon.

“Boodles gin. Joanie likes it better than Tanqueray.”

Penstemon rubbed the fingertips of one hand together absently. “I'm sure you'll find some. Look in the back.”

She bent down again to rummage in the cupboard. “Oh, here it is!” Standing up, she held a square bottle up triumphantly. “Look, Joanie! Want a GT? We've got limes and everything.”

“Maybe later,” Joanie said, and with a blushing glance at William she headed off in search of the loo. Alma shot a smile at William and followed her.

“Luncheon will be at one, Mr. Weare,” said Penstemon. “We're still waiting on one guest to arrive. You'd probably like a change of clothes in the meantime. There's a men's shop downstairs; call down and they'll send some things up.”

“Good,” said William, glancing down at his frock coat, “because I look a bit outlandish in this rig, even here.”

“I hope you'll wear it for the tournament, though.”

William raised an eyebrow, then strolled to the bar and helped himself to the scotch. “Color, eh? Well, I'll tell you what, Mr. Penstemon. I'll hear your terms at this luncheon, after which I'll give them due consideration.”

Penstemon gave a quiet smile. “That's all I ask.”

The girls returned from the nether regions, giggling. Joanie cast William a wide-eyed look.

“There's a tub big enough for all three of us!” she said.

“I think we should have a party in it,” said Alma.

Joanie gave her a shove and blushed, laughing. Alma brandished a brochure.

“Mr. Penstemon, I see there's a spa here. Could we—?”

“By all means. I'll have Ramona set up an appointment for you both, then I'll send up a little brunch for you here, how does that sound?”

“Sounds all right,” Alma said with an attempt at nonchalance that was betrayed by the glow in her eyes.

Penstemon turned to William. “Call room service if you need anything else. I'll see you at the luncheon.”

William nodded and watched him go, then replenished his scotch and carried it over to the window. He pushed the drapes back and stood gazing out over the ocean. Down along the shore were lights, and another tall hotel stood nearby, a rectangle of light here and in its mostly-dark wall of glass. A pier jutted out into the dark sea, covered with carnival stands and more lights.

William looked for Caractacus down on the beach, but saw no sign of him. Already out to sea, he supposed.

Alma came and stood next to him. He put an arm around her shoulders.

“Well, Alma my dear, this is America,” he said as if he'd planned it all himself exclusively for her entertainment. “Like it so far?”

She grinned and slid her arm around his waist. “I like it fine.”

 

 

 

C
live walked with stooped shoulders and scuffing steps, wearily looking at each carnival stand, food stand, casino, and attraction he passed. He'd done this all the previous day and most of the night, chasing the ghost of the feeling that had brought him here.

He was meant to be here. He knew he was. He just had to find the way … had to find the way
in
.

The hound was still with him, testament to the endless optimism of its tribe. It paused now and then to investigate the distractions of abandoned food wrappers and other trash, but always returning to his heel.

The fifty dollars was almost gone. Bus tickets and the outrageous cost of food had swallowed it.

All along the boardwalk, the smells of fried potatoes, battered fish, saltwater taffy and candied apples mingled in the midday warmth to form a miasma that made his stomach growl. He'd spent a little on a frankfurter in a bread roll for last night's supper—he'd given the paper wrapper and part of the roll to the hound, who had cheerfully devoured both—but he had eaten nothing today, and it was now close to noon.

He'd gone all up and down the boardwalk and along the piers, looking at everything. Somehow he had missed what he was looking for. He could feel that it was near, but couldn't find it. He paused in front of a looming building called “Ripley's Believe it or Not.”

Stupid name. Why, if one was told the place was called Ripley's, would one refuse to believe it?

As he stared at giant posters of carnival freaks, an ocean-born breeze blowing his hair into his eyes, he wondered if he might be considered a freak himself. After all, he was not where he belonged. Not in the least where he belonged.
When
he belonged.

He shuffled on, pausing to gaze for a moment at a round paper carton cheerfully labeled “POPCORN,” perched in the top of a barrel of refuse. A handful or two of corn remained in the bottom of the carton. Clive was debating whether he was desperate enough to eat it when a pair of laughing young girls clad in next to nothing pushed their mustard-smeared trash on top of it, tipping the popcorn carton and spilling its contents. Clive stood listening to the corn rattling down inside the barrel as the girls walked away.

Perhaps he should go into one of the casinos and buy a deck of cards. He could sit on the pier and deal three card monte, make a little money that way, at least enough to buy a decent meal. He had thought of this some time ago but had resisted the idea. To stoop so low, when he had been a high-stakes riverboat gambler, would be a blow to his pride. He had not much pride left, however, and after all one must eat.

“There you are!” cried a young man's voice.

Clive looked up to see a youth—little more than a boy, really—hurrying toward him. Dressed in black trousers and shirt beneath a heavy black overcoat, the fellow was pale and slim. No threat, yet somehow Clive felt threatened. Large green eyes, wide and worried, fixed on Clive's face.

“Mr. Sebastian? It is you, isn't it?”

“Yes,” Clive said slowly, frowning.

He had told no one in Atlantic City his name. He had told it only to the Dickersons, who were up in Trenton, he presumed.

“Thank the Goddess! I've been searching all over for you!”

“Who are you?” Clive demanded.

“My name's Shadow. I'm here to escort you to the Black Queen.”

Clive sucked in a sharp breath. Shadow's name was unfamiliar, and also odd, but he now remembered he had seen the youth's face before. On the black riverboat, with flames reflecting in his eyes.

“Why should I go with you?” Clive said ungraciously, shifting his feet to be ready to run.

Shadow looked hurt. “I'm very sorry, Mr. Sebastian. I was supposed to meet you in Bloomfield. I got there just as you were leaving.”

So he had indeed been the man on the riverboat. Clive blinked, breathing nervously, shallowly. He had thought it was Charon on the boat, come to take him to the underworld. Charon, Shadow…

“You're invited to play in a poker tournament at the Black Queen,” Shadow said. “Please, we're already late—”

“The Black Queen?”

“Yes. It's a casino and resort. It isn't far.”

“I've been all up and down the boardwalk and saw no such place.”

“It's a little tricky to get into,” Shadow said, looking uncomfortable.

“And who is hosting this poker game? The king of the dead?”

Clive had spoken facetiously, but the youth's eyes opened wide with alarm. He had hit the truth, then, or come near it.

“Mr. Penstemon is hosting the game. The owner of the Black Queen,” Shadow said. “Please, Mr. Sebastian, he'll explain it all when we get there.”

Clive gazed narrowly at the youth's anxious face. There seemed to be no harm in him, but Clive didn't like the sound of Mr. Penstemon, his casino, or his game. Ironic, because it was with a desire to play poker that Clive had come here.

“I'm hungry,” he said, and turned away.

There was a food stand nearby, advertising popcorn and corn dogs. Perhaps a corn dog would be good, he thought as he stepped up to it. He'd seen people eating them—they appeared to be breaded sausages served on little wooden sticks.

“Mr. Penstemon's ordered a luncheon for you and his other guests,” Shadow said, skipping after him. “A banquet,” he added as Clive glanced at him. “A feast.”

“And what would this feast cost me?” Clive murmured.

“Nothing. You're a guest. An
honored
guest.”

Clive thought of the underworld again, of Persephone, doomed to remain there half the year because she'd been tempted to eat a few pomegranate seeds. He looked at the fat, bored man in a paper hat gazing at him from the popcorn stand.

“A corn dog,” Clive said.

“Four fifty,” said the man.

Clive winced. It would leave him with little more than a dollar.

“I'll get it,” said Shadow, producing a bill from his pocket.

“Keep your money,” Clive snapped.

He paid, accepted the corn dog, pumped mustard onto it from a large jar at the front of the stand as he had seen others do, then turned to walk south, away from the majority of the casinos on the boardwalk. The hound danced beside him, and Shadow walked on his other side, silent now. Clive wished he would go away.

The corn dog was hot, salty, and delicious. Clive chewed each bite carefully, savoring it as slowly as he could bear to though hunger tempted him to gobble it. This might be his last meal for a while. He licked mustard from the corners of his mouth and gnawed the last of the crunchy batter from the stick, then handed it to the hound.

“Mr. Sebastian?”

Shadow had paused in front of a tiny carnival stand. A sign across the front said “The Black Queen,” and underneath was a little gallery with a row of small, strange-looking rifles. Signs exhorted Clive to shoot a playing card and win a prize. Toy dragons, soft like a child's cuddle-toy and every color of the rainbow, hung from the ceiling of the stand. Clive frowned.

“You said it was a casino.”

“This is the entrance,” Shadow said. “Follow me.”

He lifted a section of the counter and walked into the stand. The young woman who was running the game gave him a cursory glance, then went back to hanging fresh playing cards in the clips at the back of the booth. Like Shadow, she was dressed all in black, though her hair was an amazing bright blue.

Shadow held the counter panel up, waiting expectantly. Clive stayed where he was.

“Suppose I don't wish to be beholden to your Mr. Penstemon?”

Shadow blinked, opened his mouth, then shut it again. Clive glanced up at the dragons. An orange one hung right over him, looking down at him with a cross-eyed leer. Clive looked back at Shadow.

“What benefit to me is there in this game?”

“Mr. Penstemon will explain all that.”

“And if I don't like his explanation? If I choose to leave?”

Shadow seemed unable to comprehend the possibility. “No one will stop you,” he said at last, with a shrug.