Dead Man's Hand (20 page)

The tournament was almost a minor distraction, in comparison. There was just one point about it—he needed to win it in order to keep his body.

Unless he could get some kind of leverage on Penstemon and force him to perform whatever mumbo-jumbo it would take to make his body permanent. He'd have to find Mishka, get her alone, find out what she knew about Penstemon.

He leaned back and gazed at their host while the dealer shuffled the cards again. Penstemon was the most powerful warlock in the country, the tailor had said. Exactly what kind of power did he mean? Mystic powers, or was he influential as well? Arnold had to assume both. The magic had to be pretty good to bring five guys back from the dead.

Arnold wondered if magic was something one could acquire. He'd have to look into it.

 

 

 

 

“D
onny, it's Ned. No, I'm not in jail, I'm in Atlantic City. No shit.”

Ned shifted in the armchair and looked out the window of his suite at the tall hotel shadows slanting down onto the shore in the late afternoon light. After playing cards all afternoon, they were taking a break before dinner and the start of the tournament.

“Yeah, I'll tell you all about it later, but listen, I need a favor. Tom White's idiot receptionist won't put me through to him. Keeps hanging up on me. Will you call Tom, tell him I'm alive and I want to talk to him?”

There was a short silence over the phone line, then he heard Donny sigh. “OK, Ned. What's the number?”

Ned gave it to him, then thanked him and chatted just long enough to be social before saying goodbye. He was anxious to get in touch with Tom White immediately. He'd give Donny a few minutes to make the call, then he'd try again himself. He wanted to make sure his money had all gone to Connie.

It was a sense of doom that drove him. He'd felt it before, the day before he died. He'd called Tom then, too, and told him to change the will. Turned out it was already too late—he'd died before he could sign the papers.

He leaned back in the armchair and looked out at the ocean while he waited. Nice view. That was one thing this town had over Vegas, an ocean to look at. It was mesmerizing to a desert rat like Ned, but though he could zone out staring at it, it still didn't make him feel calm.

He'd played all right today, but he'd never really been a tournament player. He liked to play for fun and had never worried about the money. There'd always been plenty of money.

Now the stakes were different. If he couldn't play well enough to beat these four other clowns, he'd lose this body, he'd lose being alive again. He was worried about it. Of course he wanted to win—you always wanted to win—but he'd never
needed
to win before. It felt bad.

He glanced at the tin foil and the lighter, the little package of black tar on the table next to him. Corazon had disappeared after they arrived at the hotel, but the staff of creepy invisible guys seemed willing and able to provide whatever he wanted, including girls. There was one sleeping in the bed right now, a cute little redhead. No blondes. He hadn't been interested in blonde.

“Fucking Randy,” he muttered, then picked up the phone again and dialed Tom White's number.

If he won this fucker he'd get Randy. He didn't know how, because the million dollar prize was chicken feed, but he'd do it. How she and Tabbet had managed to walk he had no idea; probably they'd paid off the judge.

“Hello? I'd like to speak to Tom White, please. This is Ned Runyon.”

He waited for the hang-up, but instead there was a click and the purr of the phone ringing. After two rings White picked up.

“OK, who are you?”

“Tom, it's Ned. Honest. Didn't Donny tell you?”

“Donny told me a bunch of crap. Ned Runyon is dead.”

“Yeah, well, I don't have time to explain it all right now, but I'm not dead. I'm alive, and I just want you to tell me what happened to my money. Did Connie get it?”

“I'm not going to discuss that over the phone.”

“Shit, Tom, I just want to make sure Connie's going to be all right. My money should have gone into her trust fund. Please tell me fucking Randy didn't get any of it. I heard they let her out of jail.”

“Yeah, they let her out. Everyone knows that.”

“So tell me she didn't get anything. Please.”

There was a pause. “She's suing Connie for ten million.”

“Shit! Fuck!”

Ned jumped up from the chair and stomped around cussing for a minute. When he wound down, he cleared his throat and apologized.

“You do sound like Ned,” said the lawyer, sounding amused.

“I am.” Ned sighed, collapsing back into the chair. “I fucking am.”

“The lawsuit is public knowledge,” Tom said.

“How do we block it?”

“We don't. There's nothing we can do but ride it out.”

“What about me telling you to change the will? I told you to fucking change the will!”

“And I'll bring that up with the judge, but the fact is the will was not legally changed, and Randy inherits a portion of the estate.”

“Shit. Bribe the fucking judge!”

“I didn't hear that. I don't know who you are, but I'm not discussing this further with you.”

“Tom, wait—”

“Even if you were Ned Runyon, I wouldn't discuss it. Ned Runyon is legally dead and I no longer work for him. So quit calling me, OK?”

Ned heard the disconnect and let the phone slide from his hand. He leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling, wishing Randy was dead.

He could try to put out a hit on her with the prize money, but he didn't like the idea. Hits could backfire, and anyway he'd need the money. He'd have to invest the million if he won it, and live frugally off the interest. That sucked, basically, but he still had hopes of seeing Connie. Maybe she'd give him back a few million. With ten or twenty mil in the bank, he could get by.

But Randy had to go. No way was she going to get her claws on any of Connie's money, goddamn it!

Ned frowned at the ocean, then at the heroin beside him. He wanted a hit, but he didn't want to get distracted before he'd settled what to do about Randy. He'd been fucked up on horse when she came to his place with Tabbet, that much he remembered. Maybe if he'd been straight he would have been able to deal with them.

The phone started beeping loudly. He punched the disconnect, then fished the receiver off the floor. Holding it to his ear, he dialed “O.”

“Black Queen,” said a throaty woman's voice.

“I want to talk to Mr. Penstemon.”

“I'm sorry, sir, he's unavailable.”

“This is Ned Runyon,” he said. “I'm in the tournament tonight. I want to talk to Penstemon. Now.”

“One moment, sir.”

Music came over the line, weird music. She'd put him on hold. Ned got up and paced around.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Runyon?” said a voice behind him.

Ned whirled, still holding the phone to his ear. Penstemon was standing a few feet from him. His heart racing from surprise, Ned hung up the phone and stared at his host.

“That was quick.”

“I don't have time to waste,” Penstemon said, quirking an eyebrow. “You wanted to talk?”

“I want you to help me. I've got to do something about Randy Griffy. You know who she is?”

“Oh, yes.” Penstemon nodded and a grim smile flitted across his lips.

“Fucking bitch is suing my daughter for ten million.”

Penstemon didn't comment. Ned started pacing again.

“No way is she getting a penny of my money from Connie. I want her dead.” Ned stopped and turned to face Penstemon. “You can do it.”

“Kill her for you? No.”

“She fucking killed me!”

“The court says she didn't.”

“The court's full of shit!” Ned took an angry step toward Penstemon. “Listen, you brought me here. You want me to play in your tournament? I'll do it, but only if you keep Randy Griffy from touching my money!”

Penstemon tilted his head, giving Ned a skeptical look. “How much did Connie inherit from you?”

“I don't know. About sixty million.”

“So losing ten of it wouldn't really be a hardship.”

“That's not the point!”

“What you really want is vengeance, isn't it?”

Penstemon strolled to the wet bar, poured himself a drink, and brought it to the sofa next to Ned's chair. He sat down, sipped, and looked up at Ned as if inviting him to sit for a cozy chat.

Ned stayed on his feet. He was shaking with rage. “I don't want that bitch to get a cent of my money.”

“Why? Because you want her to suffer?”

“Because she's got no right to it!”

“Ah. Well, Mr. Runyon, unfortunately you gave it to her, so she does have a right to it.”

“I changed my fucking mind, OK?”

“Too late.” Penstemon sipped his drink again, then set it down and crossed his legs. “You really should let her go, Mr. Runyon. That chapter of your life is closed. It would be better to concentrate on your future.”

“Why won't you help me?” Ned demanded. “You're supposed to have all kinds of magic powers. You fucking brought me back to life, goddammit! That's gotta be way harder than killing somebody.”

Penstemon chuckled. “Yes.”

“Then why won't you do me a favor? Not like it would cost you much.”

“Oh, but it would.” Penstemon shifted on the sofa to face Ned more directly. “You see, there's a thing called the Law of Magical Repercussion. Varian's Law, it's called, after the witch who theorized it. It states that any deliberate act of magical origin that harms a living being generates reciprocal harm to the person who originated it.”

Ned stared at Penstemon. The man was spouting gibberish.

“I don't expect you to understand it, Mr. Runyon,” said Penstemon with a small smile. “You spent a lifetime pretty much ignoring the consequences of your actions. I, however, cannot afford to ignore consequences. I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I won't attack Randy Griffy for you, either physically or financially.”

Ned balled his hands into fists. “Then I won't play.”

A small crease formed on Penstemon's forehead as he frowned. “I hope you'll change your mind about that. If you're not at the table when the tournament begins, you'll forfeit your chance at keeping that body.”

“Meaning what? I'll die?”

Penstemon stood up. “Yes, Mr. Runyon. You'll die. Again.”

Terror stabbed Ned as he watched Penstemon walk toward the door. A part of his brain wondered idly why Penstemon bothered, since he hadn't used the door to come in. The rest was gibbering at him to play the fucking tournament, for chrissake, he had to win it, he had to stay alive. He had to protect Connie. He had to get back on Randy.

Penstemon opened the door and turned back to look at Ned. “See you at seven o'clock,” he said cheerfully, then left.

 

 

 

 

J
ames pushed his plate away and leaned back in his chair, sated. The others were still eating. After a second day of practice, Penstemon had provided an elaborate dinner for the players in the exclusive private dining room of the Black Queen's fanciest restaurant, the Diamond Grill.

The room was all done up in sapphire blue, with crystal chandeliers over the table. James enjoyed looking at the pictures on the far wall and being able to see their fine details, thanks to the contact lenses Mr. Penstemon's optician had provided him. He wasn't quite certain if they were magical or merely modern, but he liked them. Amazing how much his mood was elevated simply by being able to see clearly.

Many of the pictures were of women. One that struck him particularly looked a bit like a playing card, but the woman on it held a sword and wore a fearsome expression.

The waiters silently brought and removed plates, filled wine and water glasses, and saw to the guests' every need so efficiently they almost seemed invisible. Well, entirely invisible. James glanced at the white-shirted faceless form standing against the wall behind his left shoulder. He was still slightly unnerved by the critters, and he never liked having anyone behind him.

He returned his attention to the table. Mr. Weare was the life of the party, keeping up a merry flow of conversation that was entirely without consequence. James took no part in it, merely listening and watching the men against whom he'd shortly be playing.

Sated in every way, he was. There was not one indulgence he had craved that had not been satisfied that day, and he now floated in a warm sense of well-being, untroubled by any concern save for a small, tickling sense of unworthiness that had been with him since before he'd died. It was a shadow of guilt, of loneliness for Agnes, whom he'd left behind in Cincinnati. The shadow of his failure toward her.

She had such courage. Courage to walk a high wire, to do circus tricks on horseback, and to take a chance on one James Hickok.

He had to put that out of his mind. He had to put all distractions out of his mind and concentrate only on the cards if he was to win this tournament.

The prize, while attractive, was not what made him want to win. He supposed it would be nice to continue living, especially in this body that was in rather better health than he'd enjoyed just prior to his demise. But it was the victory itself that he craved. He always had.

He'd never got enough, and that was why, he now realized, he had never gotten around to much serious prospecting in Deadwood Gulch. He'd been chasing a victory that was perhaps impossible to seize, a success so overwhelming it would sate his desire to play on. To bust every card player in a town flowing with gold.

Was this the echo of that hopeless attempt, he wondered? He knew little about Atlantic City, but it seemed to flow with its own kind of gold. If he won the tournament and lived to play on, could he capture all the wealth in this city, or at least find a second fame in the attempt? The thought appealed.