Dead Man's Hand (23 page)

He tried to imagine himself winning the tournament on skill alone. He could do it, he thought, but the vision of victory gave no comfort. It wasn't just money he wanted, and the realization came to him accompanied by a wash of cold. It was
his
money.

His money, stolen from him by that rogue, Jones. What had the bastard done with it, he wondered? Bought a new piano for the
Slipper
? The one that had graced its shabby saloon had been ghastly.

Clive closed his eyes, thinking of all the patient toil he had invested whilst a passenger on that cursed boat. All the hours he had spent gently fleecing the sheep who came to the card table, attracted by the riffling sound of the cards as he had shuffled them. Like lambs to the shepherd's call they had come, and he had made them feel at home. Bought them bourbon, complimented their play, commiserated with them on their bad luck, and encouraged them to hope for fortune's turn.

He glanced around the table. These men were no sheep. No fleecing to be done at this table, unless by sheer arrogant bluffing. That was more Runyon's style than Clive's. To win here, he'd have to rely on his wits, observation, and luck.

On the next deal he received an ace of spades and a queen of diamonds. He was sorely tempted to palm the ace, but knew it was not worth the risk. There were cameras taking photographs of every movement at the table. If he were not caught at the moment of palming, he might well be observed in the pictures later on.

He called the blinds after Hickok folded. Runyon called as well, and Rothstein put in chips to match the big blind. The dealer gathered the bets and dealt the flop: two of hearts, king of clubs, jack of spades.

Clive watched the others. Rothstein tossed in his cards with a frown of disgust. Weare put in the minimum bet, and Clive called it. Two cards yet to be dealt, and if either was a ten, he'd have a straight to the ace.

“Raise five thousand,” said Runyon, pushing a stack of chips forward.

Clive looked at him. Little bloodshot pig eyes stared sullenly back. Back in his day, such a fellow was generally an ugly customer and Clive had preferred not to play with them. He had no choice about it now.

From the cards on the table, he must assume that Runyon had either paired the king or held a pocket pair. The straight, if he made it, would beat that hand. Or he might pair the ace and beat it that way, unless Runyon held an ace, in which case they might split the pot.

“Call,” Clive said after Weare folded. He pushed five thousand chips across the line and watched the dealer sweep them into the pot.

The next card was another deuce. Clive watched Runyon closely for any sign of gleeful reaction that might mean he held a third deuce in his hand. Seeing none, he checked to Runyon, who bet ten thousand. Clive called this as well and waited for the river card.

Queen of spades. The black queen. It gave him a pair, but kings would beat it. Disappointed, Clive gazed narrowly at Runyon.

“Check,” he said.

“Fifty thousand,” Runyon said instantly, and pushed two large stacks of chips onto the table, then leaned on his elbows, staring mulishly at Clive.

It could be a bluff. Runyon was arrogant in that way. With a pair of deuces on the board, Clive's queens would stand against anything except a pair of kings or pocket aces. If Runyon had held aces he'd have gone all in, Clive decided. Probably would have gone all in on the kings, come to think of it.

“Call.”

Clive counted fifty thousand and pushed them across the line. It was the largest bet he had made so far, leaving him with less than a hundred thousand.

Runyon turned over his cards. King seven.

Clive stared angrily at them. He'd lost. Dammit to hell.

Applause from the audience for Runyon's play. The pig was grinning now, blowing kisses to someone in the stands. Clive watched the dealer push his chips over to the bastard, and for a moment saw Jones's face instead of Runyon's.

His hands clenched with the urge to throttle as his blood surged with rage. Jones's image flashed so clearly in his mind and he realized it was the image of his killer—he saw Jones as he had looked bending over him, saw the cap topple off his head, revealing the thinning hair Jones always tried to hide, saw the foul grin as the bastard went through his pockets and then picked up Clive's beaver hat, putting it on his head as he backed away.

Clive was breathing like a steam engine, short explosive breaths through his nose. Blinking away the foul vision, he shook his head to clear it, then downed the rest of the bourbon in the glass at his elbow.

A waiter came forward and lifted the glass in its invisible hand, making a wordless squeal of inquiry. Clive gave a single nod.

“More,” he said, and the waiter left.

The next hand had been dealt. Clive called the blind on a pair of threes, hoping for a third in the flop. When none came, he folded. The next two hands he paid the big and small blinds and folded the garbage he was dealt. Rothstein took one pot, Runyon the other.

Clive played his next cards, a jack nine that made two pair on a flop of nine, jack, six. Rothstein took the pot with three sixes, leaving Clive another fifteen thousand poorer. When the second break was called a few hands later, he had little over sixty thousand left. He stood up, finished the rest of his drink, and headed for the door. Overhead, Miss Gaeline's voice announced his name.

Penstemon intercepted him, affecting a cheerful smile but with watchful eyes. “Where are you going?”

“I need a breath of air.”

“You don't have time to go downstairs, I'm afraid.”

Clive thrust his chin forward. “What will you do? Kill me?”

Penstemon chuckled, then took Clive's elbow. “Step over here, Mr. Sebastian.”

Clive had half a mind to refuse, but he allowed Penstemon to guide him between the bleachers toward a curtained wall at the back of the room. Penstemon drew back the edge of a drape with one hand, revealing a small, dark passage which he invited Clive to enter with a gesture.

“After you,” said Clive.

Penstemon shrugged, then stepped into the passage, holding the drape open for Clive to follow. He then led the way down toward a patch of blue at the end of the passage. This proved to be a glass door, which Penstemon opened.

A sharp breeze smote Clive's face, smelling of ocean and corn dogs. He stepped out onto a small balcony, and Penstemon joined him.

Dark had fallen. The neighboring hotel, the boardwalk below and the pier off to the left gleamed with light, flashing, flickering, ever restless. Clive leaned his elbows on the cold iron railing and looked away from the lights, peering instead into the darkness that was the ocean, trying to see the breakers beyond the city's glare.

“Why me?” he murmured.

“Beg pardon?” said Penstemon.

He had meant nothing specific, but now Clive turned to face the hotelier. “Why did you choose me for your game? I can bring no advantage to you, being unknown.”

Penstemon cleared his throat. “Your story is romantic. And you were here in New Jersey, close at hand. Your wrongful death may not be widely known, but it's certainly known to the locals. You're quite effective at haunting, you know.”

Clive hadn't known, mostly because he hadn't understood that he was haunting, or even that he was dead. He had been caught in a nightmare confusion. At least Penstemon's whim had saved him from that.

“Will I remember all this, when I go back to being dead?”

“Come, come, Mr. Sebastian. You have a chance of winning.”

Clive stared into the darkness, trying to imagine victory. What would he do in that case? Take up residence in Penstemon's hotel? Pursue a life of gambling, or take up some other occupation?

He wasn't fit for any other occupation that he cared to follow. He infinitely preferred gambling to any sort of physical labor, though today the game held no enjoyment for him.

Jones had robbed him of pleasure as well as gold. Robbed him of peace. Clive closed his eyes, holding in the surge of remembered anger.

“What happened to Jones?” he demanded, turning to Penstemon.

“As I told you, he died of old age.”

“When? Where was he buried?”

“Do you intend to haunt him now?” A wry smile came across Penstemon's face. “It won't do you any good.”

“That's for me to judge,” said Clive, more forcefully than necessary. “Where is Jones now?”

Penstemon's blue eyes flickered, though his face remained guileless. Clive knew from long-honed instinct that the man's next words were false.

“I have no idea, Mr. Sebastian. And I'm afraid it's time we went back in.”

Clive turned toward the ocean again and took a last, deep breath of fresh air, then followed Penstemon down the corridor and back into the ballroom. He heard his own voice as he entered, and glanced up at the nearest of the large screens. His face, five feet across, looked cheerful, excited. Nothing like his feelings now. A cloud of gloom had been growing over him ever since the tournament began.

He paced around the room, stretching his legs, pausing only when one of the other players or the staff talked to him. Weare and Runyon were standing together, laughing with a couple of women from the audience. Clive made to pass them, but Weare reached out and caught his arm.

“Clive, dear boy, come and meet my young friends. Clive Sebastian, this is Alma Winter and Joanie McCordle.”

The comely redhead who had her arm snaked through Weare's nodded and smiled at Clive. The other girl, a brunette, thinner and rather pale, took a step away from the hovering Runyon and smiled tremulously.

“How do you do?” she said with an English accent. “I'm so sorry about how you were killed. It's tragic, really!”

She looked uncomfortable in a spangly gold dress that clung tightly to her spindly form. Her large brown eyes gazed up at Clive, inviting him to gather her in. Why he hesitated he had no idea, but instead of warming to her, he merely gave a curt nod.

“Pleased to meet you.”

The shadowy form of Calamity Jane drifted past overhead, making a beeline for where Hickok stood chatting with Rothstein. In her wake floated the little old man in the round hat. He was dressed rather like Rothstein, though it all looked gray, of course. Beneath his jacket he wore a vest with a gleaming watch chain across it.

Clive frowned. Something about the old man troubled him.

“Have you been to Atlantic City before, Clive?”

He glanced down at the brunette, who was standing a little closer, looking up at him with bright, anxious eyes. Behind her, Runyon glowered. Clive understood what she wanted, and ignoring the wreckage of his mood, gallantly offered her an arm.

“Yes, but it was over a hundred years ago. Things have changed considerably.”

“Town changed a lot in just the past thirty years,” put in Runyon.

Clive and the brunette both stared at him, saying nothing. The brunette turned her head away and looked up at Clive again. Her hands were small and fine-fingered, warm as they clung to his arm.

“Alma and I are going on a tour tomorrow. Would you … would you care to come with us? William is,” she added, gazing up at Clive with an agitated blink.

“I—don't know, really. I'll consider it.”

“It should be great fun. There's a lighthouse, though I gather it isn't by the shore any more. And we're going to see Philadelphia—”

“Sorry, gentlemen,” said Penstemon, coming up to them. “Time to get back to the table.”

He looked straight at Runyon, who shot a sullen glare at Clive and then took himself off. Weare heaved an exaggerated sigh.

“Back to the salt mines. So sorry, my dear,” he said to the redhead. “Allow me to escort you to your seat.”

Clive followed with the brunette and handed her up the steps to the bleachers. She smiled at him as she and her friend sat down. Weare then took Clive's elbow and strolled with him toward the poker table.

“Nice girl, Joanie. Absolutely desperate to fall in love.” Weare glanced sidelong at Clive, who frowned.

“She should pick someone who has better than a one in five chance of surviving the game.”

Weare gave a jolly laugh. “Chin up, lad. You've got as good a chance as anyone.”

Not true, thought Clive, remembering his depleted stake. He said nothing, though. No point in complaining. Bad luck was a fact of life, as much as good luck.

His decision to play on the
Silver Slipper
had put him in bad luck's way. No way of knowing it, unless he had bothered to look into Jones's background before boarding his ship, a preposterous idea. Even if he'd done so, he likely would not have learned anything to deter him. If Jones had committed crimes other than his murder, he apparently had not paid for them.

They passed Hickok, who was urging Calamity Jane to return to the gallery. Clive's sleeve brushed that of the old man in the round hat. He felt a sudden chill at the contact, and the old man looked up.

Dread seized Clive's heart. He knew the eyes that glanced up into his. The ghost quickly looked away and then flew straight toward the ceiling, sailing over the heads of the audience to disappear among the other spirits.

Orson Jones. That little man, so small and insignificant, was all that remained of the steamboat captain who had murdered Clive.

“Come along, dear boy,” said Weare's voice. “What's got into you? Seen a ghost, ha ha?”

Clive remained rooted to the floor, staring at the gray ranks into which Jones had disappeared. His feelings were in turmoil: anger foremost, but also astonishment that the looming figure of his nightmares was now a frail-looking, dowdy old man.

He wanted to pursue Jones, but knew he couldn't. Apart from being unable to fly, he probably wouldn't find the bastard. Jones had vanished into the throng, might even have left, knowing Clive was aware of his presence.

God damn him, Clive thought. He was shaking, he realized. Shaking with anger.