Dead Man's Hand (26 page)

Arnold sipped his tonic. “He wasn't much of a card player when I knew him. More interested in women.”

“Was he murdered at or over a card game?” asked Weare.

Joanie shook her head. “No, he was killed by the mob because he'd spent too much money on the Flamingo. He never actually got to see his dreams for Las Vegas come to fruition, but he's the one who created it.”

Arnold finished the last of his tonic and set down the glass, then sat back and looked Joanie over. The arrival of the waitress to take drink orders provided a distraction that allowed him to observe her closely.

She was pretty enough, neat, quiet. Had big, hungry brown eyes. One of those smart girls who read too much and thought too much. Not the sort he'd usually want to spend much time with, but in his current situation she might prove to be very useful. He needed information, and she was the sort of girl who could get it. She might be able to get into places he couldn't, too.

“You ever played roulette, Joanie?” he asked her, giving her a beguiling smile.

She shook her head, eyes wide. “No. I've never gambled at all, except for bingo.”

“I was thinking I might try out the tables here. Care to come along and bring me luck?”

He could spare a little cash to blow with her. He'd use the pawn money, save Hickok's for the poker tables where he could start building a bankroll.

She looked hesitant. Alma gave her a nudge.

“Sounds like fun! Maybe we should all have a go.” She looked at Weare, who gave a shrug and a resigned smile.

Arnold smiled, too, though he'd rather not have company. If Joanie felt better with her girlfriend along, he'd put up with it. The key to wooing a shy girl was to make sure she always felt comfortable.

He waited until the drinks arrived, then proposed they head out to the casino. Everyone agreed except Hickok.

“Think I'll be turning in soon,” the cowboy said, saluting them with his second glass of whiskey.

“See you tomorrow, then,” said Weare, standing up and offering to help Alma out of her chair.

Arnold got up, too, and held out a hand to Joanie, accompanying it with a smile. She blinked a couple of times, then smiled back and let him help her up. He slid her hand into his elbow and started to lead her out to the casino.

“So Joanie,” he murmured. “Tell me more about Las Vegas.”

 

 

 

 

N
ed sat in bleary dissatisfaction, staring at the gyrating hips of the dancer in front of him. She was like nothing he'd seen before, and he'd seen a lot of dancers. None with a tail though—a real, twitching cat tail, leopard-spotted.

The novelty had worn off a bit after an hour or so. Only so much you could do with a tail, he guessed.

He glanced around the bar and realized there weren't a whole lot of customers. A couple of other guys sitting at the edge of the stage. One had horns—a horny guy, ha ha—and a guy on the other side of him was skinny and completely hairless, his skull a knobbly, lumpy mess with purple veins running all over it. Back in the corner, two gray-faced old dudes in long black robes like you'd wear to graduation were talking over a drink, oblivious to the cuties on the stage. Why did they even come here?

“'Nother drink?”

Ned glanced up at the waitress and grinned. She had really big tits and a really wide mouth. If he wasn't so tanked, he'd see if he could slip her one. Sad fact was he wasn't as young as he used to be. Lately he'd settled more often for the pleasant buzz of tequila and smack, and forget about the sex.

“Sure,” he said, and tried to cop a feel as she turned away. She was too quick for him, though. Slid out of reach before he could grab.

Oh, well. Next time.

Something soft brushed his face. He glanced up and saw it was the dancer's tail. She tickled his neck with it, then pulled it away just as he tried to catch it. Damn, his reflexes were too slow.

He grinned at her as she shimmied in front of him, her big bare breasts jiggling. He pulled another twenty out of his pocket and leaned forward to tuck it in her g-string, managing to get a pinch at the same time. She slapped his hand and danced away to the horny guy.

The waitress came back with tequila. He shot it back and then got up, leaving her a tip. He didn't know how much money he had left—not enough, though. Oughta get some more. Demand some from Penstemon, maybe.

A vague idea was swimming around in his head about money. Something to the effect he didn't need any, but that was bullshit. Sure, everything he ate and drank in the Black Queen was free, but what if he wanted to go down the boardwalk and see the sights? What if he wanted to buy a drink at the fucking Taj? He needed some money for that.

He left the bar and headed for the elevator. Penstemon would have the penthouse, he assumed, so he punched the button for the top floor. The doors opened on a hallway that looked like any of the others—blue oriental carpet, blue walls, chandeliers. The only difference he could see was that the hall was shorter and the chandeliers had real candles in them, and on the walls there were torches instead of the little stained glass sconces like on Ned's floor. The smell of candle-wax hung in the air—plain wax, not those damn perfumed things fucking Randy always liked to burn.

All that fire. Had to be against code. Ned could threaten to contact the city about it, if Penstemon was slow about coughing up the dough.

He headed toward the door at the end of the short corridor, sure that it would lead to Penstemon's suite. It was unmarked and had a peephole in it, like any hotel room. Discreet little doorbell button at the side. Ned ignored it and pounded on the door with a fist, waited a few seconds, and pounded again.

The door was answered by a woman so pale that for a second Ned thought she was one of the ghosts. Her white hair was pulled tightly back into a bun, and she wore a cream-colored dress. Her eyes were pale blue and frosty as they gazed at Ned.

“It's past midnight,” she said.

“I want to talk to Penstemon,” said Ned.

“He isn't here.”

“Bullshit. Let me in.”

“No,” she said in a thoughtful tone of voice, as if it was almost a question.

Behind her, he could see down a short hallway into what looked like a living room full of dark, wooden furniture. Everything in there was lit with more candles and torches.

Ned looked back at the woman. “Listen, Granny, I'm one of the tournament players. I have something very important to discuss with Penstemon and it can't wait.”

“I know who you are.” She seemed totally unimpressed.

A black cat trotted up, looked up at Ned and let out a meow. It had a small heart-shaped patch of white on its throat that disappeared from sight when the cat started rubbing against the woman's legs.

“I'll tell Mr. Penstemon you want to speak to him,” she said. “He'll contact you in your suite.”

“I'm not going to my fucking suite! I got business.”

She raised an eyebrow, reminding him strongly of Mrs. Roach, his third grade teacher. Another cat, a gray one, came stumping toward the door, walking like it had a bum hip. Ned stared at it, remembering a dog he had once that had walked like that after getting hit by a car.

“I'm sorry,” said the woman, “I can't help you. Mr. Penstemon can't be disturbed.”

“Like hell.”

Ned moved to push his way past her into the penthouse. A bolt of lightning struck him between the eyes and the next he knew he was lying on his back, looking up at a chandelier.

A drip of wax was sliding down one of the candles, fixing to land on his face. He tried to move, but his arms and legs weren't working too good. In a flash of panic he remembered being like this in his house, lying on the floor, with Randy and Tabbet leering over him—

“It's all right, Marie,” he heard Penstemon's voice say. “I'll talk to him.”

Hands gripped Ned's shoulders, strong and gentle, helping him sit up. It was Penstemon, but he wasn't wearing the suit he'd had on earlier. He was dressed in a velvet graduation robe like the goony old guys in the titty bar, except his was blue. Around his neck was a heavy gold chain with a star hanging from it.

“Sorry about that, Mr. Runyon. Marie can be a little overprotective at times. Won't you come in?”

Penstemon helped Ned off the floor. Ned brushed at his suit, then followed Penstemon into the penthouse past the glowering woman. The room they entered took up the whole width of the hotel, with floor-to-ceiling windows on either side giving a spectacular view of the boardwalk and the ocean far below. The far wall had four doors and was split by another hallway, and was painted a dark blue that glowed like the sky after sunset.

Penstemon invited Ned to sit on a black leather sofa. A black cat jumped up next to him, but Penstemon snatched it up.

“No, kitty,” he said, putting it down on the floor again. “Go on.”

The cat mewed, then strolled away. Penstemon sat in a leather armchair next to the couch.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Runyon?”

“I need some cash.”

“Pardon me for asking, but why?”

Ned turned on the couch to face him square on and leaned forward. “Listen, you owe me! Guys who play in televised tournaments get paid a bundle.”

“You're receiving all the hotel's services on a complimentary basis—”

“Yeah, well, I should be getting paid on top of that! Don't think you can cheat me!”

“I have no intention of cheating you, Mr. Runyon, but really, what do you need money for?”

“I've been spending my own cash tipping your waitresses and your dancers. I need more, OK?”

Penstemon was silent, sitting and gazing at Ned like he was looking at some kind of freak. It pissed Ned off.

“I want ten thousand,” he said. “Think of it as an advance on the million.”

“But if you don't win the tournament, how will I get it back?” asked Penstemon reasonably.

“Give me ten grand or I won't play in the fucking tournament!”

Penstemon shifted in his seat, crossing his legs beneath the robe and leaning his head on one hand. “You saw what happened to Mr. Sebastian this evening. If you fail to appear at the tournament table tomorrow night, the same thing will happen to you.”

A cold twist grabbed at Ned's stomach. He swallowed but kept his face still. Penstemon wasn't going to see him afraid, goddammit!

“Ten grand's gotta be peanuts to you,” he said. “What are you so worried about?”

“I'm worried about what damage you might do with it.”

“Damage? What the fuck? I just want to have a good time!”

“Exactly.”

The pale woman butted in, setting a tray down on the coffee table between them. “Tea,” she said in a voice dripping with disapproval. She picked up the teapot and poured two cups, handed them to Ned and Penstemon, then left.

Ned stared in disbelief at the dainty china cup in his hands. Fucking tea, for Christ's sake! He put it on the table with a clatter and a slop over the rim.

Penstemon sipped his. “I'll tell you what, Mr. Runyon. I'll give you a thousand. That should be enough for one day, shouldn't it? Then if you need more tomorrow night, I'll give you another grand.”

Implying maybe Ned wouldn't be around after tomorrow night, the son of a bitch. Ned frowned and thought about protesting, then gave a nod instead. He didn't want to sound like a whiner. If he ran out of dough, he'd wake Penstemon up for more, and serve him right for being a stingy asshole.

He'd wanted enough to put out a hit on Randy. A grand wouldn't do it, but maybe he could build it up at the poker tables. Worth a try, and in the meantime it would keep him going.

Penstemon finished his tea, set his cup down, and reached into his billowing sleeve, coming up with a roll of twenties. He handed this over to Ned, then stood.

“Don't do anything I wouldn't do.”

“Ha, ha,” said Ned, following him to the door.

Penstemon opened it and stood watching him with a quizzical smile. “Good night, Mr. Runyon.”

“Yeah, g'night.”

Ned went out, riffling the twenties as he walked down the hall. He stuffed them in his pocket, then took the elevator down to the casino.

The burbling music of the slots greeted him and he sighed with pleasure. The slots sounded weird here, but they were still the familiar background music of his life. He'd grown up in the Rabbit's Foot, knew the odds of every game in the house. Knowing the odds, he made a beeline for the poker room.

There were three tables going. One was all black-haired young women—barely older than teenagers—wearing tight black outfits and red, red lipstick, like a whole table of nubile Morticias. He was sorely tempted to sit down at it, but he spotted Arnold Rothstein and William Weare at another table and chose that one instead.

It was just a two-dollar five-dollar game, small change, but Rothstein had a big stack of blue dollar chips and an even bigger one of pink five dollar chips in front of him. Had to be close to two grand sitting there.

Weare had a more modest stack and was flanked by his two girlfriends. Alma had a few chips and was gaily losing them as fast as she could. Joanie, the geeky brunette, sandwiched between Weare and Rothstein, wasn't playing.

Ned bought two hundred in chips and sat between the redhead and a guy who had scales instead of skin. The guy flickered a forked tongue at him. Ned turned the other way.

“Hiya, Alma. How's it going?”

“Jolly,” she said curtly. “Look how much Arnold's won!”

“Nice stack.”

Rothstein glanced at him and gave a nod of acknowledgment, then went back to the game. Ned paid the blind to get in and looked at his hand. Five-two off. Garbage. He threw it in.

“So, Alma, guess what? I was just up in Penstemon's penthouse.”

“Really? What's it like?”