Dead Man's Hand (29 page)

Penstemon led James out of the booth as the girl fetched down the toy dragon. James blinked at the brightness, realizing belatedly that the sun was out. It hadn't been when they were walking in the garden. He looked back and didn't see the hotel where he expected. It should have been rising up behind the carnival booth, but there was nothing.

“That's a mighty good trick, Mr. Penstemon.”

Penstemon glanced back, then grinned as he led the way across the boardwalk toward the beach. “Thank you. It's necessary. I don't want just anyone coming into the Black Queen.”

“Why not?”

“Because I built it for my people.”

“Magic people?”

“Yes—the magical community. There are a lot of us all over the world, but we're largely underground. Some of us are literally underground, in fact.”

James nodded. He'd seen a fellow looked like he was made out of rock in the casino. Wouldn't surprise him if that fellow lived in a cave or some such.

“Wouldn't you make more money if you opened the place up to everyone?”

“Perhaps, but I'm not in it just for the money.”

They'd reached the side of the boardwalk where a short set of wooden steps led down to the sand. Penstemon went down it first.

“You see,” Penstemon went on as they walked across the sand, feet sinking in the softness with every step, “I wanted to make a resort for
my
people, a place where they could come and play and be themselves, not have to worry about being harassed about the way they look or their habits or their beliefs.”

“And you make enough profit from your own kind?”

“Oh, yes.” Penstemon smiled. “I'm also a businessman. I wouldn't keep the Black Queen open if it wasn't successful.”

“So this whole tournament thing was also a business decision,” said James.

Penstemon shot him a guarded glance. “Primarily, yes.”

They had reached the firm, damp sand near the water now. The smells of food and candy and grease and other less savory things fell away before the great salt dampness of the ocean. Penstemon walked straight toward the water with his arms spread wide and his blond hair streaming back in the breeze, breathing deep. James followed, watching him, curious.

Penstemon's brow was furrowed. Almost looked like grief.

“There's another reason,” James said without thinking.

The wizard's throat moved in a swallow. “Yes.”

For a moment they were both still, wrapped in silence. Then a wave broke, its rushing sound filling the emptiness.

The man had power. James had seen it himself. Penstemon clearly knew what the world was about, but at the same time he had an air of innocence to him.

James realized that was what drew him to Penstemon, what kept him from being angry at the way Penstemon had brought him here. There was profit in it, of course, but there seemed to be an underlying kindness in it, too.

“How much is it costing you to keep us alive?” he asked, shouting his words over the roar of the surf.

Penstemon had been standing with his eyes closed. Now he turned to face James with a wry smile.

“A little less than it did yesterday.”

James felt a sudden stab of anger on behalf of Sebastian. It faded, for Penstemon had made the terms clear to all of them. He couldn't blame the man for standing by his game.

Had to take strong magic to bring five people back from the dead. Curiosity about that was what'd made James ask the question.

“I can't really explain it in a way that would make sense to you, I'm afraid,” Penstemon added. “It's a bit technical.”

“What would happen to us—us four—if you died?”

A look of shock crossed Penstemon's face. “Is that a threat?”

“No, sir. Just a question.”

Penstemon looked out to sea again, his jaw moving tightly. “You'd return to where you came from,” he said after a moment.

James nodded. That made sense.

He glanced behind him. There were a couple of people walking dogs down the beach a ways and a kid flying a kite, but no one near enough to hear them.

“I think Mr. Rothstein has it in for you, sir.”

A smile grew on Penstemon's face, though he didn't turn. “I know he does.”

“Do be careful, won't you? I don't really relish an abrupt return to Deadwood.”

“He can't do anything to me without risking the same fate himself,” Penstemon answered.

“Well, I wouldn't trust him too far, that's all. Canny as a snake, that one.”

Penstemon's smile widened, and now he did turn. “Thanks for your concern, Mr. Hickok. I do appreciate it.”

“Call me James, if you'd like.”

A glint of pleasure lit Penstemon's eye. “James. Thank you.” He offered a hand and James shook it. “Call me Simon, then.”

James nodded gravely. So the exchange of first names did still mean something, even though they were mostly used so casually now. He was glad of that.

Glad he'd come out here with Penstemon, too. Felt like there was a connection between them now, more than before. With a jolt of surprise strong enough to tingle down his arms, he realized that was what he'd been missing. Feeling connected with someone, with a friend.

He watched Penstemon, who'd closed his eyes again and stood breathing in the air like he was trying to inhale the ocean itself. Maybe the sorcerer got some sort of rejuvenation from the water. James smiled and shook his head a little, amused to find himself watching Penstemon's back at such a moment, and also glad to do it.

 

 

 

 

W
illiam sat in the back of the limousine, one arm around Alma and the other supporting a champagne glass, wearily content. They'd spent a lovely day touring historic buildings and museums and gardens and a lighthouse, and were now returning to the Black Queen for dinner and the continuation of the tournament.

William glanced at Joanie beside him, who was chatting comfortably with Mr. Rothstein. The gangster fellow had surprised William by agreeing to accompany them today, and had taken great pains to put Joanie at ease. He was behaving as a perfect gentleman, which was good, because if he gave the least sign of an inclination to mistreat Joanie, William would have to annihilate him.

How one annihilated a fellow ghost in temporary flesh, he had no idea, but that did not diminish his willingness. He supposed magical flesh was as vulnerable as normal flesh to the usual range of assaults.

Alma cuddled closer to him and clinked her glass against his. “Lovely day,” she said, smiling.

William gave her a squeeze. “It certainly was, and would have been nowhere near as lovely without your company, my dear.”

She chuckled. “Go on.”

“Truth. I swear before God.”

“Is there a God, Willy? I mean, did you talk to him, when you—?”

“Oh, no, heavens no. But I never got close to heaven, if you'll recall. Caught in one of those loops Penstemon mentioned.”

“Very strange.”

“Indeed.”

William sipped his champagne and listened to Joanie and Rothstein talking. Rothstein was saying she should ask to go up to Penstemon's suite and visit his cats.

“Oh, no, I could never do that!” Joanie said. “I wouldn't want to bother him, he must be such a busy man.”

“He wouldn't have to be there,” said Rothstein. “He's got a housekeeper, doesn't he? I bet she'd let you in to visit the kitties.”

“Well, I don't know—”

“No harm in trying, right? I say we do it.”

Joanie let out a nervous laugh. Rothstein laughed, too, then reached for the champagne bottle to refill her glass. Didn't drink himself, which made William suspicious of his motives. Had to be something shifty about a fellow who wouldn't raise a glass with friends.

Rothstein's relentless persuasion had them all four in an elevator as soon as they arrived at the hotel, riding up to the top floor. William had to close his eyes briefly to quell the effect of the motion combined with perhaps a bit too much champagne.

The machine disgorged them into a wide, quiet hallway lit, as Runyon had described, all by candlelight. Joanie was captivated, and for that reason alone William went along. Poor girl; she'd had very bad luck, but seemed to be reviving under Rothstein's flattering attention.

They reached Penstemon's door and Rothstein stepped forward to knock on it. A moment later it opened, and a sharp-featured woman looked out.

“Mr. Penstemon isn't in,” she said, and made to close the door.

Rothstein stuck his foot into it. “We aren't here to see Penstemon. Miss McCordle here just wanted to pay a visit to his cats.”

Joanie colored a bit. “But not if it's any trouble—”

“We won't be any trouble,” Rothstein said, bestowing a charming smile on the housekeeper. “Only take a minute, and it would mean a great deal.”

The housekeeper gazed narrowly at him, then at William, who added his mite by smiling back. With a great show of reluctance, she opened the door wide enough for them to come in.

“You can visit them in the kitchen.”

“Thanks,” said Rothstein, stepping past her.

William and Alma followed him and Joanie down a short hallway and into a vast living room. The housekeeper came right behind them.

“Oooh,” breathed Alma at the view. To the right and left the walls were entirely glass, showing ocean on one side and glittering city lights, just now coming on in the sunset, on the other.

On the wall hung a portrait of a woman dressed all in white, her black, waving hair tumbling down past her hips. She stood in a rose garden, with a full moon overhead. Her beauty was beyond breathtaking; William gazed at her in open admiration.

“This way,” said the housekeeper. “They'll come for a treat.”

Joanie followed her through a doorway on the front wall of the room. Alma strolled after her, but William paused to watch Rothstein.

The gangster was walking about the living room, eyes taking in everything. He glanced up and gave William a smile that was somehow repellant, then followed the girls into the kitchen.

Three cats were already there, mewing and curving about the housekeeper's legs. She took a ginger jar down from a cupboard.

“Here, puss puss!” she called.

“Oh, they're lovely,” said Joanie, bending down to pet a petite cat with white beneath its chin and on its paws. The others were all black. “What are their names?”

“That one's Corazon, because of the heart on her chest,” said the housekeeper, taking a handful of treats from the jar. “Here, give her a treat.”

“Hello, Corazon,” cooed Joanie as she fed the cat a morsel.

“That one is Shadow, and that's Kitty. And here's Mishka and Festus,” the woman added as two other cats hurried into the kitchen.

“Mishka?” said Rothstein sharply.

“Festus?” cried Joanie, looking up.

The two latecomers yowled for treats, which the housekeeper dispensed. Joanie had frozen, staring at the gray cat who limped past her to get to the food.

“My God,” murmured William.

“Which one's Mishka?” Rothstein demanded.

The housekeeper raised an eyebrow, then picked up a black cat, showing a flash of white on its underbelly. “This one.”

Rothstein took it from her and petted it. “Hello there, Mishka,” he said in a low voice, smiling in a way William didn't like.

Alma nudged William and whispered, “Festus, wasn't that the name—”

“Yes, yes,” said William hastily. “Indeed it was.”

“Festus?” Joanie said again hollowly.

“It's short for Hephaestus,” the housekeeper said. “On account of the limp.”

Joanie stood up and took a step toward the gray cat. It glanced warily at her and ran away, back right leg thumping awkwardly.

“Oh, God!” Joanie moaned.

William saw it was time to take charge. “Well, lovely visit,” he said to the housekeeper. “Very good of you to take the time, but you must be wishing us at Jericho so we'll get out of your way now.”

He caught Joanie by the waist and propelled her and Alma back toward the living room. Cats scattered before their hasty feet.

“Come along, Rothstein,” William said over his shoulder.

The gangster shot him a look of pure antagonism, then put down the cat he was holding. The smile returned to his face as he turned to the housekeeper.

“Thanks for indulging us. Nice place Mr. Penstemon's got here.”

“Thank you,” she said coolly, following him out.

She escorted them back to the entrance and held the door as they left. No polite chit-chat. No invitation to come back. She just said a brisk goodbye and shut the door behind them.

“Well, well,” said Rothstein softly as the four of them headed down the hall toward the elevator. “So he sent his cats to fetch us. I wonder why.”

William glanced at Joanie, who looked rather pale. Her mouth was pinched shut in a thin line.

“Don't suppose it matters,” he said, trying to brush it off.

“Sure it does,” said Rothstein. “Had to take a lot of effort. Why didn't he just send an employee?”

“No idea,” said William. “So, ladies, shall we have dinner at the Diamond Grill again, or would you like to try another place? I think there's a Chinese restaurant—”

“Maybe he didn't think he could trust anyone else,” Rothstein mused as they got in the elevator. “He wanted to send someone whose loyalty to him was unquestionable. After all, a famous dead gambler is a pretty unusual property. Might be worth someone's while to sidetrack us, know what I mean?”

“Not really, no,” said William. He punched the button for the ground floor.

“What about that health-food place?” said Alma cheerily. “The Wikka Garden? That looked good.”

“Sprouts,” said Joanie in a dismal tone.