Dead Man's Hand (3 page)

As he was admiring an orange picture of a hand—fortune teller's shop sign, perhaps?—it went out and a different picture came on, a stick-figure of a man leaning forward in glowing blue-white light. The fellow and the soiled dove started across the street. James followed them.

The man turned his head to address James. “Going to Saloon Number Ten?”

James tried to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach. “Might look in there.”

“You in the show?”

“Not tonight.”

The fellow looked disappointed. The soiled dove whispered something in his ear, then giggled and shot James a coy look.

James thought about whether he might try to take her away from the other fellow, but he had the severe disadvantage of empty pockets. She looked like a choice piece, so she wouldn't be cheap. Maybe at the saloon he'd find a woman who was a little older, a little more inclined to be sympathetic with a fellow who was down on his luck.

Maybe he could get into a game and make some money that way. He'd have to find someone who'd give him a stake.

The thought of a card game sent a queer sort of shiver down his spine. He loved to play, loved nothing more in this world than a good game of bluff poker, but the last time he'd sat down at a card table in the No. 10 Saloon he hadn't been so lucky.

He'd just keep his back to the wall, that's all. He'd never make that mistake again. To hell with courtesy, and to hell with the game if the other players wouldn't give him the seat he wanted.

A car whooshed by in the street beside them, startling James so fierce he jumped. He stared after it, fascinated by the long, low shape of it and the red lights hanging on the back, like the lanterns on a caboose. The fellow with his gal kept on walking, and they went around a corner just as James glanced up at them. He hurried after them, noting a street sign that announced he had arrived at Main Street.

Turning the corner, he was astonished. There was light and color everywhere, even more than on the other streets. Music blared out of doorways that stood open despite the cold—strange, loud music with a fast, thumping beat. There were cars, big and small and painted every color of the rainbow, lining the sides of the street. More cars were driving back and forth, and crowds of people walked along the boardwalks.

The women amazed him more than anything. Not a one of them was properly dressed. Those in skirts wore them indecently short, and the rest wore trousers, like crazy old Calamity Jane. Most had painted their faces with licentious abandon. He saw several women wearing black leather jackets decorated with strange silver studs, usually over denim trousers. Quite a few of the men wore these as well.

The fellow and his soiled dove had vanished into the crowd. James stood on the corner staring down Main Street, trying to fit what he was looking at into his memory of Deadwood. The way the street lay looked about right, but everything else was changed. All the buildings were taller, all lit up so bright. Some ghost of the rowdy mining town he'd known might still be here, but it was only a ghost.

He looked up toward the hillside, but the bright lights in town kept him from seeing the shape of it. If he guessed right he was facing northeast, which meant the No. 10 Saloon would be on the right up ahead. He started walking, looking all around in the hope of seeing something familiar.

There were gaming establishments and restaurants, hotels, shops, and signs advertising tours. He reached another street and started across it when a blaring airhorn and a familiar screeching sound made him jump back onto the boardwalk.

A large red car had stopped in front of him. The driver yelled obscenities out of his open window, then drove on. James started after the car, his heart pounding.

“Better wait for the light to cross, dude,” said someone near him in a laconic voice. “Traffic is crazy in this town.”

James turned and saw a sleepy-eyed young man in a black duster and denim trousers that were much too large for him. The fellow was regarding him with a lazy stare that brought his instincts alert.

James kept a wary eye on him, his hands twitching near his guns despite their useless condition. He wished the sheriff had left him even one round.

He watched the people around him, and when a group of them started across the street together he followed. Cars had stopped to let them cross. He didn't bother puzzling why. He just wanted to get to the saloon.

On the corner was a tall building with a lighted green sign. He walked past it and stopped in front of the next building.

The sign called it Saloon No. 10, and it was in about the right situation, but it didn't look at all as he remembered. The No. 10 had been a ramshackle wooden shack. This place was brick, with a lot of signs loudly proclaiming it to be the place where he'd been killed, which he thought a might tactless.

 

WILD BILL HICKOK MURDERED BY JACK MCCALL - 1, 3, 5, 7, 9

 

It was pleasing to be remembered, but a little disconcerting to find that one's most memorable act had been dying. He frowned as he gazed at the sign. Those numbers made a pretty useless poker hand, if that was what they were supposed to be. No pair, only an ace. He'd won on less, but not often.

He went in, glad to get out of the cold. Like the jailhouse, the saloon was lit up brighter than day. Chandeliers hanging from the ceiling and lights with glass chimneys on the walls all burned with a steady, unnatural whiteness.

The saloon was crowded, rowdy with laughter and the music of a piano hidden somewhere he couldn't see, sounded like it was right overhead. James made his way deeper in and paused beside a glass case holding an old chair. A neatly lettered sign identified it as the chair he had been sitting in when he'd died. He stared at it, trying to remember. Hadn't really noticed the chair, except that it was in the wrong place.

Another case on the wall displayed the nine of diamonds, with a sign labeled “Dead Man's Hand” in large letters, claiming the nine was the kicker card in the hand he'd been holding when he was shot. That he
did
remember—he'd had aces and eights, and the kicker was the queen of hearts. He chuckled, pleased to find that showmen were still the same blustering liars they had ever been.

He really ought to find out what year it was. He looked at the walls, where there were a lot of other things on display including every photograph ever taken of him, or so it seemed. There were no calendars, however.

He turned his attention to the bar instead, wondering if the barkeep, a weasely looking fellow in a vest and string tie, would be sympathetic. The bar was new and different, a long, massive thing of highly polished wood, and there was a poker game going on at a table nearby.

A chill went through James as he looked at the table. The men sitting there were dressed more normally, in buckskins or frock coats. And wearing guns, he noticed. In noticing that, he realized that none of the other patrons wore guns. The sheriff had worn one, a strange little black snub-nosed item, but no one else in the town seemed to carry a weapon.

One of the players glanced up at him and got a queer look on his face, then went back to the game. A few other people were standing about dressed in familiar styles, including a couple of soiled doves who by comparison with the rest of the women looked positively prim. These all seemed to be watching the game.

In fact, pretty much everyone in the place was watching the game. There must be some high stakes on the table.

James drew a little closer to get a better look. Across the table from him another fellow drew closer, too. Maybe it was that the other fellow happened to be coming from the direction of the door, or maybe it was the look in his eye, but James suddenly felt a dread warning in his bones. He opened his mouth to call out even as the man was reaching for his gun, then the pistol fired and all hell broke loose.

James's gun was in his hand. People had screamed at the shot, and now, strangely, some were laughing.

A man at the table collapsed forward. The fellow who'd fired ran out of the saloon, and the other players got up and chased him. No one bothered with the man who'd been shot. James holstered his gun and hurried to his side.

The man was wearing buckskins, a big hat, and a string tie to his starched white shirt. James knelt by him and put a hand on his shoulder.

“Where're you hit?”

The man opened his eyes and gave him a startled glance, then moaned loudly and collapsed again. Someone grabbed at James, shoving him aside.

It was the barkeep, who shot James a dirty glance, then turned to the man sprawled on the floor. After a cursory examination, he stood up and pronounced, “He's dead! Wild Bill is dead!”

The soiled doves let out a chorus of “Oh, no!” and commenced to making weepy noises. James stepped back, cold realization pouring through his limbs.

The “dead” man had spilled his cards artfully across the floor. Aces and eights, nine of diamonds.

Everyone else in the place started applauding. James felt queasy. He swept the room with his gaze, saw smiling faces, nodding at him. They thought he was part of this macabre farce.

He needed a drink. Shoved his way to the bar, then remembered he didn't have any money.

Behind the bar a young woman stood grinning at him. She was dressed like the soiled doves. Her face was painted like a harlot's, but she didn't inspire any lust in him, not at the moment.

“That was an interesting little ad-lib,” she said. “You had Marty scared for a minute.”

She nodded toward the card table. James glanced that way and saw the barkeep and the two soiled doves carrying the “dead” man away. The crowd had gone to chattering and laughing, and a lot of them were leaving the saloon. The show was over.

“Like your outfit,” the gal added. “What can I get you?”

“I don't have any money, ma'am, but I sure could use a glass of whiskey.”

She cocked an eyebrow at him. “All right.”

James watched her reach behind her to a row of bottles and pour a small glass of golden liquor. She put a little square of tissue paper in front of him and set the glass on it.

“On me. You deserve something for spicing up the show.”

“I thank you kindly, ma'am.”

James lifted the glass and admired the whiskey's clear golden color. None of the rot-gut that Nutter and Hall had poured in shameless libel of the name of whiskey. This looked to be first-rate stuff. He smelled it, took a sip, and then drained the glass, setting it down on the bar with a sigh as it burned down his throat and lit a fire in his belly.

“Ambrosia,” he said, nodding to the gal pouring drinks. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome. Just don't expect a free drink every night.”

“Every night?”

James glanced at the card table, which another gal was clearing, taking away the cards, empty glasses, even the coins the players had been betting. He looked at the woman behind the bar again. She was filling glasses of beer from a tap mounted right there on the bar.

“They do this—show—every night?”

“Five times a day. One, three, five, seven, and nine. This is the last week of that, though. Drops back to three shows in the winter.”

She set a filled glass on a tray with some others and one of the other gals picked it up and carried it away. James looked after her, wishing he had the money for a glass of beer or better yet, another whiskey.

“You know, you're a dead ringer for Wild Bill,” the gal at the bar said.

Dead ringer. James couldn't help a weak smile. Dead, anyway, or had been.

Come to think of it, he was none too sure about his present status. He gave a cough of unwilling laughter.

“You interested in doing the show?” she asked. “I know Marty's been talking about taking some time off.”

That was what the sheriff had suggested, that he come do this show. That was why he'd come here, wasn't it? To try for some gainful employment, only he hadn't realized it would involve reenacting his own murder.

He didn't know if he could do it, even once, let alone five times a day. The very idea made his stomach twist up in a knot around that fine whiskey. He blinked, swallowed, and managed to speak.

“Who would I see about that?”

 

 

 

 

Las Vegas, Nevada

N
ed rolled over and tried to go back to sleep, which was when he discovered he was lying on the floor. He was fully dressed in his best silk suit, and he was sweating. Wherever he was, the air conditioning wasn't working, and these clothes were much too hot for Vegas, even at night.

A glint of light from something metal made him look up, and suddenly he recognized the place—narrow space like a hallway to nowhere, marble wall rising on one side, with big metal name plaques. His family's names.

“Fucking Christ!”

Either he had taken too many drugs or not enough. Probably not enough.

He was in the fucking mausoleum, Eden Vale, where his family was stashed. There they were, looking down at him—Daddy and Mama and the whole Runyon crew.

He scrambled to his feet and out of the space in front of the vaults, into the little chapel area with its token rectangles of colored glass. The air was stuffy and no lights were on. A vague noise of traffic reached him from outside.

He went to the glass doors and saw outside the familiar palm trees: three to the right, three more to the left, confirming where he was. He tried the door, but it was bolted.

Definitely not enough drugs.

This was some asshole's idea of a great joke. Randy, probably. Fucking bitch! It was just her kind of trick. Man, would she be sorry when he ran her down!

He stood fuming, trying to remember when he'd last seen her. There was something about her … he couldn't remember. He'd been having nightmares, maybe that was it. He needed a hit. He always thought clearer when he was high.