Dead Man's Hand (30 page)

“Or the little bistro, Machiavelli's. Do you like Italian, Joanie?” William asked.

Joanie shrugged and continued to stare at the floor, seeming sunk in despair. William glanced at Rothstein, but the fellow was oblivious, lost in his shady speculations, no doubt.

Hellfire. He'd hoped Joanie had gotten over her infatuation. Knowing Festus was a cat should have furthered that process, he'd have thought, but the effect seemed to be the opposite. She was going to be a bundle of gloom for the rest of the evening.

“Dirty trick Penstemon played on you, wasn't it?” murmured Rothstein. “Sending a cat in human form.”

He was looking at Joanie, not at William. She raised her gaze to meet his. William frowned, then the bell rang and the door opened and the noise of the casino swept over them.

“Look!” cried someone nearby. “It's Rothstein and Weare!”

“Sounds like a bloody law firm,” muttered Alma. “Here we go.”

A crowd surged around them as they stepped out of the elevator. Men and women in witch hats and long drapey robes, mostly black, crowded elbow to elbow with wolf-faced teenagers and green-skinned short people and a lot of other folk, strange and not, all clamoring for autographs.

William smiled and nodded and shook hands and scribbled his name over and over on scraps of paper and parchment and in one case, with a marker pen on a large, scantily-clad woman's astonishing bosom. Alma stayed close, flashing a brilliant smile that said, “Hands off” and keeping an arm firmly around Joanie's waist.

Somehow in all the hubbub Rothstein slipped away, William didn't notice when. At last the crowd thinned enough for them to escape. Pleading shortage of time, William bade farewell to the fans and hurried Alma and Joanie off to Machiavelli's, where an understanding hostess led them to a quiet, curtained booth at the back of the restaurant.

“Whew!” William said as he settled into the cushioned leather. “That was rather a crush.”

“You're a bleeding rock star, Willy,” said Alma, grinning. “I'm going to have to keep my eye on you.”

“I'm yours alone, Alma, my dear.” Realizing belatedly that this billing and cooing might make Joanie feel worse, William turned to her with a kindly smile. “Will you pick us out a bottle of wine to have with dinner, Joanie? You have such good taste.”

Joanie sat blinking at the menu lying before her. “I want to go home.”

“Joanie, love!” Alma put an arm around her shoulders. “Don't you want to stay and watch Willy win the tournament?”

Joanie shook her head. William tried to think of something to say, but comforting heartbroken women wasn't exactly his forte.

Alma picked up Joanie's menu and placed it in her hands. “Have some pasta, it'll make you feel better. Pick out something sinful.”

A waiter arrived, a young man looking devilish in a black mustache and pointed goatee. The horns added to the impression. Had to be a trend, because William had noticed several individuals affecting this devil look, though this one had the best facial hair he'd seen.

The waiter set an antipasto platter in the center of the table. “Are you ready to order?”

“We need a minute,” said William. “Bring us a bottle of your best Montepulciano in the meantime.”

“Right away, sir.”

The waiter gave a brisk smile and hustled away. Alma pushed the antipasto toward Joanie.

“Look, olives. Your favorite.”

“I'm not a child,” said Joanie resentfully.

“I know, love, but I just want you to feel better. It isn't the end of the world, you know. There's lots of fish in the sea.”

Not the most adroit comparison, William thought, but he let it pass. Alma knew Joanie better than he.

He perused the menu and settled on veal scaloppini. By the time the waiter returned with the wine, Alma had coaxed Joanie into trying the antipasto and the two of them were giggling and making faces over the pickled hot peppers.

William gave his order for the veal, Alma ordered something spicy and unpronounceable, and Joanie chose lobster Alfredo, the costliest item on the menu. The fierce little voice in which she said it told William she hadn't forgotten her disappointment.

“After all,” she said with a brittle smile as the waiter left, “Mr. Bloody Penstemon can afford it, can't he?”

She picked up her wineglass and took a large swallow. William sipped his, trading a glance with Alma. It was going to be a rough night.

“I still want to go home,” Joanie announced, setting her glass down with a solid thump.

“I'll speak to Mr. Penstemon after the evening's tournament session, if you're of the same mind then,” William said gently.

“Thank you,” she said with dignity, then picked up her glass and swigged again.

He wondered what would become of Joanie, and of Alma for that matter, if he lost tonight. Presumably Penstemon would pay their way home to England or send them in his magical car-coach-jet thing. He worried, though. Alma would be all right, but he feared he'd done Joanie a disservice by bringing her along.

It had just been a lark. Sad how a bit of fun could turn so ugly. He'd never wished Joanie harm. Poor little thing, he'd bollocksed things up for her royally, hadn't he?

 

 

 

 

“You're the only player who has previous experience of poker tournaments, isn't that right, Mr. Runyon?”

“Well, I didn't play in them, I ran them, but yeah. I'm the only one that really knows Texas Hold'em.”

“Do you think that gives you an advantage?”

“Sure it does. You know the game, you got an advantage. Those other guys are good, but—heh, heh. Good only goes so far, y'know?”

“What was your reaction when you were invited to be in the tournament?”

“Well, it took me a while to figure out what the hell was going on. I mean, for a while I didn't—well, anyway I was kind of disoriented at first. But I'll always play poker. Hell, I wasn't going to turn it down. And it's fun to be on the player side.”

“What will you do if you win the tournament?”

“Finish up a few things. Go back to Vegas, probably.”

“You're in a unique position, being the only player whose friends and family are still alive. Do you think you'll have any trouble going back?”

“Nah, I don't think so. I mean, they got DNA tests and stuff these days, right? So I'll be able to prove I'm me. Probably take some work to get my identity back, but that's what lawyers are for, right?”

“Assuming you're successful, what then?”

“Um. Well, you know, I'll probably retire, live a life of leisure, you know, ha, ha. Play some poker.”

“Will you do anything differently than you did before your death?”

“Fuck, yeah. I'll stay away from bloodsucking bitch whores, that's what. Oh, do you have to bleep that? Sorry.”

“What do you most look forward to doing after the tournament?”

“A couple of things … but you know, I mostly want to see my daughter, Connie. I just want to give her a great big hug.”

“Well, here's hoping you get to do that. Good luck, Mr. Runyon. And now, back to the tournament.”

 

 

 

A
rnold sat in the lounge, waiting impatiently for the unsavory individual—even now, he shrank from the word “witch”—to show up. He used the time to think over his plans.

He'd considered killing Runyon and the other two, but that would be messy and difficult and far less direct than simply getting control of Penstemon. That was his ultimate goal anyway, to control the sorcerer. The other poker players were incidental.

Control Penstemon, make him do his mumbo jumbo to make Arnold's body permanent, then proceed to take over his operation. Penstemon was too soft to take full advantage of the setup he had. Arnold saw lots of potential here for higher profit. He smiled as he thought about it, and took another sip of his tonic.

He'd thought about using the cats. Easy enough to get into Penstemon's suite and grab Mishka. Little minx. Serve her right for trying to put one over on him.

He wasn't sure Penstemon would give up everything to save a cat, though. Not worth the risk that he'd just write the cat off.

No, this way was better. Magic was Penstemon's biggest advantage. Arnold didn't have time to learn magic to compete with him, but fortunately his assumption had proved to be correct. Magic could be bought.

He glanced at his watch, frowning. Quarter to seven, almost time for the tournament.

The witch came in and made her way toward him with her stork-like stride. “Hiya, Mr. Big,” she said, revealing the wonders of modern dentistry in a toothy grin.

“You're late,” Arnold told her.

She folded her stilt-like legs and sat in the chair across from him, setting her purse in front of her on the table between them. “Good things take time. You wanted top quality, right?”

“Right. So what have you got for me?”

She glanced toward the bar where the bartender was hooking up a new keg to one of the beer taps. There was no one else in the place except for three old ladies playing a loud and rowdy game with some weird kind of trading cards at a table by the window.

Apparently satisfied that they weren't being observed, the crone opened her purse and produced two items: a small bundle of what looked like twigs and weeds that had a faintly foul smell, and a short, forked stick.

Arnold frowned. “That's it?”

“Yep. Drop the bundle in the person's pocket, then hold onto the stick while you issue commands.”

“And it's good for how long?”

“Depends if the person's got any defenses. Your average witch, maybe take a day to overcome it.”

“What about an extreme example? Somebody really powerful.”

“Like Penstemon?” Her eyes glinted and she smiled unpleasantly. “No more than an hour. Maybe less.”

“But it would control him?”

She nodded. “For a short time, yeah. Remind me not to be around when he breaks it.”

An hour would be long enough, Arnold thought. Make Penstemon sign him on as a partner, make him do the magic on his body.

“I want a demonstration before I pay you.”

She shrugged, glanced around the bar, then stood up and slung her purse over her shoulder. Arnold followed her out into the casino, where she strolled along between rows of slot machines. She pointed out a solitary woman wearing a baggy sweater with big, open pockets.

Arnold passed that one by and instead slipped the weed bundle into the pocket of a wizened little pointy-eared man in the next row. He held the forked stick up in front of the guy's face.

“Stand up,” he said.

The guy stood up. The crone pushed Arnold's hand down to his side.

“You don't have to wave it like a baton. Just hold onto it.”

Arnold stuck his hand in his own pocket, gripping the stick firmly. “Take off your coat,” he said.

The old man took off his coat, and when Arnold told him to turn it inside out and put it back on he complied, then stood waiting for more orders. Arnold reached in the man's pocket, now harder to get to, and took out the weed bundle.

He strolled away with the crone, pausing in a soda fountain alcove at the end of the row. Glancing back, he saw the old man blink in confusion, then sit back down at the machine, jacket still inside-out.

“OK, sold,” Arnold said softly. He took out his bankroll and peeled off ten thousand dollars, almost everything he'd made at the poker tables.

“And another fifty tomorrow,” said the crone, stuffing the cash in her purse.

Arnold nodded. Tomorrow he'd have control of the Black Queen, and he'd send someone to dispatch this witch. Couldn't let her stay around, threatening to blackmail him whenever she liked.

She grinned, again flashing her large, long teeth. “Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Big. Good luck in the card game.”

“Thanks.”

Arnold watched her lope away, then strolled back down the aisle of slot machines. He paused by the old guy.

“How much did she pay you?”

The guy blinked up at him. “What? Who?”

Arnold looked in his eyes and saw sincere confusion. “Never mind,” he said. “By the way, you're coat's inside out.”

He made his way through the casino to the elevators, where a crowd was waiting to get up to the tournament. He almost headed for the staircase instead, but since he was late he crammed into an elevator with a bunch of the rabble, smiling at them and answering their questions for the short duration of the ride, then escaping with a long stride that brought him to the ballroom door just as Penstemon was coming toward it.

“There you are! I was getting worried, Mr. Rothstein. I'd hate to see you forfeit the game.”

Penstemon flashed a smile and motioned Arnold ahead of him with a broad sweep of his arm. No chance to slip the weed bundle in his pocket. Arnold suppressed his annoyance and went to the table. He could bide his time. There'd be other opportunities.

The others were there ahead of him. Four chairs now, with Runyon and Hickok on the short ends of the table while Arnold shared the long side opposite the dealer with Weare. Arnold took his seat as the red lights on the cameras lit up.

“Welcome back to the Black Queen Poker Tournament,” Penstemon said to the cameras. The overhead screens showed his face a yard wide. He was standing between Arnold and Weare. Arnold leaned back a little in his chair. Penstemon took a step back.

“Four players remain to vie for the championship prize,” he said loudly. “Dealer, put ‘em in the air!”

It was the purple girl again. She dealt out the cards while Penstemon walked away. Arnold looked at his hand, which was crap, two-seven off. He folded it and kept an eye on Penstemon, who now was off in a corner chatting with the hostess, Gaeline.