Dead Man's Hand (32 page)

James had an urge to shoot him right then and there, but he resisted. “Take your hands out of your pockets. Show ‘em to me!” he insisted when the gangster hesitated. “And if you try to give any orders to Penstemon, I'll blow you away.”

He'd heard Rothstein talking about the little paper balls Penstemon had, how there was one for each of the players and how Penstemon had crumbled Runyon's. Just the thought of being that close to losing his body scared James silly. He pressed his left palm against his trousers to get the sweat off it.

Rothstein reluctantly took his hands out of his coat pockets. One was empty—he must have left his little paper ball in his pocket—but in the other he was holding a stick. James took a cautious step closer and held out his hand.

“Give it to me.”

A frown creased Rothstein's brow. He didn't move.

“One word and I'll shoot, and if you don't give me that stick in two seconds I'll shoot anyway.”

“Give it to him, Arnold,” said a woman's voice nearby. “The jig's up.”

James was tempted to look, but he knew better than to take his eyes off Rothstein. The gangster looked, though, shifting his gaze to James's right, and his face went white with shock.

“Carolyn!” he said in a stunned voice. “What are you doing here?”

The woman stepped into view, and James risked a glance at her. She was all gray—one of the ghosts. Dressed in clothes of an unfamiliar style that clung to her, with a perky little hat and a fur stole around her shoulders.

“Nicky told me about the game,” she said. “I've been watching with him and Meyer and a bunch of the others. All your old friends are here.”

Rothstein frowned. Looked right confounded, he did. James hoped to hell he'd listen to the woman and give up the stick.

“Come on, Arnold,” she said softly. “Play it out, huh? You know you can beat these guys.”

Rothstein swallowed, frowning. He inhaled, then several things happened at once: his hand tightened on the stick, his gaze shifted to Penstemon, and he opened his mouth.

James pulled the trigger.

The shot brought all the chatter in the ballroom to a stop, except for the interview that played on. Rothstein's amplified voice rang out through the suddenly quiet room: “I prefer to be in control of my own fate.”

Someone screamed, but it wasn't the ghost woman. She just shook her head, disappointed-like, and knelt beside Rothstein who was lying on the floor, back arched, bleeding as his mouth opened and closed, like a beached fish.

“Oh, Arnold,” she said, caressing his hair. “Not again.”

Shouting broke out and the crowd started to rush toward them. Penstemon dove for the little stick lying in Rothstein's slack palm. When he had it, he shot a glance up at James, then reached for Rothstein's coat, paying no mind to the blood that was everywhere.

“Excuse me, ma'am,” the sorcerer said to the ghost woman as he dug into Rothstein's pocket. He brought out the little paper ball.

Holding it in one hand, he looked at Rothstein and said, “I release you.”

He crushed the ball, rolling it between his hands until it was dust. The crowd around gave a gasp as the magic started in. All the blood turned to little sparkling motes and drifted up toward the ceiling. The look of agony left Rothstein's face, and as his body turned to dust and floated off, the gray ghost that remained gazed calmly into the ghost woman's eyes.

“Carolyn,” he said again. “I missed you.”

She took his hand. “Well, I missed you, too, you know. I've been waiting for you.”

Rothstein sat up and looked around. His gazed hardened as it fell on James.

“Sorry,” James said, and he truly meant it. He'd never liked killing.

Rothstein stared hard at him for a long time, then broke into his dazzling smile. “Win some, you lose some,” he said.

The smile hadn't got to his eyes. James knew he'd still have to watch out for this one. He was dead, but that didn't mean he was gone.

Rothstein stood, brushed off his suit, and offered his arm to the ghost woman. She took it and strolled away with him. They rose up over the heads of the crowd, who began to applaud. James saw that the cameras were recording everything. He hadn't noticed them come on.

As Rothstein disappeared into the ghost crowd, James took a last look around, then relaxed and holstered his gun. Penstemon was on his feet again, watching the gangster's departure. He looked at James.

“Thank you.”

James pressed his lips together. “Sorry to disrupt everything.”

Penstemon shook his head. “You saved your own life, and Weare's, and probably mine. I'm in your debt.”

James shrugged. He didn't feel like killing a man was something he ought to be thanked for.

“S'pose I ought to withdraw from the game. Killing a player's against the rules, I figure.”

Penstemon shook his head, a small smile coming onto his face. “It was self-defense. And anyway, it's my game, so I make the rules. Please finish it out, Mr. Hickok.”

“Yeah, finish the game, Bill!” hooted a voice nearby. James didn't have to look up to know it was Calamity Jane.

The rest of the audience joined in, hooting and hollering and finally settling down to clapping in rhythm all together. Someone, probably Jane again, started yelling, “Wild Bill, Wild Bill,” over and over again.

James gazed at them all and wondered what the hell he'd ever done to warrant all this fuss. Let that writer fellow publish stories about him, he guessed was how it had started. It all grew from there, and from the damn fool way he'd got himself killed in Deadwood.

Penstemon was still standing beside him. James leaned toward him so as not to have to shout over the crowd.

“Who was that lady Rothstein went off with?”

“His wife, Carolyn,” answered the sorcerer.

James nodded. That made sense, then. “Seemed like a right good woman.”

He glanced up at the chanting crowd, let his gaze run along the ghostly ranks above, who were also chanting and clapping and hollering and making a general fuss. The lights up there by the ceiling glared back at him, making him squint, making him think of the circus. The room was like a circus tent, in a way. He could almost imagine a high wire up there, among all the lights and cables…

“I say, old chap. Shall we get on with it?”

Dressed in his fancy suit with the ruffles at the sleeves and the old-fashioned neckcloth, Weare looked the complete gentleman. James guessed he himself looked like more of a rapscallion. Weare stopped a couple of paces away and made an elaborate, sweeping bow. The crowd roared approval, then went back to chanting.

James stepped toward Weare and held out his hand. They shook, and James caught the glint in Weare's eye along with the testing squeeze of his grip. The Englishman had by no means given up the show.

They walked together toward the table to the wild cheering of the crowd. Amber was there, waiting to deal, and they all three sat down to business as Penstemon stepped up in front of a camera.

“Arnold Rothstein has defaulted. Therefore, his chips will be removed from the table.” He waved a hand casually and Rothstein's stack vanished. “We are down to heads-up play between William Weare and Wild Bill Hickok. Dealer, put ‘em in the air!”

The crowd clapped and hooted, then settled down to watch. For a couple of hands James and Weare folded the blinds, both looking for winners. James watched the Englishman's eyes, which had a set and determined look to them at odds with his casual smile. Weare was playing for keeps.

Well, so was he. This was it—the final showdown. One of them would live on, and the other would go back.

Back to how it had been before? James chewed his lip as he watched Amber's pretty purple hands mess the cards around and then gather them up for another deal.

He didn't figure it would be like before. He'd been half asleep, then, and he doubted he'd forget everything he'd learned in the meantime, even if he did lose. He glanced at Penstemon, then at the hungry crowd in the stands.

His second card spun to a stop on top of the first and he lifted up the corners like they'd all learned to do from Runyon. Poor Runyon, gone back into the loop, he thought fleetingly, then his mind focused in on the cards.

Ace eight of spades.

He looked up at Weare, who had the small blind and the action. Weare shoved a stack of chips forward.

“One hundred thousand.”

James matched the bet. “Call.”

Amber dealt the flop: ace of clubs, queen of hearts, eight of clubs. A tingle went through James, not the cold prickle that meant magic but the ghostly touch of memory.

Aces and eights, queen kicker. He'd held these cards before.

He smiled inside but didn't let it reach his face. ‘Bout time he found out whether this hand was a winner.

“Two hundred thousand,” said Weare, pushing chips to the pot.

That was most of Weare's stack. James watched him, looking for signs of the gloat or the bluff. He could have a pair of queens or even aces, or two more clubs for a flush draw.

The Englishman's green eyes told nothing. Beyond him in the stands, Miss Alma and Miss Joanie were clinging together, and James felt a stab of envy.

Weare had everything to live for. He'd found a new love in this strange new world.

Whereas James had a bunch of what they called screaming fans, but not really any friends to speak of, except maybe Penstemon. He glanced toward the shadows where the sorcerer stood, quietly waiting. They were all waiting.

“Call,” James said, pushing a pile of chips forward.

He only had a few thousand more. This hand would make or break one of them.

Probably he should have gone all in, that would have been the showy thing to do. He'd never been that much of a showman, though. He closed his eyes, suddenly feeling tired.

An excited noise from the crowd made him open them again. The turn card was on the board. Nine of diamonds.

James wanted to laugh, remembering the damn nine on the wall at the new No. 10 Saloon, and how he'd argued with the boss about it. He looked up for Weare's reaction and saw a tiny crease on his brow.

Not the card Weare had wanted, then. It made a straight possible. More than one way to win this one.

“Check,” Weare said, leaning back and watching James.

James felt the elation of a sure win. Weare didn't have the straight, and James doubted he had a pocket pair to match a card on the board. James's two pair, the damn dead man's hand, were the boss cards, he felt sure of it.

He saw himself collecting the win, watching Weare fade to dust while the crowd roared and screamed. All except for Weare's two lady friends, of course.

Then what the hell would he do? Get a million dollars from Penstemon. Nice bankroll for a new start on life, but what the hell kind of life would it be?

He looked up toward the ceiling, past Jane and the other rowdies, up toward the back. The lights hanging up there made it hard to see, but still the back of his neck prickled as he glimpsed a silhouette that looked familiar. He stood up.

The crowd roared, thinking he was going all in. He hadn't done that, though. The cards were in his hands, his last few chips still behind the line.

“Fold,” he said softly, and dropped the cards across the line.

He walked toward the audience, who were all staring at him, shocked to silence. He stopped when he reached the stands and turned his head to look back at Penstemon.

“I seen her. Took me a while. You're still looking, aren't you?”

The sorcerer gazed at him for a long moment, then slowly nodded.

“Hope yours finds her way here. She must be a hell of a woman.”

Penstemon closed his eyes briefly, a crease of pain on his brow. James would love to know the whole story, but he had a more pressing matter to attend to.

“I'm ready.”

Penstemon inhaled long and slow and reached into his pocket. James looked back toward the ceiling, squinting at the glare of the lights that shifted and softened as he felt the first tickling wave of his body going back to dust. He tried a step into the air and found he could do it, and broke into a grin as he strode up over the heads of the marveling crowd.

She came forward to meet him. She'd been waiting all this time, so patient, just like she had been in life. A solid, sensible woman, not a beauty, but she was beautiful to him.

“Agnes,” he said, taking her hands.

She smiled back at him. “You done fooling around, James?”

He nodded. “I'm so sorry I failed you.”

“Never mind,” she said, and she took his face in her hands and kissed him, right there in front of everybody.

The crowd gave a wild roar. It faded into the crashing of the ocean, just like the hotel and all the lights and the crowd faded away around them as James and Agnes stepped into the sky.