Dead Man's Hand (19 page)

Penstemon looked faintly surprised. “Well, yes. Perhaps it was optimistic of me, but I assumed you'd all agree. Am I wrong? Is there anyone here who does not want to keep his new body?”

Again, silence reigned. Clive kept his mouth shut and his hands clamped together. He disliked being manipulated, but there was no denying he'd prefer to stay alive than to go back to the endless nightmares in Bloomfield.

So he had to play for his life. They all did.

He looked around the table again, now measuring each of his opponents. Rothstein looked the most formidable, but looks could be deceiving. The fellow beside Clive, Runyon, looked the least in control of himself, but that did not mean he would not be a good card player.

Clive was distracted by his salad plate, which had floated up into the air. The invisible waiters were clearing the plates. Clive bit his lip to keep from protesting as his salad was borne away. He supposed it was all right to eat, now that he knew what Penstemon was up to. Glancing at his host, Clive tried to detect any deceit in his demeanor, but saw none.

“Now, then,” said Penstemon cheerfully, “about the tournament itself. The game will be no-limit Texas Hold'em. We'll have a practice session after lunch so those of you who haven't played it can get used to the game. Mr. Weare, I believe you're the only one who hasn't played poker at all.”

Weare looked up from the pint of beer he was sipping. “Oh, no worries, I've watched it on telly dozens of times. It's all the rage, you know,” he added to Rothstein, who returned a flat, cold stare.

“Texas Hold'em is the best fucking game on earth,” said Runyon, suddenly showing an interest in the discussion. He pointed an accusing finger at Penstemon. “You're just coattailing on the World Series of Poker!”

Penstemon's smile broadened. “Indeed I am. I won't deny it. Nor am I the only one. There's the World Poker Tour, Heads-Up Poker Championship, Celebrity Poker, of which this is a variation. The world's in love with poker. Why shouldn't we all benefit?”

“You've chosen a rather unusual market,” said Rothstein.

“Yes,” said Penstemon. “The magical community is a subculture, an underworld of sorts. I believe you're familiar with the concept.”

Rothstein's eyes sharpened for a moment, then a cold smile crossed his lips. “And you're in control of this underworld?” he said softly.

Penstemon chuckled. “Hardly. I'm merely a businessman, seeking to increase my profits as all good businessmen must.”

Rothstein made no answer, but continued to regard Penstemon with a measuring stare. Clive imagined a silent contest being conducted between them, a challenge of wills. Who was this Rothstein? he wondered. Penstemon had mentioned only that he'd been killed over a poker debt.

The tension was broken by the return of the waiters, bearing plates of prime rib with roasted potatoes and vegetables. Clive's mouth began to water the moment his plate hit the table and the smell of the roast meat wafted up to him, and he was hard pressed not to begin eating before his host.

“Bon appetit, gentlemen,” said Penstemon, picking up his fork. He glanced at Clive. “Would you like something to drink with that? Glass of wine, or a beer? Whiskey?”

“Wine,” said Clive. “Thank you.”

One of the waiters was instantly at his elbow, pouring red wine into a glass that hadn't been at his place a moment before. Clive hastily looked away from the bottle that appeared to be floating in midair.

“That's quite an elegant portrait behind you, Mr. Penstemon. Is it the Black Queen?”

Penstemon went still for a moment, his gaze distant. He did not glance over his shoulder. With great care, he picked up his wine glass. “One of many.”

“Anne Boleyn,” added Weare from down the table, stabbing his fork into a large chunk of beef and waving it in the air. “They said she was a witch, y'know.”

Clive took a deep breath, cut off a bite of his beef, and chewed it worshipfully. Hell, he was probably damned anyway. Might as well enjoy himself. Underworld or not, this was a damn sight better than Bloomfield.

 

 

 

 

“T
exas Hold'em is a variation of seven-card stud,” announced Penstemon, standing beside the dealer's chair where sat a young lady who would have been lovely except that she was purple. Arnold kept finding his gaze drawn to her. Distracting, and not in a good way. He gave his head a small shake and returned his attention to Penstemon.

“Each player gets two cards face down in the hole, followed by a round of betting. The remaining five cards are shared, and are dealt face up three, one, and one, with a round of betting after each deal.”

Mutterings arose around the table and echoed in the large ballroom that had already been set up for the tournament. For the moment they were alone, watched by empty stands of bleachers.

Multitudinous lights and strange machines surrounded the tournament table. The five players and the dealer were seated around it, an oval covered in blue felt with the Black Queen's logo in the middle. Around the edge of the table was a strip that glowed with white light, and padded railings in which Penstemon had said tiny cameras were placed to peek at the player's cards as they looked at them. Some of the big machines were cameras, too, according to Penstemon.

“That makes chance a bigger factor in the game,” Arnold said. “Puts a lot of weight on those two hole cards.”

“Yes,” Penstemon said, “and there's also the possibility of several different hands making with the same five board cards.”

“Tell you what,” said Weare in a chipper voice, peering through a pair of spectacles at the list of poker hand precedence that Penstemon had provided him, “why don't we just play piquet instead?”

No one laughed. Runyon, who had consumed at least half a dozen drinks at lunch, leaned red-faced across the table and bellowed at Weare.

“Texas Hold'em is the best goddamn card game ever invented!”

Weare gave him a pitying look. “Yes, yes, dear boy, we all know how you feel about it.”

“Let's go ahead and deal a few hands,” said Penstemon. “You'll get a better feel for it by playing than by talking.”

“What's the ante?” asked Hickok.

“No ante at first. There are always two blind bets, and they rotate with the dealer button.” Penstemon picked up a white disc marked “DEALER” and set it before Runyon. “Dealer's left is the small blind, starting at fifty. Player to small blind's left is the big blind, starting at a hundred. So fifty from you, Mr. Hickok, and a hundred from Mr. Weare.”

Hickok pushed a chip across the line on the felt, and Weare tossed two into the center of the table. “Behind before I begin,” Weare said, laughing.

“It all evens out,” said Penstemon. “Go ahead, Amber.”

The dealer reached for the cards that were spread face-up in an arc before her, and expertly lifted one end of the row to flip them face down. She then messed them about with her hands and gathered them up, proceeding to shuffle, cut the deck onto a blank card, and deal.

Arnold watched the other players before looking at his own hole cards. Weare on his right picked up his cards and took no care about hiding them; Arnold glimpsed a heart, probably an eight or nine. Beyond Weare at one short end of the table sat Hickok, who also picked up his cards and held them.

“You don't do it like that,” said Runyon crossly from the seat opposite to Hickok's. “You look at ‘em like this, then put ‘em down again.”

He demonstrated, pulling his two cards toward him onto the white light panel and lifting just the corners, showing them to the small black rectangle that was the camera. He then let the cards drop to the table. To Arnold's surprise, he was unable to read whether Runyon liked the cards or not. The man might be a fool, but apparently he could play poker.

Sebastian, the riverboat gambler, was seated on Arnold's left. He hadn't said much, and seemed to wear a slight, perpetual frown of confusion. He now lifted the corner of his cards as Runyon had done, set them down again, and blinked once.

Arnold looked at his hand. Seven and jack of clubs. Hard to tell if it was a good hand. He was unused to evaluating only two cards. In normal seven-card stud you got three before the first round of betting.

“All right, so now you bet on those cards,” said Penstemon, “starting with the player to the left of the big blind. You either match the blind, raise, or fold.”

Arnold glanced at Weare, then at Hickok. His inclination was to fold out of a game he didn't understand and suspected he wouldn't like, but he called the bet instead. He had to play this game, so he'd better get a grasp on it now, while there was no real cost.

He glanced at Penstemon as the others put in their chips. What he really wanted was to figure out how to muscle in on Penstemon's operation. Proceeds from this ghoulish tournament aside, the Black Queen must make a tidy profit. It would be a good starting point.

Sebastian and Runyon had called the bet. This was practice, people wouldn't be playing as cautiously as they would in a real game. The dealer looked at Hickok.

“Fifty to call,” she said.

Hickok raised an eyebrow, then pushed another chip across the line. The dealer turned her blue eyes on Weare.

“You have the option to raise,” she said.

“Do I? Well, thank you, my dear, but I think I'll decline.”

She thumped the table and swept the chips into a pile, then shoved the top card from the deck beneath it, dealt three cards face down before her, and flipped them over. Eight of hearts, ten of clubs, ace of spades.

“This is the flop,” said Penstemon. “Now you bet again, starting with dealer's left. Minimum bet is a hundred.”

The ten gave Arnold three clubs, so he needed two more for a flush. Could even be a straight flush, seven through the jack, though it was unlikely that the next two cards would be eight and nine clubs. Any nine would give him a straight, though, as would any queen and king. Not a bad hand.

Hickok looked at his cards, then put two chips on the felt. Weare did likewise, and Arnold called the bet. Sebastian frowned at the board for a moment, then called as well.

“I'm all in,” said Runyon, and pushed his entire stack of chips across the line.

The others protested. “He can't do that, can he?” demanded Weare.

“Yes, he can,” Penstemon said. “There's no limit on the bets.”

“So we have to risk everything we have in order to call him?” asked Sebastian.

“At this point, yes. It's a little unusual for someone to go all in on the first hand,” he added, glancing at Runyon.

Runyon's face gave away nothing. Arnold revised his opinion of the fellow from complete idiot to self-indulgent fool. Apparently he could keep himself together at the poker table, at least for a short while.

“I'll call,” said Hickok, pushing his own stack across.

Weare had his cards in one hand and the list of poker hands in the other, and looked back and forth between them and the board. “I believe I'll pass,” he said.

“So you fold your cards,” said Penstemon. “Push them across the line.”

Weare put down the list and then ceremoniously placed his cards across the line. The dealer swept them aside.

Arnold looked at Runyon again. Probably he had paired the ace. If Arnold made either the straight or the flush, he'd beat the aces.

“I'll call.”

He moved his own chips across the line. Sebastian pushed his cards over the line, shaking his head.

“Three players,” said the dealer, adding Sebastian's discards to Weare's. “Turn ‘em up.”

Arnold glanced at Penstemon, who nodded. “You've all bet all you can, so we show the hands at this point.”

Hickok turned over his cards, a ten and a six, giving him a pair of tens. The dealer drew them toward the cards on the board, arranging them together pointing toward Hickok. Arnold showed his two clubs, and Runyon turned over the ace and king of hearts.

Arnold watched Runyon's face intently. Now that the cards were up, he smirked like a gloating kid. His pair of aces was winning for the moment.

The dealer arranged their hands by the board as well, then pushed another card under the first round of bets and turned up the ace of clubs. Hickok made an unhappy sound. Three aces would beat two pair, so Hickok could only win if a third ten came up to give him a full house.

“That's the turn card,” said Penstemon. “Now comes the river.”

“We used to call it fourth street and fifth street,” Arnold said.

Penstemon nodded. “Those are still used, too.”

The dealer burned another card and turned up the final card. Nine of clubs.

Arnold kept his face still, though a rush of victory buzzed through his veins. The dealer put down the deck and pushed the three clubs on the board toward Arnold's hand.

“Flush,” she said.

“Fuck!” yelled Runyon.

Weare tilted his head and looked at Penstemon. “Your tournament won't last long at this rate,” he said as the dealer pushed Runyon's and Hickok's chips to Arnold.

“As I said, all-ins on the first hand are unusual. I'm glad it was demonstrated here. You should all remember to play cautiously. Let's redistribute the chips, since we're here for practice. Well played, Mr. Rothstein,” he added, glancing at Arnold.

Arnold acknowledged the compliment with a nod, and watched in silence as the dealer returned their stacks to Hickok and Runyon. He knew he could easily have lost the hand, and it was unlikely he'd take such a risk during the actual tournament. Too much was at stake.

He had no intention of losing, and every intention of keeping this body. The instincts of a lifetime were back full force, and he intended to gain control not only of Penstemon's operation, but of all Atlantic City. There were a dozen or more big hotels here, all with casinos. Too sweet a setup to resist. He wanted to own it, and he would.