Dead Man's Hand (24 page)

“You all right, Clive?”

Weare's concerned face imposed itself in front of him. Beyond, Clive saw Calamity Jane returning to the audience, shouting for her drinking buddy. He tore his gaze away from the gray ranks, and it fell on the brunette, Joanie.

Her face brightened in a smile and she waved at him. Clive turned away, sliding his arm from Weare's grasp, and stalked to his seat at the table, listening to his recorded voice express hope for the future.

 

 

 

 

“I don't really know. Perhaps I'll be a riverboat gambler again—I understand there are still riverboats.”

“Yes, there are.”

“Well, you know, that's a nice life. It's peaceful, drifting along the river all day. Tranquil. You get the feeling you haven't got a trouble in all the world.”

“And going back to that environment wouldn't bother you, even though it's where you were murdered?”

“Oh, I wasn't murdered on a boat, no, no. I was murdered in Bloomfield. I surely won't go back there, ha ha.”

“I see.”

“But on a boat you can forget such unpleasantness. On a boat there are no obligations, really, beyond paying one's fare. It's a pleasant life.”

“What about family?”

“Well, any family I had are long gone. And I didn't really have any such ties to speak of. I never married.”

“Will you marry now, if you win the tournament?”

“I don't know. I think probably not. I like my freedom.”

Seated once more at the table, Clive frowned. The bustle of the camera crew getting ready to record Gaeline's next “welcome back” speech distracted him. He noticed a full glass of bourbon at his elbow. Thoughtful of some invisible waiter. He picked it up and drank a large swallow, glancing up as the purple girl sat down again in the dealer's chair.

Penstemon was with her, bending down to murmur in her ear. She nodded, and as Penstemon stood up Clive caught his eye.

“Is Jones still here?”

“Beg pardon?” Penstemon raised an eyebrow slightly, but Clive would not be put off.

“I know you can tell. Is he still up there?”

Clive jerked his head toward the ghosts. There seemed to be more of them than before. He saw a large white cowboy hat among the crowd, and something that looked like a set of foot-long spikes but that he suspected was the wearer's hair.

Penstemon followed his glance, then gave a small sigh. “Yes, he's there.”

“Can you keep him from leaving?”

“Why?”

Clive ground his teeth, then picked up the bourbon again. “Unfinished business.”

“Not wise.”

“That's my affair. If you don't keep him here, I'll walk out.”

A slight frown creased Penstemon's brow. “Give up, you mean? Forfeit the game?”

“To hell with the game.”

Clive stood up and made as if to step away from the table. Penstemon put a hand on his shoulder.

“Easy, there. Please sit down, Mr. Sebastian. The tournament's about to begin again.”

“I tell you I don't care!” He pushed Penstemon's hand away, glaring at him, daring him to fight.

“I'll keep him here,” said the sorcerer quietly. “Now sit down and play.”

Half-disappointed, Clive sank back into his seat. The others were staring at him. He didn't care. All he cared about was wringing Jones's ethereal neck, or at least making the attempt.

“What do you think of the twenty-first century?”

“Well, I've only had a glimpse of it, you know. I was thinking today about the first time I came to Atlantic City. Very different from all this, of course. It was a spa, then—a place to restore one's health and good spirits. When I first came here, the boardwalk was only about eight feet wide.”

“It's very different today.”

“Yes, very different—and yet in some ways, just the same. Even back in the 1880s, it had a … carnival atmosphere.”

“Salt water taffy, sideshow tents.”

“Exactly. The spirit of the place is still the same. There's more gambling, of course, but even then you could get up a card game if you wished.”

“A poker game?”

“Certainly a poker game. Or twenty-one, or dice.”

“So things really haven't changed all that much.”

“No, I suppose they haven't. I suppose not.”

 

 

 

 

A
rnold gazed coolly across the table at the riverboat gambler, Sebastian. The man was in the grip of fury, that was certain. Bound to play carelessly. Arnold wrote him off and turned his attention to the others.

Weare was grinning at the cozy redhead who was making eyes at him from the stands. Distracted by a female, not a good idea, but Arnold wasn't ready to discount Weare yet. The man had brains, and he could play cards. Better than Hickok, Arnold thought, though he hadn't yet seen enough to be sure. Hickok could be impulsive, though not as much as Runyon.

Runyon seemed more jovial than before. He was enjoying all the attention, enjoying the limelight. Arnold avoided it himself, but then he had more important considerations.

He'd talked to a number of people—camera men, the other players, Gaeline—and none of them knew who Mishka was or where she might be. Why wasn't she here, watching the big to-do? Penstemon had her locked up, maybe. Odd.

Maybe she knew too much, or maybe Penstemon just didn't want to expose her to the riffraff. Arnold had taken Carolyn to the races, but not to fights or poker games or other less savory pursuits. Though there really wasn't anything unsavory about this game, except for maybe a few of the people in the audience.

There was a thought. Maybe somebody in the audience would know about Mishka.

The camera lights came on, and the dealer started tossing the cards. Arnold watched the other players settle in and turn their attention to the game. He waited until they'd all looked at their cards before glancing at his own.

Hickok liked his hand. Runyon didn't like his. Weare was unreadable, and Sebastian was on tilt, as Runyon liked to say: angry, unpredictable. Arnold folded his middling hand and watched.

The others all called the blinds, and Weare folded when Runyon bet hard after the flop. Hickok stayed in and Sebastian doubled the bet. The others matched it.

The turn made a pair of aces on the board. The river card was a king. Runyon bet hard again, and Sebastian and Hickok both called. Runyon turned up a third ace, Sebastian a straight, and Hickok showed ace-king for a full house. The crowd roared as the dealer pushed the huge heap of chips over to Hickok.

Runyon cussed as he lit up a fresh cigarette. He'd lost his temper again. Two players on tilt. Wonderful.

Arnold chuckled softly. He was actually enjoying this game. Runyon and Sebastian were their own worst enemies, but it was poker. Anything could happen.

Arnold folded out of a few more hands, sometimes paying for a look at the flop, more often just throwing in his cards. On an ace-jack of clubs he stayed in, calling bets, biding his time. The flop was queen-ten-six, every suit but clubs. That killed the flush, but a king would give him a straight to the ace.

Sebastian led the betting this time, putting in a third of his stack when the turn card came up a nine. Arnold called him and the others dropped out.

River card. King of Diamonds. Arnold checked and looked at Sebastian, waiting. The man's eyes were still dark with anger. He returned Arnold's gaze, then with an impatient gesture he said, “All in.”

Arnold calmly waited for the dealer to count Sebastian's chips, then called the bet. Sebastian turned up a pair of kings. Arnold suppressed a smile as he turned over his cards.

“Straight,” said the dealer, pushing the queen, ten, nine, and king toward Arnold's cards.

Sebastian stood up, nearly kicking over his chair. He was staring angrily at the cards. He met Arnold's gaze, then looked startled as if he felt a sudden cramp.

He began to grow fuzzy around the edges. A hissing sound accompanied what had to be the dissolution of his magical body; a cloud of dust grew and swelled around him, then dissipated in a wave of sparkling motes that expanded around the table.

Arnold shivered and instinctively held his breath as the cloud surrounded him. Fortunately, it dispersed almost at once.

Something remained, though. Sebastian was still there, only now he was all silvery, like the ghosts up there watching the game. He opened his mouth, let out a howl of rage, and shot up toward the ceiling.

The audience gasped and shrieked and barked in dismay. Arnold stood and turned around, trying to see where Sebastian had gone. He'd vanished into the thick swath of gray, which was roiling like a thundercloud getting ready to spill.

“Player down,” said the dealer.

“Go to a break,” Arnold heard Penstemon urge the hostess in blue, who stepped in front of a camera and started talking, smiling brightly.

Penstemon strode toward the stands, staring up at the ghosts like everyone else. The gray bank suddenly divided itself, pulling away right and left, leaving in the center a tumbling mess that looked to be Sebastian trying to beat the tar out of some old man.

“You leave my buddy ‘lone!” yelled a woman's voice, and a third figure, improbably dressed in buckskins and an Injun-style hat, darted into the fray.

Penstemon raised his hands. Blue electric fire flashed from them toward the grappling ghosts, surrounding them in a globe of glowing blue. Their motions slowed like a movie when a projector went bad, and gradually came to a halt.

Arnold could see now that Sebastian had both hands around the old man's throat, and the woman in the outlandish buckskin outfit was on Sebastian's shoulders, hand raised as if to clobber him. Penstemon shifted his hands and the whole mess, ghosts and globe all together, floated slowly toward the sorcerer.

A smattering of applause started up from the audience. Penstemon paid it no heed. Arnold saw that his brow was furrowed in concentration, and a tiny bead of sweat had trickled down one temple.

The blue globe drifted gently to the floor between the stands and the poker table. Penstemon lowered his hands and the globe dissolved.

“Gentlemen,” the sorcerer called before the fight could get rolling again. “And Miss Jane. Please listen a moment.”

They all three stared at Penstemon for a second, then the woman hopped down off Sebastian's shoulders.

“Just tryin' to defend the weak,” she said, hitching up her trousers.

“Admirable,” Penstemon acknowledged. “However, I think there's an easier way. Mr. Jones, I believe you have something to say?”

Jones replied with a gagging sound. Sebastian reluctantly let go of his throat. The little man coughed a couple of times, then straightened up and squared his shoulders, turning to face Sebastian, who still radiated hostility.

“Mr. Sebastian, I came to apologize and to ask your forgiveness.”

“Apologize?” shouted Sebastian, looking apoplectic. “Apologize? You took away everything I had! You took my life!”

“Yes, I know. I do beg your pardon.”

“You bastard! You sonofabitch!”

“I am those things, and worse. I was careless and spendthrift. I now see how wrong it was.”

“I want my money back, you murdering bastard!”

“If I could give it to you I would. Alas, I lost it at the faro table the next day.”

“God
damn
you!”

“Oh, I am damned,” said the old man in a choked voice. “I truly am. I cannot move on until you forgive me. I am trapped, as trapped as you are yourself.”

Sebastian gaped at him in amazement. The audience, ghosts and living alike, set up a murmur of speculation.

“What do you mean, trapped?” demanded Sebastian. “I'm not trapped!”

Penstemon stepped toward him. “What was it you've been doing the past hundred years?”

Sebastian turned on him, enraged. The sorcerer stood his ground, merely gazing steadily back, and Sebastian's anger seeped away like air from a punctured tire as a look of confusion came onto his face.