Dead Man's Hand (25 page)

“You were caught in a negative loop,” Penstemon said in answer to his own question. “It's common. Both of you were caught that way, in slightly different manifestations. The only way out is to address the conflict that set up the loop.”

Runyon shifted in his seat at the table. “Sounds like a fucking shrink,” he muttered.

Arnold glanced at him, then returned his attention to Penstemon. Had he set this up deliberately?

“You mean every restless soul that walks the earth is caught in some kind of loop?” Sebastian asked.

“Not every one,” said Penstemon. “Miss Jane here stays because she likes doing good deeds for the living.  Right, Miss Jane?”

The woman in the buckskins hemmed and hawed, looking embarrassed. “Hell, I done enough bad deeds in my day I got plenty to make up for. Besides, I like the little'uns. They sure do smile when you make silly faces at ‘em after they've had a bad dream or such like.”

The old man, Jones, stepped forward. “I am most humbly sorry, Mr. Sebastian,” he said with a quaint little bow. “If I had known what it would cost, I would never have assaulted you so. I wish I could return your money, even though it would do you little good in the spirit world. Alas, I cannot return it, but I can give you this.”

He unhooked the watch chain from his vest and drew out a pocket watch. The big, round disc was like a silver moon, glowing at the end of the chain that winked and glinted as Jones held it out toward Sebastian.

“My watch,” said Sebastian in a broken voice. His hand came up to receive it, and the chain spilled across his fingers as Jones let it go. “My watch.”

Arnold heard a restless movement behind him and glanced over his shoulder to see Hickok and Weare standing nearby.

“That watch ain't real, though, is it?” Hickok murmured.

Weare answered as quietly, “Perhaps it is the essence of the watch that was taken.”

Sebastian stared down at the watch and chain in his hand, touching them as tenderly as one might touch a lover, crooning over them in a low, pitiable moan. At last he looked up at Jones.

“Thank you,” he said unsteadily.

Jones nodded, then stood with his hands folded before him. Sebastian straightened up a little.

“You sonofabitch,” he added.

The old man nodded again. “I deserve that. Shall we talk about it some?”

He gestured toward the aisle that ran between the stands. After a second, Sebastian gave a curt nod and slowly walked away with him. The woman in the buckskins followed.

“I'll just go ‘long, make sure it stays peaceful-like,” she said to Penstemon.

“Thank you, Miss Jane.” The sorcerer smiled, then turned toward the poker table. “Now, then. We have another round to play before the evening's over. Gentlemen, if you would?”

Arnold returned to his seat, as did the others. He kept an eye on Penstemon, watching him confer with the cameramen and the glimmering hostess.

Was this guy one of those compassionate do-gooders, out to save the world? That might be a way to get to him. Arnold watched him narrowly, a feeling of reminiscence accompanying the familiar routine of staking out a mark.

“Fascinating,” said Weare, shaking out the ruffles of his sleeves as he made himself comfortable at the table. “Positively engrossing. Could it be that Mr. Penstemon here selected us all in order to rescue us from eternal misery?”

“You mean are all of us in one of them loop things?” said Hickok.

“That is my meaning, yes.”

“How about it, Mr. Penstemon?” said Arnold in a quiet voice, drawling out the words a little. “That the story?”

Penstemon, standing nearby, raised an eyebrow. “You are each in some kind of loop, certainly. That's what gave me access to you. As for straightening them out, that's really none of my concern. My interest in you has to do with playing cards. Which it's time to get back to. Raoul?”

The dark dealer was back. Had a spic name, which fit, Arnold thought. He dealt deftly, never said anything.

Arnold won a little, lost a little as the game went on. All the while he was thinking about Penstemon. How to get a handle on the guy. Chances of doing it through Mishka seemed to be diminishing, since she was more invisible than the damn waiters. He'd have to find another way.

By the end of the round, nothing spectacular had happened. Runyon had the lead over Arnold by close to a hundred grand. Ninety-three thousand and five hundred, Arnold concluded, staring at the chips stacked carelessly in front of Runyon's seat. Hickok had the fewest chips, but he wasn't in desperate trouble.

The hostess made a wrap-up speech, then the cameras were turned off and people began to amble away. A few diehards in the audience remained, including some of the ghosts. Hoping to chat with the players, Arnold assumed. Weare and Runyon were happy to oblige, both going over to the stands to flirt with the women.

Arnold preferred to get away from the light and noise. He looked at Hickok.

“Care to find someplace for a quiet drink?”

Hickok gazed at him, a flat, dull, gunfighter's stare. “Don't mind if I do,” he said after a moment.

Arnold led the way toward the exit, making sure to pass close to Penstemon. “Care to join us for a drink, Mr. Penstemon?”

“Perhaps I'll catch up with you,” said the sorcerer, nodding. “I have a few matters to tend to.”

Arnold gave him a friendly smile, then went out with Hickok down the wide, carpeted hallway to the elevators. “Do you mind if we don't take the stairs?” he asked Hickok. “I'm a little tired of being stared at.”

“You and me both,” said Hickok. “Had enough of it when I was alive.”

The elevator glided gently down to the ground floor, where Arnold looked around. The music of the slot machines—marvelous inventions, he had to get hold of some—hovered in the background.

“I guess we could try the Diamond Grill,” he said.

“I know another place,” said Hickok, and started off through the vast casino.

Arnold followed him through the ranks of slots, card tables, craps tables, roulette tables, and tables for games he'd never heard of. Amazing, this casino, and from what he'd learned talking to people throughout the day, this place was not unusual except for its clientele. He'd never seen such an efficient operation for separating marks from their money. He practically salivated at the idea of owning it.

Hickok led him to a lounge that was dark and out of the way, just the sort of place Arnold liked. They sat in large chairs that threatened to swallow them. Arnold gave a small sigh as he relaxed. A waitress, dressed to leave little to the imagination, came over and smiled at them.

“Good evening, gentlemen. What can I get you?”

“Whiskey,” said Hickok.

“Tonic with lime,” said Arnold.

Hickok trained his gunfighter gaze on Arnold as she strolled away. “Thought you wanted a drink.”

“I do, I just don't want booze. I like to keep a clear head.”

“Game's done until tomorrow.”

“I know.”

Arnold shifted a little in his chair so he could see out into the casino. The distant rippling sound of the slots still reached him, underlying the soft jazz that was playing in the lounge.

It was time to start building his bankroll. He still had the pitiful haul from his visit to the pawnshop, but that wasn't enough to get him very far. He needed a chunk of cash, and then a game in which to build it.

The poker tables seemed like the best bet. The house took a percentage, but otherwise it was the players competing against each other. In most of the other games the house had a big advantage, including craps.

Arnold suppressed a sigh. He loved craps, but only if he was running the game.

“I'd like to try my hand at some of those games,” he mused. “Wonder if Penstemon would give me some chips.”

“I've got some money if you need it.”

Arnold turned his head to gaze at Hickok. Friendly, guileless. Willing to lend cash to a stranger. Must be that folks were more trusting in the old west.

“That's good of you,” Arnold said cautiously. He didn't want to commit to anything, especially if the cowboy wanted to be paid back with interest. That was a game Arnold ran, not one he ever played himself.

Hickok shrugged. “I was saving up ‘cause I thought I'd need to pay my way out here, then it turned out I didn't.”

“How did you get here? Came from out west, right?”

Hickok nodded. “Deadwood. I was fixing to travel by bus, then this gal showed up and invited me to Penstemon's game, took me with her in a flying machine.”

“What was her name?” Arnold said quickly.

“Kitty.”

Not Mishka. Damn.

“Wait a minute—you said you were planning to come here before she invited you?”

“Yeah, well, I didn't know about this place here, but I had an urge to come back east. I was thinking I'd head to Cincinnati, actually.”

“We were called,” Arnold said, remembering his own urge to come to Atlantic City.

“I reckon so,” said Hickok, nodding.

Arnold frowned. He didn't like being under anyone else's control, not in any way. That Penstemon could inspire him with a desire to come to Atlantic City bothered him, and made him want even more to get the upper hand. It was starting to look like he'd need some magic of his own to do that.

The waitress arrived with the drinks. Hickok offered to pay, but she shook her head.

“On the house,” she said, smiling. “I caught part of the tournament tonight. You guys are awesome.”

“Well, thanks, Miss,” said Hickok. “Here, this is for you.”

He dug a small wad of bills out of his pocket and handed her a five. She palmed it, smiled broadly, then strolled away. Arnold sipped his tonic and watched Hickok take a hearty belt of the whiskey. Unlike Runyon and the unfortunate Sebastian, Hickok hadn't drunk during the game.

“Ahh,” said Hickok, leaning his head back. “Been dying for that.” He sat up after a moment and glanced at the entrance, then took another, much smaller, sip of his drink.

“I'll take you up on that loan,” Arnold said after a minute. “How much can you spare?”

Hickok took out his roll and peeled off five twenties. “Hundred do you?”

“It's a start. Thanks,” Arnold said, slipping the cash into his own pocket. “Pay you back of course.”

Hickok waved a hand in dismissal. Didn't care much about money, then. More fool him.

Arnold sipped his drink and chatted with Hickok for a while, discussing the game, going back over some of the hands. Hickok said Runyon was “a good, tough player but too reckless,” an assessment that closely matched Arnold's own and made him revise his opinion of the cowboy. Hickok was a fair judge of character, it seemed, even if he didn't respect the power of money.

“Now, that fellow Weare,” continued Hickok, “I can't figure him out. Seems like a gladhand, but I think he's really sharper than that.”

“Speak of the devil,” murmured Arnold as he watched Weare stroll in, his two lady-friends on either arm.

Hickok rose immediately to his feet, eyes on the ladies. Arnold stood as well. The Englishman had changed out of his fancy Thomas Jefferson outfit into clothes like the modern folks wore: black pants, purple shirt, black leather jacket.

“He was a lawyer, you know,” Arnold added.

“Oh, a lawyer,” said Hickok. “That explains it, I guess.”

Weare's face lit with a smile as he saw them, and he made a beeline for where they stood. He handed the ladies into the two chairs across from Arnold and Hickok, then dragged up a straight-backed chair for himself.

“Evening, gentlemen,” he said as he sat. “Relaxing after the game, I see. Mind if we join you?”

“Looks like you already have,” said Hickok, resuming his seat.

The redhead giggled. Weare exchanged a grin with her.

“To be honest, we're escaping from Mr. Runyon.”

“Neddy,” put in the redhead, making a face.

“He wanted us to go with him to something called a disco bar and drink tequila shooters,” added Weare.

“Ugh,” said the redhead. “Disgusting. I
loathe
tequila.”

“Well, you can have a nice G and T, how does that sound?”

Arnold began to think about leaving. He wasn't much in the mood for feminine company, and between the redhead's chatter and the sad demeanor of the brunette, there didn't seem much to like.

“Have you gentlemen met Alma and Joanie?” Weare said, indicating the ladies in turn.

“Don't believe so,” said Hickok. “How do?”

“How do you do, Mr. Hickok,” said Alma, the redhead. “Very pleased to meet you.” She glanced at Arnold with an uncertain smile. “You, too, Mr. Rothberg.”

“Rothstein,” said Arnold quietly.

“Oh, sorry.” She giggled nervously.

“I've read about you,” said Joanie, suddenly breaking silence. “You were one of the founders of organized crime in America.”

Arnold blinked. “Is that what they say?”

She nodded, warming to the subject. “You laid the foundations for the great gangsters who followed you—Meyer Lansky, Bugsy Siegel, Al Capone—”

“You'll have to forgive her,” put in Weare. “She's a student of history.”

“Siegel, a great gangster?” said Arnold in surprise. “When I knew him he was just a thug. A good thug, did his job right, but he was nothing special.”

“Bugsy Siegel built the Flamingo Hotel in Las Vegas,” said Joanie with a touch of pride. “He was the one who had a vision of Vegas as a gambling resort, a place people would come to from all over.”

“That so?” said Arnold, wondering where the hell Las Vegas was. He'd heard it referred to frequently since he'd come to the Black Queen.

“Yes. And in fact, he was murdered, too,” said Joanie, musing. “I wonder why he wasn't invited to play in the tournament.”