Dead Man's Hand Read online

  He swallowed. Different times, and he’d better adjust. He found a little rod attached to the drape and used it to push the curtain aside, then took a couple of steps back from the window ‘til he felt safe. He saw no way to open the window, which was just as well because he had no desire to risk a fall.

  “Magnificent view, isn’t it?”

  James spun around, hand to his guns and ready to draw. He hadn’t heard the door open, but there was the fellow who’d spoken, a tall man with blond hair waving over his brow and falling thickly to brush the shoulders of his black jacket. He wore black trousers and shoes as well, and one of the modern neckties that looked so strange, of a blue so rich it seemed to glow. A tiny pin nestled in the middle of the tie, a diamond set in gold.

  “Forgive me,” the man said in the same melodious voice. “I didn’t mean to startle you, Mr. Hickok. I’m Simon Penstemon.”

  He stepped forward, a small smile curving his lips as he offered a hand. James relaxed and shook hands, noting Penstemon’s firm grip, his stance, his eyes that were clear and sharp, the sort of eyes that didn’t miss much.

  His skin was naturally fair but had a slight golden tint to it as if he’d spent some time in the sun. His mouth was pretty like a girl’s, but the line of his jaw was firm and took away any hint of the effeminate.

  “How do,” said James, nodding. “Much obliged for the hospitality.”

  “I’m delighted you chose to join us. I hope the staff has given you everything you need?”

  James nodded again, watching the fellow and trying to make up his mind what sort of man he was. Penstemon didn’t seem like the showman type. That sort was usually full of bluster and bravado, not quiet like this man. He remembered Bill Cody, how he was constantly looking to display himself to advantage. Maybe Penstemon would act different in public, but just now he showed none of that inclination.

  “Tell me about your poker game, Mr. Penstemon.”

  The smile tugged again at the corners of Penstemon’s mouth. “I’d prefer to explain the terms to all of you at once. The final player should arrive around noon. If it’s agreeable to you, we’ll all have a late lunch together and I’ll go over the rules then.”

  “Fair enough. Exhibition game, is it?”

  The smile widened into a grin. “Indeed it is. I see nothing escapes you, Mr. Hickok.”

  “I like to think ahead. So was it you that raised me from the dead, so to speak?”

  “Ah—yes, but we’re getting into the explanation I’d like to make to all of you together. If you don’t mind, I’ll save that. Why don’t we go down to the casino now, and I’ll show you around?”

  “All right.” James got his hat and shrugged into his buckskin jacket.

  “Do you have your key?” Penstemon asked.

  James went back and found the queen of spades and slid her into his pocket, then followed Mr. Penstemon to the door. Penstemon led him down the long hall and back into the little hallway that gave onto the square windowless room. He pushed a little light on the wall, same as Kitty had done.

  A flute started playing somewhere near. Penstemon took a little silver box out of his pocket and the music got louder. He glanced up at James.

  “Please excuse me.”

  Penstemon poked the box with a finger and the music stopped as he held it up to his ear. “Yes? Yes, I know, Donovan told me. Well, find him! How hard can it be? Ask the people at the bus station.” He frowned as he put the box back in his pocket, then noticed James watching him.

  “Sorry about that. Administrative problem. Nothing to worry about.”

  James nodded agreeably. A bell chimed and the metal doors slid open. Penstemon stepped into the square room and invited James to follow.

  “Is this a magical thing?” James asked as the doors closed and his stomach sank again.

  Penstemon smiled. “No, it’s technological. It’s called an elevator. Carries us from floor to floor on long cables.”

  “I see.”

  James leaned against the wall, trying to look casual though he had a firm grip on the railing with one hand. The sensation did remind him of falling, now that he knew what it was, which wasn’t a pleasant thought.

  “You people sure have come up with a lot of ways to travel fast,” he said.

  Penstemon smiled again. It seemed a smile was constantly hovering at the edge of his mouth and only waiting for a reason to slide onto it.

  “As a line from one of my favorite movies says, ‘The world has got itself in a big damn hurry.’”

  James raised an eyebrow. “Movies?”

  “Moving pictures. Another technological innovation. A sequence of many photographs, taken very swiftly by a camera and then played back at the same speed by a projector. You’ll see.”

  After a much longer ride than the first one, the elevator finally came to a stop with a gentle bounce and opened its doors. James saw an identical set of doors across from him, then Penstemon led him out and to the side into a gigantic blue-carpeted room.

  A barrage of color and sound came at him and he paused to compose himself before following Penstemon out into it. There was music of a sort, though it had no melody and hung in the background, a constant ripple of sound.

  Penstemon led him down a broad carpeted walkway in between rows of silver machines that seemed to be the source of the music. People were sitting in front of some of them, punching buttons that caused lights to flash.

  “Slot machines,” Penstemon said as they left the machines behind, continuing into the casino between a pair of roulette tables. “A game of chance, rather unimaginative. There’s absolutely no skill involved. I don’t care for them myself, but the customers expect them. Hello, Stan,” he added, nodding to a croupier.

  “Morning, Mr. Penstemon,” said Stan, who had a black beard that covered his whole face nearly up to the eyes. It was neatly trimmed, granted, but still gave him something of a savage look, and didn’t quite fit with his starched white shirt, blue brocade vest, and stiff, black bow tie. James just had time to notice that his ears were hairy as well, and then they were past, moving into a section of card tables.

  The room was bigger than any ballroom he’d ever seen, more like the size of an arena where Bill Cody’s Wild West Show might be performed. It was filled with tables for dice and cards and roulette, and more rows of the slot machines.

  One young lady dealing beneath a sign that said “Omaha” caught James’s eye—she had black hair hanging down her back like a dark waterfall, deep blue eyes, and skin a vibrant shade of violet. She glanced up at James as they passed and smiled, revealing silver teeth. He shivered, unable to avoid imagining those teeth fixing on some part of his anatomy.

  “You’ve got some interesting folks working here,” James said.

  “I’m an equal opportunity employer,” said Penstemon.

  “How come none of those invisible critters are dealing?”

  “The will-o-wisps? I had some of them dealing to begin with, but the customers tended to avoid their tables. They prefer to see what the dealer’s hands are doing. This is the poker room,” he added, leading James into a somewhat less gigantic room off the side of the big one, still big enough to hold a respectable crowd.

  The tables here were bigger than the others and lower to the ground, so the players could sit in regular chairs instead of on stools—except for the one green fellow who was too big for a regular chair. He was sitting on a large crate at the short end of one of the tables. He was green from head to foot: green hair, green eyes, and he wore a dark green outfit, nicely tailored, which was about the only thing that kept him from looking like a big old troll.

  Only two of the ten or so poker tables had games going. James watched the cards being dealt around at one of them and got a tingling feeling in the palms of his hands.

  “Why’s the dealer throwing cards face up in the middle?” he asked, staring at the table.

  “It’s Texas Hold’em,” said Penstemon. “A variation on seven-card
stud. You’ll learn all about it, don’t worry.”

  “What’s the matter with draw?”

  “Nothing, but this game is in fashion. It’s the game used in all the big poker championships.”

  Two of the players were whispering together, staring at James. As he watched, the word went around the table like a brisk wind, and the players all began to steal glances at him.

  “You know,” James said in a musing tone, stroking his mustache with his left hand, “in the past I have been compensated for playing in public venues, over and above any winnings I have claimed.”

  The smile twitched onto Penstemon’s lips. He answered just as quietly, still gazing at the poker game.

  “That isn’t quite appropriate in this case. You’ll have everything you want now and while the game is going on, but trust me, after it’s finished it really won’t matter.”

  James misliked the sound of that. He wasn’t about to trust Penstemon, though he wasn’t about to annoy him either, if he could help it. He frowned, and the huge green fellow at the poker table hastily glanced away down at his cards, as if afraid of having angered James.

  Penstemon turned to him. “Would you like a drink, Mr. Hickok?”

  James’s suspicions were instantly reduced, though not altogether eliminated, by this suggestion. “Don’t mind if I do.”

  They strolled together to a saloon that opened off the big gambling room. It was dark and cozy inside, with furniture that looked like it was made of big pillows. Penstemon led him to a couple of chairs with a tiny round table between them. James sank into one with a sigh and wondered if he’d ever be able to get out of it again.

  A pretty gal with legs a mile long that were covered with nothing but a wisp of black stocking came up to them. She had on a little blue satin shift that stretched tight over her bosom and didn’t quite hide her very attractive bottom and that no self-respecting whore of James’s time would be caught dead in. She noticed him staring and gave him a little smile. James felt himself coloring up to his scalp.

  Penstemon glanced up at her. “Hello, Nichole. A martini for me, and I imagine Mr. Hickok would like bourbon.”

  “You imagine right,” James managed to say. He couldn’t take his eyes off Nichole until she passed out of his view. When she was gone he looked back at Penstemon, who seemed amused.

  “If you’d like some feminine company, it can be arranged.”

  James cleared his throat. “I might could use a little.”

  A pang of guilt struck him but he tried to ignore it. Agnes was dead by now, surely, so the tumble he was contemplating would not violate his marriage vow.

  Or had Mr. Penstemon raised her up, too? Surely he would have brought her round in that case. But even if he had done, death had most definitely parted her and James, so the promise was null and void.

  James shifted uneasily in the chair. He never wanted to cause Agnes any pain. He feared he had done so, getting killed so stupidly. He wished vaguely that he could make it up to her somehow.

  Nichole returned with the drinks. James stared at her lovely young body again, but the heart had gone out of him and he couldn’t muster up any lustfulness. He thanked her for the glass she handed him and sipped at the generous helping of bourbon in it, then sighed.

  “See that screen?” Penstemon said, pointing up toward the ceiling off to one side. James looked that way and saw a rectangle, something like a picture frame but filled with flickering colored light.

  “Moving pictures,” Penstemon said.

  Moving awful fast. James at first couldn’t make out what the pictures were of, then he realized it was people on broomsticks, flying madly about and dodging what looked like cannonballs. The speed of it all was too much for him. He looked away.

  “Mighty impressive,” he said, feeling some compliment was expected.

  “Your poker game will be broadcast like that,” Penstemon said.

  James sipped the bourbon again, enjoying the glow beginning to light in his belly. “That a fact?”

  “Yes. So millions of people will be watching.”

  “Millions, eh?”

  James was a mite skeptical about that. There’d have to be one of those rectangles in every home in the country for millions to be able to see it, and how could you put the pictures on all those things at once?

  Granted, there were a lot of things he didn’t understand about the world nowadays. There seemed also to be a lot of magic in it, which there hadn’t been in his day, or at least not in evidence. He was coping fairly well, he thought.

  The familiar sound of a tootling flute made him glance toward Penstemon’s pocket. Penstemon put down his drink and took out his little music box.

  “Yes? Good, I’ll be right there.” He stood up and put the box back in his pocket. “I’m afraid you’ll have to forgive me, there’s a matter I must attend to. Lunch will be in about an hour. Would you like some company in the meantime?”

  James sat up straighter. “Wouldn’t mind it.” He took a hit of the bourbon and added, “That little gal you had fetch me was a charmer. Or is she a special friend of yours?”

  “Kitty?” Penstemon’s brows rose. “She’s ah—not available. Let me find you someone similar.”

  He smiled, then, and went away, pausing to murmur something to Nichole, who was standing by the bar. James saw that the barkeeper was a big, handsome fellow, Mexican-looking, with two stubby horns sticking out of his forehead. El Diablo, James thought idly. Shaking his head, he finished the rest of his bourbon in a gulp, and the glow in his belly turned to fire.

  “Would you like another?”

  Nichole was standing over him. James followed those amazing legs up, continuing to her waist and her bosom and finally managing to look her in the eye.

  “Sure,” he said as he gawked like a farmboy.

  She took the empty glass from his hand, her fingertips brushing warm against his, then added Penstemon’s unfinished drink to her tray and sidled off toward the bar. James watched her all the way, only facing forward again when his neck started complaining.

  He glanced at the moving picture frame. A cheery-looking woman with short, curly red hair was now talking at him while she put various things into a big, black, burbling kettle. Making soup, he guessed, except some of the things she was putting in there didn’t look too appetizing. He thought he saw a lizard go by. She was easier to watch than the people on broomsticks, but since James couldn’t hear what she was saying, he quickly lost interest.

  Nichole returned with his drink, and he smiled up at her. He was starting to feel more relaxed.

  “Here you go, Mr. Hickok,” she said, handing him the glass. “And this is Shavonne.”

  She stepped aside to reveal a woman who reminded him more than a little of Kitty, except her eyes were dark brown instead of green, and her lips were fuller and painted a shade of red that in his day, at least, would have been a clear advertisement that her calling was to serve mankind, so to speak. She was dressed in a red shift almost as short as Nichole’s that clung to every single line of her body, leaving little to the imagination. She sipped at a tall glass of something dark over ice, and smiled while James took her in.

  “I’ve been dying to meet you,” she said, “ever since I heard you were coming. May I join you?”

  Nichole had gone away. James nodded, since he wasn’t confident he could speak just at the moment. Shavonne folded herself into the chair Penstemon had sat in and set her drink on the little table between them.

  “It’s so exciting. I don’t play poker myself, but I love to watch.”

  Poker was the farthest thing from James’s mind, at the moment. He took a swallow of bourbon, coughed a little, then managed to find his voice.

  “A pretty gal like you would be a mighty big distraction at a poker game.”

  She smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Hickok.”

  “You can call me James.”

  “Thank you, James.”

  She picked up her drink and sipped it a
gain, her eyes watching him all the while. He thought he saw a flash of pointy teeth, but it could have been his imagination. James felt a stirring in his belly that had nothing to do with the liquor. He’d been a long time abstaining, not even counting while he was dead.

  “I’d love to get better acquainted with you, James,” she murmured. “Maybe we could go somewhere a little more private?”

  “I got a room,” he said hoarsely.

  Her smile widened. “Let’s go, then.”

  Boy, howdy, thought James as they both stood up, abandoning their drinks. She took his arm as they strolled out of the saloon, and he felt it start tingling all up and down, wrist to shoulder.

  James glanced around the huge gambling room, knowing he’d be hopelessly lost trying to find his way through it. “You know where them … elevators are?”

  “Right this way.”

  She steered him past some of the slot machines, their music jangling in his ears. James knew he was sporting a huge, silly grin.

  The day just kept getting better.

  ~ Clive ~

  The casino bus was more crowded than the first. By the end of the journey, Clive could smell the sea. Excitement was growing in him. The bus deposited him in front of a gigantic building covered in flashing lights that made him dizzy. He followed the other passengers inside and stood in a queue with them, to be given a slip of paper when he showed his bus ticket. The others dispersed into the darkness of what must be the casino, a cavernous room filled with noise and more blinking lights. Clive wandered after them, watching.

  There were rows of machines, which were the source of most of the noise. Some of his fellow passengers took seats in front of them and fed their slips of paper into the machines. Clive watched them push buttons, which caused the machines to make more noise. Mystified, he continued deeper into the room.

  At length he came to an area where games of cards were being run. There was even a roulette wheel! This he could understand.

  The people around these tables were betting round colored markers, vaguely coin-shaped. He watched, hoping to find a game he understood enough to play, but they were all strange and terribly fast, and his courage failed him.