Dead Man's Hand Page 14

  “And if I don’t like his explanation? If I choose to leave?”

  Shadow seemed unable to comprehend the possibility. “No one will stop you,” he said at last, with a shrug.

  “I’ll hold you to that,” Clive said.

  Truth was, he was curious. He wanted a poker game, and here was one conveniently offered. Too much a coincidence, which might mean that Penstemon was responsible for his presence in this time. He suspected it was so.

  He was aware, also, that the small quiet voice in the back of his mind that had urged him to come to Atlantic City was now whispering that he should go to the Black Queen. If nothing else, he might get an explanation of why he was here.

  If Penstemon was indeed the king of the dead, Clive might be walking into a trap. He had no idea if Persephone’s story constituted a cautionary guideline for entering the underworld. He would risk it, hoping that if he didn’t eat any of Penstemon’s feast he’d be under no obligation to remain. It was a gamble, but then, he was a gambler.

  He stepped through the counter and into the booth. The hound followed, which caused an altercation with the blue-haired girl. Shadow hastened to intervene, saying with a glance at Clive that the hound could come, then led the way to a curtained doorway at the back of the booth. He pulled the curtain aside and held it as Clive stepped through.

  Instead of a room, they were outside again, but in twilight. Clive caught his breath. It had been midday on the boardwalk, but here the sky was a glowing indigo. Before them a huge hotel rose into the sky, a tower of black glass with blue lights outlining its edges. On top was a gigantic playing card, the queen of spades, all made of light and brilliant against the indigo sky. Clive was certain he had not seen it before.

  “You can’t see it from the Boardwalk,” Shadow explained, stepping up beside him. “You have to come through this entrance or drive in from the city side.”

  “Impressive,” Clive said.

  Shadow led him up a long pathway bordered with rosebushes and glimmering fountains. The roses were all in bloom, which was slightly unusual in late October. Fireflies twinkled among the bushes, also not a common sight this time of year.

  A giant pool with seven fountains in it, all lit up so it glowed blue-white, lay in front of the hotel’s entrance. Shadow led Clive onto one of three arched bridges that crossed it. Glancing down, he saw there were fish in the water, then realized that the fish were actually tiny mermaids. One of them smiled up at him, her hair a swish of auburn seaweed, her perfect breasts glowing like pearls above where her skin melded into green-gold scales. He nearly fell in.

  The hound noticed them, too, and set up a barking that was only quelled by a sharp word from Shadow. The hound raised its hackles at him and growled. Shadow frowned back, then led them on toward the hotel.

  The bridge ended on a broad space covered in blue carpet. A black velvet awning stretched out over the carpet, which extended into the hotel through a wall of glass double doors. Shadow led him through these and into the elegant darkness of the hotel.

  The room they entered was spacious. In the distance Clive could hear the music machines that were in every casino, though here the music held a different note, as if the key were minor instead of major. Clive was not much of a musician, but he appreciated the art and could tell a sonata from a concerto.

  A fair man dressed in a black suit with a pale shirt and blue cravat came striding toward them. Shadow paused, and Clive waited beside him, noting that the youth’s anxiety seemed to have returned.

  “Thank you, Shadow,” said the man in black, nodding dismissal.

  “I came as fast as I could,” Shadow said. “He—”

  “Yes, yes. Go on up, now.”

  Shadow glanced at Clive, his green eyes slightly resentful, then went away. The man in black smiled.

  “Mr. Sebastian, I’m delighted to meet you. I’m Simon Penstemon.”

  He held out a hand. Clive hesitated, trying to think over all the old stories. Was it a bad idea to shake hands with the devil?

  The hound, sensing his doubt, uttered two sharp barks. Penstemon’s gaze shifted to the animal, then he bent toward it, reaching out to stroke its pale head.

  “Hello. Are you Mr. Sebastian’s friend?”

  Another bark, accompanied by a wagging of the tail.

  “I see. Just a moment.”

  Penstemon straightened, looked around, then waved to a young female in black to join them. “Please escort this gentleman up to Mr. Sebastian’s suite, and see that his needs are cared for.”

  She smiled and scratched the hound’s head. “Certainly. This way.”

  Clive stared after her, marveling, then was interrupted by Penstemon’s voice.

  “Don’t worry, he’ll be well looked after.”

  “He isn’t mine.”

  “I know. And I apologize for all the confusion. When there’s more time, I’ll be glad to explain anything you wish, but I’m afraid we’re running late.”

  Penstemon took Clive’s elbow and gently steered him deeper into the hotel. “I do apologize for the misunderstanding about the boat. Shadow is inexperienced, and I failed to take that into consideration when I sent him to meet you. I hope your journey wasn’t too uncomfortable.”

  Clive muttered something polite. He was having trouble thinking of Penstemon as dangerous. The devil had a thousand wiles, or so the preacher man would say. He must stay on his guard.

  “If you don’t mind, we’ll go directly to the luncheon,” Penstemon said, pausing in a small hallway and touching a glowing circle on the wall. “The others are all there.”

  “Others?”

  “The other players,” Penstemon said, smiling.

  “I haven’t agreed to play.”

  Penstemon gazed at him for a moment, and one fine, golden eyebrow twitched upward. “I see. Well, come and hear the details about the tournament, and then you can decide.”

  Doors slid sideways, heavy metal doors this time. Clive was still unused to doors that moved by themselves, though he had encountered them frequently in the last two days. He stepped into a small room with Penstemon and tried to swallow his nervousness as the doors shut them in. Penstemon touched another glowing circle, one of many in a panel on the front wall, and the room gave a lurch.

  “Don’t be startled,” Penstemon told Clive, who had grabbed at the railing on the wall. “It’s an elevator. I keep forgetting some of you aren’t acquainted with them.”

  Clive listened to Penstemon’s explanation while the corn dog in his stomach grumbled and threatened to part company. Before it could do so, the room lurched again and the doors opened, and Penstemon stepped out. Clive followed at once, preferring even the devil’s company to remaining in the elevator.

  Their footsteps hushed by thick carpet, they walked down a long, high-ceilinged hallway, paneled from floor to ceiling in dark wood. “I’m sorry you didn’t have time to freshen up,” Penstemon said. “There’ll be time after lunch.”

  If I’m still here, thought Clive.

  Penstemon stopped at a door and opened it, revealing an elegant dining room, also paneled in wood. A glowing chandelier hung over a long table set with fine linen, china, and crystal. Paintings in gilt frames hung on the walls, and at the table sat four men who all looked up at Clive as he followed Penstemon in.

  One looked like a cowboy hero from some penny novel; the others wore clothing more like what Clive had seen the people of this present time wearing. One, a keen-eyed fellow who gave Clive an appraising glance, wore a black suit much like Penstemon’s and had his receding hair oiled and combed into perfect order. The others appeared less formal, and less interested. The man with curling reddish hair who was dressed in black leather looked mildly curious. The pudgy fellow in rumpled shirtsleeves had already returned his attention to his drink.

  “Thank you for your patience, gentlemen,” Penstemon said. “I hope the staff have made you comfortable. Allow me to introduce Mr. Clive Sebastian, who is the least well-known
of you all. In fact, if I had not happened to interview one Orson Jones recently, he would not have been invited—”

  “You’ve seen Jones?” Clive demanded, turning toward Penstemon. “Where is he?!”

  Penstemon made a placating gesture with his hands. “He’s dead, Mr. Sebastian.”

  “Then he ought to fit right in with this crew,” said a sarcastic voice from the table.

  Clive glanced that way but could not tell who had spoken. The quick rush of anger he’d felt was already subsiding.

  “Actually, he wouldn’t,” said Penstemon. “All of you were murdered because of your gambling, or for related reasons. Mr. Jones died of old age, I fear.”

  “The bastard,” muttered Clive.

  “He need not concern us,” Penstemon said with airy dismissal. “Your future is of much greater interest than your past, at least to you. But let me finish the introductions. Mr. Sebastian, this is Mr. Arnold Rothstein. Murdered over a poker debt in New York, 1928.”

  The slick-haired gentleman grimaced, then nodded graciously to Clive. Clive returned the courtesy.

  “And beside him is Mr. William Weare, who was killed in 1823 by a friend who accused him of cheating at cards.”

  “Not a word of truth in it,” said Weare cheerily, lifting a hand in greeting. His accent proclaimed him an Englishman.

  Penstemon gestured to the man at the far end of the table. “Mr. Hickok, of whom you have probably heard.”

  Clive looked at the cowboy, who sat unmoving, watching with wary eyes. “Wild Bill Hickok? Truly?”

  Hickok gave a slight nod. Clive could not help smiling. “It’s an honor, sir!”

  “To Mr. Hickok’s left is Ned Runyon, our most recent murder victim. He was killed in 1998. His father, Ronny Runyon, founded the Rabbit’s Foot casino in Las Vegas and made a large fortune running poker tournaments. Ned was murdered for his share of that fortune.”

  “Fuckin’ A,” said Runyon without glancing up from his drink.

  “Gentlemen, Mr. Sebastian here was robbed of his winnings and murdered by Orson Jones, a riverboat captain, who buried him in an unmarked grave that was never discovered. Please have a seat, Mr. Sebastian, and we’ll get down to business.”

  Clive took the place indicated by Mr. Penstemon, to the right of his own seat at the head of the table. On the wall behind Penstemon hung a portrait of a woman dressed all in black, her pointed hat reminiscent of those worn by the queens in a deck of cards. She gazed unsmiling out of the portrait, her eyes seeming to look directly at Clive.

  Glancing away, he noticed a crystal goblet filled with water by his place. He reached for it, then drew his hand back as if stung, remembering his determination to let nothing pass his lips at this table. He sat back in the chair and clasped his hands tightly in his lap.

  Two invisible waiters in starched white shirts and black trousers set plates of salad before each of the men at the table. Clive looked down at his, wondering why salad was being served before the meal instead of after the main course. Change of custom, he supposed. It didn’t matter anyway, for he was not going to eat it, however appetizing it looked.

  The others showed no such reserve. Rothstein ate slowly, each movement careful and precise. Hickok ate carefully, Weare with hearty abandon, and Runyon at Clive’s right shoveled food into his mouth with an occasional pig-like grunt. Penstemon chewed a bite of salad thoughtfully, watching Clive. Clive picked up his fork and stirred the greens about on his plate. The smell of vinegar and garlic made his mouth water a bit and he swallowed.

  “First off, gentlemen,” said Penstemon after dabbing his mouth with a snowy linen napkin, “allow me to apologize for any awkwardness that may have attended your journeys here. I’m afraid I should have made the invitation more clear from the beginning. This is the first time I have organized such a gathering, and the envoys I sent, while they are all trusted associates, are a little inexperienced, I fear.”

  “But nonetheless charming,” murmured Rothstein, his half-lidded eyes regarding Penstemon.

  Clive felt a sudden chill, as if sensing dark intent beneath Rothstein’s smooth demeanor. He shook himself, looking away. He must not let imagination run away with him.

  Penstemon smiled blithely at Rothstein, then sipped from his water goblet. “Now that we are all together, allow me to explain the terms of the game I propose. It will be a poker tournament, winner take all, for the prize of one million dollars and the continued use of your body.”

  “Come again?” said Hickok, frowning from the foot of the table.

  Penstemon cleared his throat delicately. “You have been resurrected at considerable trouble and expense. The bodies you inhabit are temporary; making them permanent would be even more costly. I will do so for one of you—the winner of the poker tournament. The others will return to their previous state.”

  Silence fell around the table. Even Runyon stopped scraping his fork across his plate and stared at Penstemon.

  Clive was thinking furiously. It would seem that this was a Temptation, and he hadn’t the religious background to know how to react appropriately. Penstemon was sounding less like Hades and more like a confidence man. Clive frowned.

  “Why?” he asked. “Why have you done this?”

  “Yes,” said Rothstein in a smooth, quiet voice. “Why go to such trouble?”

  Penstemon smiled. “You’re all celebrities. Yes, even you, Mr. Sebastian; your story endures though no one knows your name as yet. That will all be changed by the tournament. There will be a live audience, all of whom have paid premium prices to witness this event. It will also be broadcast on the Occult Network.”

  “And you stand to make millions,” Rothstein said, nodding. “Very clever.”

  Penstemon turned his head to regard Rothstein. After a moment he nodded. “Thank you.” He looked all around the table, beaming. “There’s a good deal of excitement about you, gentlemen. The hotel is booked solid with guests from all over the world.”

  “You promoted this, using our names without our consent?” said Wild Bill Hickok, glowering across the table.

  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 Champions
hip, 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.