Dead Man's Hand Read online

Penstemon tilted his head, giving Ned a skeptical look. “How much did Connie inherit from you?”

  “I don’t know. About sixty million.”

  “So losing ten of it wouldn’t really be a hardship.”

  “That’s not the point!”

  “What you really want is vengeance, isn’t it?”

  Penstemon strolled to the wet bar, poured himself a drink, and brought it to the sofa next to Ned’s chair. He sat down, sipped, and looked up at Ned as if inviting him to sit for a cozy chat.

  Ned stayed on his feet. He was shaking with rage. “I don’t want that bitch to get a cent of my money.”

  “Why? Because you want her to suffer?”

  “Because she’s got no right to it!”

  “Ah. Well, Mr. Runyon, unfortunately you gave it to her, so she does have a right to it.”

  “I changed my fucking mind, OK?”

  “Too late.” Penstemon sipped his drink again, then set it down and crossed his legs. “You really should let her go, Mr. Runyon. That chapter of your life is closed. It would be better to concentrate on your future.”

  “Why won’t you help me?” Ned demanded. “You’re supposed to have all kinds of magic powers. You fucking brought me back to life, goddammit! That’s gotta be way harder than killing somebody.”

  Penstemon chuckled. “Yes.”

  “Then why won’t you do me a favor? Not like it would cost you much.”

  “Oh, but it would.” Penstemon shifted on the sofa to face Ned more directly. “You see, there’s a thing called the Law of Magical Repercussion. Varian’s Law, it’s called, after the witch who theorized it. It states that any deliberate act of magical origin that harms a living being generates reciprocal harm to the person who originated it.”

  Ned stared at Penstemon. The man was spouting gibberish.

  “I don’t expect you to understand it, Mr. Runyon,” said Penstemon with a small smile. “You spent a lifetime pretty much ignoring the consequences of your actions. I, however, cannot afford to ignore consequences. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I won’t attack Randy Griffy for you, either physically or financially.”

  Ned balled his hands into fists. “Then I won’t play.”

  A small crease formed on Penstemon’s forehead as he frowned. “I hope you’ll change your mind about that. If you’re not at the table when the tournament begins, you’ll forfeit your chance at keeping that body.”

  “Meaning what? I’ll die?”

  Penstemon stood up. “Yes, Mr. Runyon. You’ll die. Again.”

  Terror stabbed Ned as he watched Penstemon walk toward the door. A part of his brain wondered idly why Penstemon bothered, since he hadn’t used the door to come in. The rest was gibbering at him to play the fucking tournament, for chrissake, he had to win it, he had to stay alive. He had to protect Connie. He had to get back on Randy.

  Penstemon opened the door and turned back to look at Ned. “See you at seven o’clock,” he said cheerfully, then left.

  ~ James ~

  James pushed his plate away and leaned back in his chair, sated. The others were still eating. After a second day of practice, Penstemon had provided an elaborate dinner for the players in the exclusive private dining room of the Black Queen’s fanciest restaurant, the Diamond Grill.

  The room was all done up in sapphire blue, with crystal chandeliers over the table. James enjoyed looking at the pictures on the far wall and being able to see their fine details, thanks to the contact lenses Mr. Penstemon’s optician had provided him. He wasn’t quite certain if they were magical or merely modern, but he liked them. Amazing how much his mood was elevated simply by being able to see clearly.

  Many of the pictures were of women. One that struck him particularly looked a bit like a playing card, but the woman on it held a sword and wore a fearsome expression.

  The waiters silently brought and removed plates, filled wine and water glasses, and saw to the guests’ every need so efficiently they almost seemed invisible. Well, entirely invisible. James glanced at the white-shirted faceless form standing against the wall behind his left shoulder. He was still slightly unnerved by the critters, and he never liked having anyone behind him.

  He returned his attention to the table. Mr. Weare was the life of the party, keeping up a merry flow of conversation that was entirely without consequence. James took no part in it, merely listening and watching the men against whom he’d shortly be playing.

  Sated in every way, he was. There was not one indulgence he had craved that had not been satisfied that day, and he now floated in a warm sense of well-being, untroubled by any concern save for a small, tickling sense of unworthiness that had been with him since before he’d died. It was a shadow of guilt, of loneliness for Agnes, whom he’d left behind in Cincinnati. The shadow of his failure toward her.

  She had such courage. Courage to walk a high wire, to do circus tricks on horseback, and to take a chance on one James Hickok.

  He had to put that out of his mind. He had to put all distractions out of his mind and concentrate only on the cards if he was to win this tournament.

  The prize, while attractive, was not what made him want to win. He supposed it would be nice to continue living, especially in this body that was in rather better health than he’d enjoyed just prior to his demise. But it was the victory itself that he craved. He always had.

  He’d never got enough, and that was why, he now realized, he had never gotten around to much serious prospecting in Deadwood Gulch. He’d been chasing a victory that was perhaps impossible to seize, a success so overwhelming it would sate his desire to play on. To bust every card player in a town flowing with gold.

  Was this the echo of that hopeless attempt, he wondered? He knew little about Atlantic City, but it seemed to flow with its own kind of gold. If he won the tournament and lived to play on, could he capture all the wealth in this city, or at least find a second fame in the attempt? The thought appealed.

  He would first have to beat the four men seated with him at Penstemon’s table, however. They were all competent card players, as evidenced by the afternoon’s play. Weare had quickly caught on to poker, and James knew that little escaped the Englishman’s sharp gaze, despite his inconsequent chatter.

  Runyon understood the game of Hold’em best of any of them and had a brutal instinct. Rothstein was as silent as a snake and twice as deadly; he could take your chips from under your nose without your knowing, it seemed. Sebastian—well, James had yet to figure Sebastian out.

  The riverboat gambler had been quiet all day, but James didn’t figure him for the quiet type generally. Something was eating at him. Could be just the strangeness of it all, or could be the way he was murdered. James had the satisfaction of knowing his own murderer had been hanged for his crime, but Sebastian’s had gotten away scot free.

  He watched Sebastian, who was seated on his left, take the last of the red wine in his glass and swish it around his mouth before swallowing. The waiter behind them darted forward to fill the glass again the instant Sebastian set it down.

  James’s own red wineglass was still half full, as were the champagne glass and the glass of white wine he’d been served with earlier courses. Similar ranks of glasses stood around each place at the table. The ones above Rothstein’s plate were empty except the water glass—he’d declined all the wine. Many of the other glasses on the table—from the earlier courses—were empty or partially so. Candlelight flickered in them all like ghost shadows.

  Time to begin, soon. The others were about done eating. James waited, feeling a strange sense of calm about it.

  There was excitement, too, curling around in his gut, but it wasn’t the desperate excitement he’d often known in his prior life. Maybe death had mellowed him.

  At last Penstemon set his napkin aside and stood up, signaling the end of the meal. No brandy and cigars tonight. No dainty little desserts. That might come later, in a victory celebration. For four of them it might not come at all.

&nb
sp; James stood up as well and the others quickly followed suit. Penstemon led them out through the Diamond Grill, where every table was filled with diners who openly gawked at the five resurrected gamblers. Someone started up a cheer and then the whole place was applauding. James bit his lower lip, trying to pay no mind despite being pleased by the attention.

  Out through the wide, carpeted corridors, past the casino and up a fancy grand staircase to the mezzanine floor. Penstemon paused and had them all stand along the balcony railing, waving to the cheering crowd down in the casino. Big moving picture screens hung from the ceiling at intervals throughout the giant room, each at present showing a signboard proclaiming the Black Queen Poker Championship.

  The casino was packed with people, some odd, but most normal-looking. James found himself searching for Kitty. He didn’t see her, but he spotted Shavonne on the arm of a big fellow at a roulette table. With a half-smile of remembrance for the morning’s pleasures, he turned to follow Penstemon down the vast hallway to the ballroom where the tournament was to be held.

  It had changed considerably since their practice session that afternoon. Then it had been quiet and echoing with emptiness. Now it was crowded with light and color and the noise of the five hundred people who crammed the bleachers around the poker table.

  Unlike downstairs, there were quite a few strange folks in the audience: green folks or hairy folks or folks with horns or tails or other non-human appendages. One of the green ones looked like he had leaves instead of hair. A gal in a white dress with silver around her brow looked pretty until James realized she had three eyes, one in between the usual two, up above the silver band. All of the audience looked excited. Their chatter fell away at first as Penstemon led the players in, then it turned into a roar of applause.

  James stepped into the blazing light in the middle of the room and went to his seat on the dealer’s right. They’d drawn cards for seats at the end of the practice, and James had pulled the ace of hearts, so he had the “button,” the nominal dealer’s seat. Best starting place you could have, according to Runyon, who’d drawn the deuce of diamonds.

  Runyon seemed in a bitter mood, and James didn’t think it was just on account of having the big blind. Everyone was tense, he supposed. Some just showed it more than others.

  Penstemon stood in front of the table to address the crowd. “Welcome to the Black Queen’s first Poker Championship,” he said in a loud voice, and paused for the renewed cheering to subside. “We hope it will be the first of many. Tonight we are privileged to watch five legendary gamblers compete for the prize of a lifetime—literally. Plus a million dollars for the necessities of starting fresh.”

  James glanced down at the stack of chips in front of him, hiding a laugh. Two hundred thousand dollars in chips, same as each of the others had. Two hundred grand was far more than he’d ever had in his lifetime, but it didn’t seem like so much now.

  “Five men who were robbed of their right to a peaceful old age by the foulest of murders are now competing for the chance to win it back. Gaeline here is your hostess for the evening, she’ll explain the details of the tournament,” Penstemon added as he was joined by a tall blonde in a long, tight, blue dress that sparkled and shimmered in the bright lights.

  James had met her that afternoon, when she’d interviewed each of the players in front of one of the big, mysterious machines Penstemon called television cameras. The interviews had been captured by some mystical means James didn’t understand, and would be shown on the motion picture screens at intervals during the tournament.

  As Gaeline addressed the crowd, getting them even more riled up, Penstemon stepped to the poker table. “Good luck, gentlemen,” he said quietly, smiling and shaking hands briefly with each of them.

  With the remembered warmth of Penstemon’s fingers still tingling in his right hand, James glanced around the table and took a deep breath, trying to relax. The glare of the lights was disconcerting, and the two cameras that were being managed by two large fellows dressed head to toe in black now moved in closer, making him feel claustrophobic. There was another camera hanging above the table like a chandelier, to take pictures of the cards as they hit the board. James swallowed, trying to put all of it, and the crowd who were now cheering again, out of his mind.

  The dealer, Amber again, shuffled the deck and dealt the first hand. James watched her purple hands swiftly spin the cards through the air to land precisely before each player. He pulled up the corner of his two cards and spread them just enough to see the marks in the corners—five of clubs and the two of hearts. Not much he could do with that. He folded them and watched while the hand played out.

  Weare had folded, too, and Sebastian folded after the flop, which was nine-nine-jack. Runyon and Rothstein stayed in. A ten and a five hit the table on the turn and the river. Rothstein took a modest pot of eleven thousand with three nines, and the play went on.

  Everyone was playing cautious, so there wasn’t much excitement in the game at first. Runyon lost half his stack to Weare on a reckless bet, then won it back again a couple of hands later. Weare gave a jolly laugh as the dealer pushed his bet over to Runyon, but James saw a hostile glint in the Englishman’s eye.

  A haze was gathering up toward the ceiling, fed by the tiny gray trail of smoke from the cigarillo sitting by Runyon’s elbow. James glanced up, sure that one little smoke couldn’t have made the cloud hanging over the table. Sure enough, it hadn’t. He could see something moving up there.

  A chill ran down his spine. He looked at the cards Amber had just dealt him—a ten and a three—and folded them, then leaned back and tried to be inconspicuous as he stared into the fog overhead that was surely not natural.

  He thought he saw a face. Mesmerized, he could not take his eyes from the roiling gray mist, though a sense of dread accompanied his observations. There were arms and legs and things moving in the shadows—he saw a familiar looking boot. What the hell was going on up there?

  “Your action, Mr. Hickok.”

  James glanced at Amber, who was looking at him expectantly. Two cards lay in front of him. He hadn’t even noticed the new hand being dealt.

  “Beg pardon,” he said, and glanced at the cards. Two hearts, ace and jack. “I’ll call,” he said, pushing in some chips. He kept his head level so the brim of his hat would block the smoky chaos overhead from his view.

  Sebastian called as well, and Runyon raised five thousand. Rothstein fixed his dark, liquid eyes on Runyon for a moment, then folded the small blind. Weare folded as well, leaving three players when James and Sebastian both called. Amber swept up the bets and dealt five and six of hearts and the queen of clubs.

  James needed one card for the flush, two for a high straight. He put in two thousand. Sebastian called, and Runyon raised five thousand. James and Sebastian called him.

  Next card was the deuce of spades. No help to anybody, unless someone had a three and four for a straight. Runyon might stay in with that kind of hand, but Sebastian probably wouldn’t. James decided to ignore the possibility of a low straight and pushed a stack of five thousand across the line.

  Sebastian, on the other side of the dealer, gave him a long, narrow-eyed look and then matched the bet. Runyon immediately did the same. James watched him while the last card was being dealt, wondering if he had the thirty-four after all. Runyon showed no glee, no flash of victory in his eye. He didn’t move at all.

  James looked down at the river card. Three of hearts.

  He held the winning hand, the nuts as Runyon liked to say. No way any hand made with three of the cards on the board could beat his ace-high flush. The money on the table was his, the only question was whether he could get Sebastian and Runyon to add to it.

  “Two thousand,” he said, selecting the chips from his stack. He set them down across the line and looked at Sebastian.

  “Call,” said the riverboat gambler.

  “Raise,” said Runyon at once. “Five thousand.”

  “Total of
seven,” Amber said.

  James fixed his gaze on Runyon and counted to five so as to look a bit hesitational. He counted another five thousand in chips, then set two identical stacks it next to it and pushed them all forward.

  “Raise ten more.”

  Sebastian’s gaze flicked from James to Runyon. “Fold,” he said, tossing his cards into the middle with a scowl.

  Runyon pulled ten thousand from his stack and spilled them across the blue felt. “Call,” he said, fixing a hostile look on James’s face.

  James smiled as he turned over the ace-jack. The crowd roared in approval. Runyon flung two queens into the center, cussing, then reached for his cigarillo and puffed angrily at it while Amber pushed the pot over to James.

  “And that brings us to our first break,” said Gaeline, glittering as she stepped in front of the nearest camera. “Stay tuned for more exciting action in the Black Queen Poker Championship!”

  The red lights on the cameras went off, and the audience turned its attention to the big motion picture screens suspended from the ceiling as the first of the interviews started. Weare’s jolly face appeared on the screen, and Gaeline’s voice came out of nowhere, introducing him.

  The players stood up and stretched. Rothstein headed off toward the gentleman’s privy.

  “Good show,” said Weare, winking at James.

  James nodded acknowledgment, then saw Sebastian approaching. The riverboat man offered a hand, and James shook it.

  “Well done,” said Sebastian. “I had the flush to the king.”

  “You got out cheap, then,” said James.

  “I did indeed. Not cheap enough.”

  He flashed a smile, gone as quick as it came, and stepped away to say something to one of the invisible critters who were waiting around to bring the players whatever they wanted. James thought he might enjoy a whiskey himself, but then he remembered the gray cloud overhead and decided he’d had enough to drink for the moment.

  He tilted his head and peered up at the ceiling. The cloud had grown, and had more arms, legs, and faces to it. He saw a lady’s big fancy hat with a lot of curling plumes spilling over the brim, and a topper, and a battered scout’s hat with an eagle feather stuck into it.