Dead Man's Hand Page 18

  Clive was breathing like a steam engine, short explosive breaths through his nose. Blinking away the foul vision, he shook his head to clear it, then downed the rest of the bourbon in the glass at his elbow.

  A waiter came forward and lifted the glass in its invisible hand, making a wordless squeal of inquiry. Clive gave a single nod.

  “More,” he said, and the waiter left.

  The next hand had been dealt. Clive called the blind on a pair of threes, hoping for a third in the flop. When none came, he folded. The next two hands he paid the big and small blinds and folded the garbage he was dealt. Rothstein took one pot, Runyon the other.

  Clive played his next cards, a jack nine that made two pair on a flop of nine, jack, six. Rothstein took the pot with three sixes, leaving Clive another fifteen thousand poorer. When the second break was called a few hands later, he had little over sixty thousand left. He stood up, finished the rest of his drink, and headed for the door. Overhead, Miss Gaeline’s voice announced his name.

  Penstemon intercepted him, affecting a cheerful smile but with watchful eyes. “Where are you going?”

  “I need a breath of air.”

  “You don’t have time to go downstairs, I’m afraid.”

  Clive thrust his chin forward. “What will you do? Kill me?”

  Penstemon chuckled, then took Clive’s elbow. “Step over here, Mr. Sebastian.”

  Clive had half a mind to refuse, but he allowed Penstemon to guide him between the bleachers toward a curtained wall at the back of the room. Penstemon drew back the edge of a drape with one hand, revealing a small, dark passage which he invited Clive to enter with a gesture.

  “After you,” said Clive.

  Penstemon shrugged, then stepped into the passage, holding the drape open for Clive to follow. He then led the way down toward a patch of blue at the end of the passage. This proved to be a glass door, which Penstemon opened.

  A sharp breeze smote Clive’s face, smelling of ocean and corn dogs. He stepped out onto a small balcony, and Penstemon joined him.

  Dark had fallen. The neighboring hotel, the boardwalk below and the pier off to the left gleamed with light, flashing, flickering, ever restless. Clive leaned his elbows on the cold iron railing and looked away from the lights, peering instead into the darkness that was the ocean, trying to see the breakers beyond the city’s glare.

  “Why me?” he murmured.

  “Beg pardon?” said Penstemon.

  He had meant nothing specific, but now Clive turned to face the hotelier. “Why did you choose me for your game? I can bring no advantage to you, being unknown.”

  Penstemon cleared his throat. “Your story is romantic. And you were here in New Jersey, close at hand. Your wrongful death may not be widely known, but it’s certainly known to the locals. You’re quite effective at haunting, you know.”

  Clive hadn’t known, mostly because he hadn’t understood that he was haunting, or even that he was dead. He had been caught in a nightmare confusion. At least Penstemon’s whim had saved him from that.

  “Will I remember all this, when I go back to being dead?”

  “Come, come, Mr. Sebastian. You have a chance of winning.”

  Clive stared into the darkness, trying to imagine victory. What would he do in that case? Take up residence in Penstemon’s hotel? Pursue a life of gambling, or take up some other occupation?

  He wasn’t fit for any other occupation that he cared to follow. He infinitely preferred gambling to any sort of physical labor, though today the game held no enjoyment for him.

  Jones had robbed him of pleasure as well as gold. Robbed him of peace. Clive closed his eyes, holding in the surge of remembered anger.

  “What happened to Jones?” he demanded, turning to Penstemon.

  “As I told you, he died of old age.”

  “When? Where was he buried?”

  “Do you intend to haunt him now?” A wry smile came across Penstemon’s face. “It won’t do you any good.”

  “That’s for me to judge,” said Clive, more forcefully than necessary. “Where is Jones now?”

  Penstemon’s blue eyes flickered, though his face remained guileless. Clive knew from long-honed instinct that the man’s next words were false.

  “I have no idea, Mr. Sebastian. And I’m afraid it’s time we went back in.”

  Clive turned toward the ocean again and took a last, deep breath of fresh air, then followed Penstemon down the corridor and back into the ballroom. He heard his own voice as he entered, and glanced up at the nearest of the large screens. His face, five feet across, looked cheerful, excited. Nothing like his feelings now. A cloud of gloom had been growing over him ever since the tournament began.

  He paced around the room, stretching his legs, pausing only when one of the other players or the staff talked to him. Weare and Runyon were standing together, laughing with a couple of women from the audience. Clive made to pass them, but Weare reached out and caught his arm.

  “Clive, dear boy, come and meet my young friends. Clive Sebastian, this is Alma Winter and Joanie McCordle.”

  The comely redhead who had her arm snaked through Weare’s nodded and smiled at Clive. The other girl, a brunette, thinner and rather pale, took a step away from the hovering Runyon and smiled tremulously.

  “How do you do?” she said with an English accent. “I’m so sorry about how you were killed. It’s tragic, really!”

  She looked uncomfortable in a spangly gold dress that clung tightly to her spindly form. Her large brown eyes gazed up at Clive, inviting him to gather her in. Why he hesitated he had no idea, but instead of warming to her, he merely gave a curt nod.

  “Pleased to meet you.”

  The shadowy form of Calamity Jane drifted past overhead, making a beeline for where Hickok stood chatting with Rothstein. In her wake floated the little old man in the round hat. He was dressed rather like Rothstein, though it all looked gray, of course. Beneath his jacket he wore a vest with a gleaming watch chain across it.

  Clive frowned. Something about the old man troubled him.

  “Have you been to Atlantic City before, Clive?”

  He glanced down at the brunette, who was standing a little closer, looking up at him with bright, anxious eyes. Behind her, Runyon glowered. Clive understood what she wanted, and ignoring the wreckage of his mood, gallantly offered her an arm.

  “Yes, but it was over a hundred years ago. Things have changed considerably.”

  “Town changed a lot in just the past thirty years,” put in Runyon.

  Clive and the brunette both stared at him, saying nothing. The brunette turned her head away and looked up at Clive again. Her hands were small and fine-fingered, warm as they clung to his arm.

  “Alma and I are going on a tour tomorrow. Would you … would you care to come with us? William is,” she added, gazing up at Clive with an agitated blink.

  “I—don’t know, really. I’ll consider it.”

  “It should be great fun. There’s a lighthouse, though I gather it isn’t by the shore any more. And we’re going to see Philadelphia—”

  “Sorry, gentlemen,” said Penstemon, coming up to them. “Time to get back to the table.”

  He looked straight at Runyon, who shot a sullen glare at Clive and then took himself off. Weare heaved an exaggerated sigh.

  “Back to the salt mines. So sorry, my dear,” he said to the redhead. “Allow me to escort you to your seat.”

  Clive followed with the brunette and handed her up the steps to the bleachers. She smiled at him as she and her friend sat down. Weare then took Clive’s elbow and strolled with him toward the poker table.

  “Nice girl, Joanie. Absolutely desperate to fall in love.” Weare glanced sidelong at Clive, who frowned.

  “She should pick someone who has better than a one in five chance of surviving the game.”

  Weare gave a jolly laugh. “Chin up, lad. You’ve got as good a chance as anyone.”

  Not true, thought Clive,
remembering his depleted stake. He said nothing, though. No point in complaining. Bad luck was a fact of life, as much as good luck.

  His decision to play on the Silver Slipper had put him in bad luck’s way. No way of knowing it, unless he had bothered to look into Jones’s background before boarding his ship, a preposterous idea. Even if he’d done so, he likely would not have learned anything to deter him. If Jones had committed crimes other than his murder, he apparently had not paid for them.

  They passed Hickok, who was urging Calamity Jane to return to the gallery. Clive’s sleeve brushed that of the old man in the round hat. He felt a sudden chill at the contact, and the old man looked up.

  Dread seized Clive’s heart. He knew the eyes that glanced up into his. The ghost quickly looked away and then flew straight toward the ceiling, sailing over the heads of the audience to disappear among the other spirits.

  Orson Jones. That little man, so small and insignificant, was all that remained of the steamboat captain who had murdered Clive.

  “Come along, dear boy,” said Weare’s voice. “What’s got into you? Seen a ghost, ha ha?”

  Clive remained rooted to the floor, staring at the gray ranks into which Jones had disappeared. His feelings were in turmoil: anger foremost, but also astonishment that the looming figure of his nightmares was now a frail-looking, dowdy old man.

  He wanted to pursue Jones, but knew he couldn’t. Apart from being unable to fly, he probably wouldn’t find the bastard. Jones had vanished into the throng, might even have left, knowing Clive was aware of his presence.

  God damn him, Clive thought. He was shaking, he realized. Shaking with anger.

  “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.

  CUE INTERVIEW 2:

  “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.”

  ~ Arnold ~

  Arnold 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.