by Luke Arnold
I sighed and put my stupid hat on the table.
“I’m sorry. This part of town was… different last time I was here.”
“I was here back then, too. Broke my fair share of arms, don’t you worry about that. But a casino requires two kinds of customers: those that consider gambling to be a luxury, and those that become trapped.” I watched one of the customers, on his own, drop chip after chip on a cold deck of cards. “We still catch those who have no choice, and they keep us going, but we need both to thrive.”
“Which was Harold?”
He took a long sip.
“He was a gambler with a plan, to begin with. He knew where he wanted to go and he hoped the cards would get him there. That’s how they all start: with a magic figure that they’re aiming for and a few strict rules to keep themselves in line. Of course, if they don’t reach that figure, they keep trying. If they do reach it, it feels like free money so they are tempted to try again. We catch them all eventually.”
There was something familiar about the way Sampson talked. He was leading me away from my specific question to somewhere poetically vague.
“And who caught Harold?”
He sucked his whiskers and snapped his lips.
“Mrs Steeme appears to be a strong woman. She has already accepted that her husband has passed. Why would you want to disturb her mourning any more than you need to?”
“Because she paid me. I just do what I’m told.”
“I see.” He drained his glass. “This is too sweet for my liking. I’ll talk to Phara about her recipe.”
“Really? It’s just to my taste.”
He wiped his whiskers with the towel.
“Well, bring your manners next time and I’ll show you a real cocktail. Something for polite gentlemen, like us.”
He stood up and I became aware of how huge the Half-Ogre actually was. I was glad that I hadn’t tried to throw my weight around. He could have twisted me into a pretzel and served me up as a snack.
“Cornucopia,” he said. “Down the Rose. There’s a top-floor room for high-rollers who like to mix some girls in with their game. You’ll find answers there, Mr Phillips, but if it were me, I’d keep them to myself. Don’t put that poor woman through any more pain.”
He left and I finished my drink in one big sip. I liked the guy. Maybe I would be back. But first, I had to peel back the petals of the Rose.
21
The canal was frozen over and the sunset painted it pink, hiding reality under a layer of color like so many others who called The Rose Quarter home. The warm light of the Rose collected moths, coins and lonely hearts, offering companionship to those who could afford it. I knew all its tricks and I’d fallen through the cracks of its hospitality more than once but I’d be lying if I didn’t say it called me in my sleep.
It’s easy to turn up your nose at the idea of paying for someone to hold, but a touch is a touch and a kiss is a kiss. Real love can be just as fleeting but it comes with the risk of pain. Down the Rose, you get what you pay for and you know when it’s going to end. For some folks, that comes as a relief.
The mobsters who ran the Sickle back in the old days would never have allowed gambling in another part of town. Apparently, those rules had softened like Sampson. Cornucopia was a two-story black-brick building right by one of the bridges that crossed the canal. It was going for a “modern” look. Rather than the flags and flowing petals of the older whorehouses, Cornucopia was plain and elegant. Instead of a bouncer, I was greeted by a bob-cut girl in a little black dress, white coat and bright red lips.
“Evening, sir. Coming to play tonight?”
“Just here to watch, if that’s all right with you.”
“Of course. There’s no entry fee as long as you buy a drink and a girl.”
“Sounds like a deal to me.”
She pulled open the black door and I stepped into a round room wrapped in red velvet drapes. Six tables hosted beautiful topless dealers who handed out cards to trios of gamblers. At the back of the room there were two staff doors and a stairwell leading up.
There was even a girl who exchanged denominations. Ten coppers for a bronze coin. Ten bronze coins for a bronze leaf. Twenty bronze leaf for a silver coin, and if you were lucky enough to get twenty of them, she even had some silver leaf. I’d never managed to get my hands on one myself. There were gold versions, apparently, but I’ll be damned if I knew where they were.
Things were healthier here than down the Sickle. There was laughter mixed into the anguish, and when the cash was handed over, there was a smile in the exchange. I wouldn’t be surprised if the entire gambling industry moved to the Rose in a couple of years.
I wound my way up the circular staircase and arrived on the top level. The room was smaller than the one down below, with only a single table set in the center. Five of the eight seats were full and each player had a woman at their side. One guy had two. The dealer was a top-heavy woman who seemed to be Half-Ogre, Half-Elf. I heard people call them High-and-lows, but they preferred to be known as Amalgam.
She had a warrior’s body draped in a glamorous black dress that suggested she didn’t feel the cold like the rest of us. Her eyeliner had been applied generously and no sculptor would be able to shape more perfect lips. She was dealing and smiling and had the whole room eating out of her hands.
There were three spare chairs at the table and five more around the wall. I sat on one of the outer seats and the Amalgam batted her fake lashes my way.
“You waiting to play, honey?”
“Just watching.”
“You know the rules?”
“Sure. I’ll take a beer and a blonde.”
That got chuckles of approval from around the room.
I’d made a better entrance than at Sampson’s but I still didn’t know what I was looking for. It was likely going to be the same routine as last time: talk to the server, then the boss, and hope my answers came in words not knuckles.
I couldn’t see anyone else in charge, other than the Amalgam, but someone must have been watching because a few minutes later a tiny Human woman came up the stairs with an ice-cold drink.
“One bronze, handsome. Can I take your hat?”
I handed over the note. It was almost my last.
“Nah, better leave it on. It keeps my brains in place.”
Her laugh was rehearsed and routine and would have sounded the same no matter what I’d said. Then, she pushed my legs apart and sat herself on my left thigh.
“So,” she stroked my chin with a painted finger, “you just a fan of the game?”
“That depends. What is it?”
She laughed again. There was a bit more truth in that one.
“I suppose you’re here for the view, then.”
“I’m actually looking for a friend.” Worry flashed behind her eyes. “Don’t worry, I’m not here to make a scene. I just want a little information, if you can spare it.”
“That’s not my department, Mister.”
“C’mon, sugar.” I don’t know if it was the location or the hat, but I could hear myself laying it on too thick. “It can’t be the craziest request you’ve ever had. And I promise not to get you into trouble.”
She was scared, but that was no surprise. Most girls who do a job like this have some mean boss behind the curtain to answer to.
“How about you just enjoy the game, Mister? We’ll have fun.” She stroked my other thigh. It was a cheap and transparent move but I’ve been bought for less and I’ll be damned if it didn’t work. I nodded. She relaxed. There was no need to spook the girl too soon.
“How long have I got with you?” I asked.
“Fifteen minutes. But then all you gotta do is buy another drink and I’ll stay around.”
I sipped my beer and wished I’d ordered something warm instead of the drink with the best alliteration. It was a hangover from my days with Hendricks. He didn’t only teach me combat and culture, but did his best to impart an app
reciation of poetry as well.
Compared to my old mentor, the other patrons were a disgrace. The kind of rich folk who made money look cheap. Their clothes were new and tasteless and they laughed at their own jokes without listening to each other. The dealer always kept her smile as she pushed the game forward at a healthy speed that gently drained their stacks.
The guy who had splurged on two girls was an Elf. His face was buried in the neck of one of his ladies, whispering sweet nothings, while the other lady was placing his bets. A mohawked Human with an under-bite was agitated over losing too much dough so he asked if he could change his girl to someone luckier.
The blonde put her arm around my shoulders and came in close. She smelled like sadness and vanilla.
“If this isn’t fun for you,” she whispered, “you can watch me instead. I’m very entertaining.”
I had no doubt about that. I turned my head to her ear. It was my turn to whisper.
“Harold Steeme.”
She looked confused.
“What about him?”
“What can you tell me?”
She looked back at the table. I was worried that she was trying to get the dealer’s attention but then she broke out in a cheeky grin.
“Oh, you’re wondering how he got the two girls? Just costs another bronze, Mister. I have a friend downstairs who would love to take the other seat. What do you say?”
I didn’t understand what she meant until I looked across the table and the Elf turned his face from the two girls.
It was Harold Steeme. No doubt about it. He looked just the way he did in the photo.
Not like Carissa, who looked similar to the photo but with a lifetime of wrinkles on top. No. Harold looked exactly like his picture. Smooth. Youthful.
I could barely believe it. Harold Steeme had found a way to turn back time and make himself youthful again. To fill his body with magic. He’d done the very thing that I spent my days telling people was impossible.
I jumped up and my girl almost hit the floor. I caught her, and she giggled, grabbing my jacket to keep herself up. She put her mouth to my ear again.
“The surgeons did a good job, but he looks pretty silly, right?”
Surgeons?
Oh.
I sat back down and took a real look at the man who was supposed to have been murdered for his gambling debts.
His hair had been dyed. Not badly, but it was easy to tell when you looked long enough. It was dark brown, like in the photo, but too uniform in color. His cheeks were smooth and his lips were tight. He looked young, I guess. But now that I had had time to take it in, something was off about the whole thing.
“Harold had a big win down the Sickle a few months ago. Bought himself a whole new face. But you don’t need to do that, do you, handsome? You can spend it all on me instead.”
She tried to tuck her hand under my shirt. I thought of the machine and I grabbed her wrist before she touched it.
“Hey, careful, Mister.”
“Sorry.” I let her go. “I’m a bit jumpy. Just seen too many impossible things for one week. What happened to him?”
“He just went to some doctor who knows how to smooth out old skin.” She leaned right in and kissed my neck. “But your skin is perfect, Mister. So is mine. Ain’t it good to be Human? How about we go out back and you can have a taste?”
I picked up my beer and drained it.
“No, let’s play.”
The girl looked at me warily.
“I thought you didn’t know how.”
“I don’t. What’s your name anyway?”
“Cylandia.”
“You sound like a princess.”
“Maybe I am.”
“Okay, Your Highness, get me up on that table.”
“How much do you want to bet?”
I took the last bronze leaf from my pocket and handed it to her.
“Is this enough?”
“Not for long.”
“Unless I win, right?”
Even her automated positive attitude couldn’t humor me on that one. We moved ourselves to a seat at the inner circle.
“I’ll deal you in on the next hand,” said the Amalgam.
Good. One last chance to pay attention.
“It’s called Stracken o’ Heros,” said Cylandia. “It’s Gnomish.”
“What does it mean?”
“Roughly, it translates to Fuck the Legend. Each player is dealt four face-down cards. Each round they take a card from the pile, look at it, then choose to swap it with one from their hand or discard it. When someone thinks they have the best hand on the table, they say ‘I Heros,’ meaning, ‘I’m a Legend.’ Then, the other players are each allowed to swap the position of any two cards on the table. That gives them an opportunity, if you know where the cards are, to push a bad card into the Heros’ hand. Hence, Fuck the Legend.”
I watched the game while she described the rules. Players took cards from the pile and exchanged them with others in their face-down hand. As the Mohawk Man called for more drinks, I realized the true nature of the game: distraction. With each round, more cards were moved across the board, out of your hand and into others’. It was a constant shifting game of memory, deduction, statistics, bluffing and luck. You had to keep track of where the cards you’d peeked at had gone, and deduce from the actions of the others what they might be holding. All the chatter was a way of interfering with the minds of the other players. Unlike some other games, where conversation was frowned upon, the boisterous energy happening at the table was part of the strategy and the appeal.
I must have looked like I was struggling to take it all in because Harold Steeme gave me a warm smile full of recently replaced teeth.
“Don’t worry. We’ll go slow for your first few games.”
His face was close to being youthful but wasn’t quite there. I found it hard to look at, like he was wearing a mask of skin, peeled from the skull of a much younger man.
“I Heros,” said a slender Werewolf through cracked lips. She was the only female player at the table. Her date had unbuttoned most of her blouse and hadn’t stopped kissing her neck since I’d entered. If that was supposed to distract the other players, it was working.
The other four made their final moves. They were each allowed to swap any face-down card on the table with any other. The goal was to have the lowest amount of points in your hand at the end. If the “Heros” won, they would keep the whole pot. If somebody else won, they would take fifty per cent, the dealer would take the twenty-five, and the rest would stay in the middle to raise the jackpot for the next round.
“There are two strategies with the final swap,” said Cylandia, “either you can bring the lowest points into your own hand to win, or you can slam the Heros with large cards to ruin their score. Ideally, you try to do both.”
Each player made their moves without hesitation, as if the choice was self-evident. Despite the drinking and canoodling, they all had a fair shake of where the good cards were at. The large man stole a card from the Werewolf and Harold stole it from him. A Gnome, who obviously didn’t have a hand worth saving, pushed a card towards the Werewolf’s that made her groan. A slurring Orc took a different card from Mohawk Man. Then they flipped.
The Werewolf’s hand was busted by the two picture cards that had been thrust upon her. Mohawk Man and the Gnome weren’t much better. At the end, Harold had the lowest score.
“Number Three challenges,” said the dealer, then she flipped over a card for herself.
“Dealer plays last,” said Cylandia. “Four cards in a row. If she wins, the house takes the pot. It’s very rare because there isn’t any strategy, but it helps keep the house in the green.”
The dealer threw out an average hand of middle-range cards.
“Number Three holds.”
The Amalgam split the deck into four equal pieces. Two were pushed into Harold’s pile, she took one herself, and the other was left in the center to spice up the next
round.
“What are the rules about talking during play?” I asked the dealer.
“Say whatever you want.”
“Can my lady help me as I go?”
“Sure, but remember that the other players have ears too.”
“And you might not have bought her loyalty yet,” said the Werewolf with a wink. “Right, Cylandia?”
Everyone chuckled. I could see the glint in the eye of the other players, ready to take the new guy for a ride. Not the Gnome, though. He knew, like I did, that a new player is unpredictable. The usual strategy goes out the window because neither you nor they know what they’re going to do next.
“Everything is worth what it says on the card,” said my hopefully trustworthy partner, “picture cards are worth ten except for knights, which are one, and jesters, which are zero.”
I put my mouth to Cylandia’s ear.
“When you’re lying, squeeze my knee when you talk.”
A wicked smile curled up her perfect cheeks. She squeezed my knee twice to show she was ready. The Amalgam dealt out four cards to each player. They were placed separately, side by side, all face down.
“First,” said my side-kick, “you can choose two cards to look at. This is the glimpse. After that, you’re only allowed to look at a card when it comes off the pile.”
The Werewolf and Mohawk Man were already bantering, getting back into the game of distraction. The Gnome was stoic and Harold Steeme was sipping champagne. The Orc on my right was counting his cash like he wondered where it had gone. The dealer rested her hands on the table and said, “Glimpse.”
All the players lifted up their first card.
“I know your wife,” I said.
Every hand froze but mine. I looked at the card on the very left. It was a picture card. I’d need to get rid of that at some point.
“Nice,” said the voice in my ear as my knee received a squeeze. I put it down and picked up the one beside it.
“Whose wife?” asked the Orc. I realized that my opener had been even more effective than I’d intended. Harold wasn’t the only one at the table who was keeping lies from a loved one.
