by P. N. Elrod
“Hell of a yarn, Wollmuth,” said Fogelson.
Any second he might telegraph a signal to his partner to write off their evening of setup as a lost cause, but I cast out one more line.
“That’s why I decided to play in the first place. It’s said the gambler’s ghost looks in on card games. There’s stories about him scaring the bejeezus out of unsuspecting bridge players. I thought a poker game, even with just matchsticks in the pot, might lure him out.”
“Huh, maybe that’s what’s put him off.” He lighted a cigar and leaned back in his chair, wearing a thoughtful face.
“Oh, yeah?”
“Matchsticks wouldn’t interest a real gambler. Bridge players will go in for a penny a point. That’s what drew him out. The money.”
“You think if we played for cash something might happen?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Never know. Pennies in the pot might not impress him.”
“You’re probably right. I tell you, I’d be willing to lay out some real dollars for a chance to see him, but I wouldn’t think of imposing on either of you.”
No imposition, they assured me, none at all. It would make the game even more interesting. They had to be pleased that I’d been the one to suggest playing for cash, saving them the trouble of persuading me.
“Have to be careful, though,” Fogelson cautioned. “There’s rules against gambling.”
“So I’ve heard, but the porter will turn a blind eye if we slip him a decent tip.” I found my wallet and brought forth a handful of ones and fives, making sure Sawyer glimpsed the healthy supply of tens and twenties bending a money clip out of shape. “Will this do for a start?”
Hell yes, it would.
They’d snapped, and I’d just set the hook.
* * *
This time I played as well as I could, which was still lousy. They had to do some energetic card culling to throw good hands at me. The idea behind it was to get me warmed up and thinking I was in the throes of a lucky streak. Otherwise I’d have lost everything in the first hour.
The pot was just over twenty bucks. A week’s good wage for most, but these two had an eye for the rest of my cash and plenty of patience. I had a long stretch of time before dawn and an ace in the hole they could not possibly imagine.
With three of us the play went faster, but I kept looking restlessly around for the ghost. The grifters were too professional to show annoyance, but it began to get to them. Fogelson slapped the cards down harder than usual to get me back into the play. Sawyer would clear his throat now and then. I wondered if it was his nerves or part of some private signal code between them.
“It’s chilly in here,” I said putting some hope into my tone.
There was nothing wrong with the heat, but the power of suggestion can go a long way when the circumstances are right. We were alone in the car; the bar was closed, even the night porter had gone off to do something else. The lights were low, and shadows had crept into the corners.
“Don’t think so,” said Fogelson. He also used the mechanic’s grip, and was good at keeping the top and bottom cards exactly where he wanted them. He dealt me an eight, three sixes, and one of the jokers, which were wild cards, temping me with a four of a kind hand.
“You’ve had a drink or two to keep warm, maybe you don’t feel it yet. What about you, Mr. Sawyer? Don’t you think it’s gotten a little colder in the last few minutes?”
Sawyer was quiet, shooting an uneasy glance over his shoulder.
“Maybe,” he said with some reluctance.
Fogelson spared him a narrow look, just a flicker, enough to warn his partner to stay focused. During this tiny break I let the joker fall into my lap, and slipped in an ace that I’d palmed during the last hand. A wild card would be much more useful to me later.
The magician at my nightclub had given me a few pointers about card tricks. I’d not practiced that much and amazed I was getting away with it, but the grifters had no reason to think I’d be cheating.
Good entertainment’s hard to find.
A few months ago I might have hypnotized them and had other kinds of fun, but they wouldn’t be turning themselves in to the cops at the next stop. The ability to influence bad guys with my evil-eye whammy was forever lost. The temptation to use it was there, but so was the certainty of something inside my skull exploding and killing me. I was tough and had survived a lot, but why take chances?
Even thinking about it sent a warning twinge through my brain and made me wince. I shook it off and checked my cards, finding a suspiciously good hand: three aces, a four and a ten. I had a potential full house depending which of the latter cards I threw away; Fogelson, who was dealing, would have one or the other ready to deliver to me.
So I threw both away.
He hid his exasperation extremely well.
He had a pair waiting in the wings and dealt me a couple of fives from the bottom.
Being an inexperienced player and this game was on the friendly side—for the moment—I let myself smile and bet the rest of my cash.
When the cards were on the table, Sawyer had a straight flush, all hearts.
That was disappointing. They were going to settle for a lousy twenty bucks? No…not likely. Sawyer generously invited me to another hand to win it back, which I accepted.
Then I gave a sudden start, whipping around. It was convincing enough to make Sawyer jump and stop Fogelson in mid-deal.
“I felt something tap my shoulder,” I whispered, sounding excited. “Did you see anything behind me?”
“Nope,” said the more laconic Fogelson. He shot a look at Sawyer, who was checking the rest of the car. “Must have been a draft.”
“I felt fingers,” I insisted. “Two fingers.” I tapped the table twice with my own. “Just like that.” I got up and went around the car, checking the corners and shutting off lights until only the one over the table was on. “Maybe he’ll come closer if it’s not so bright in here.”
Sawyer must not have liked that and cleared his throat. It sounded natural, but was probably a signal to his partner. He wanted to leave.
“Another hand,” said Fogelson, decisively. “You want a chance to win that pot back, don’t you, Wollmuth?”
“Oh, yes, I guess I do. My luck’s been pretty good tonight. You know, I think using money over matchsticks has done the trick. Let’s give that old card player something to see.”
“If you’re sure…”
I returned, fired up and ready to go, and put a few tens on the table. “Absolutely!”
It took some doing, but they built the pot up. I won more than lost, and the wins got smaller while the less frequent losses got larger. Apparently unaware of this, I worked at keeping Sawyer distracted by observations about the temperature and strange movement of shadows. Fogelson held things together, seeing to it I got the right cards at the right time for the right stakes. I hardly needed to play at all but made an effort.
At some point I got hold of the second joker without them noticing and held it safe in my palm next to its brother.
Around two in the morning they’d gotten set up for the kill. The pot was over a thousand dollars, half of it had begun the evening safe in my pocket. The rest was their investment in the game.
I checked my hand, and it was a damned good one. Fogelson had dealt me another full house: three queens and two jacks. They looked very cozy together. Sawyer probably had another straight flush, but four of a kind would do just as well to clean me out.
As expected, I bet everything I had. Sawyer matched it; Fogelson had folded his hand with regret, but didn’t look nervous.
When it came time to show our cards I’d swapped the jacks for the wild cards and presented five of a kind, my queens beating Sawyer’s straight flush of spades.
The grifters froze. I took the opportunity to shuffle the cash together. “My gosh—that was some game. I’m glad you explained wild cards to me. I was temped to throw them back.” I did my best to sound like a ch
eerful fool.
Sawyer cut a murderous look at Fogelson, who gave the smallest head shake. He’d not been careless with the deal; something was wrong. By the time their attention swung back to me I had the cash in a neat, easy-to-grab stack.
“Wollmuth. . .I think you’ve been less than square with us,” Fogelson sounded dangerous.
I pretended shock. “Really? In what way?”
They stood at the same time, looming over me. “You know why.”
“Gentlemen, I have played this game just as square with you as you have with me.” I managed to deliver that one absolutely deadpan.
The grifters were not appreciative of my acting ability. Two to one, they’d be dirty fighters, and hadn’t I given them the idea of throwing another gambler off the train?
“One more game,” said Fogelson. “Cut for high card. Give us a chance to recoup a little.”
“Tomorrow,” I said firmly. “This has been the pip, but I’m awful tired now—”
He slammed the table with the side of his fist. “Cut for high card.”
I grinned, closing my fingers tight around the wad of cash, and raised the bait up to eye level. They tensed, ready to pounce as soon as I tried something stupid.
Instead, I vanished. Like switching off a light.
Dead silence.
“The hell. . . ?” said Fogelson.
I wrapped my non-corporeal self around the more vulnerable Sawyer. In this state I’m a cold portent of the grave, and have been told that it’s remarkably unpleasant. He yelped, twitched, and backed away, cursing in a high, strained voice.
“What’s the matter?” Fogelson demanded.
“It’s him. He’s the ghost. He’s on me!” There was a fine panic to Sawyer’s tone.
Fogelson didn’t have a comment for that. As he might be feeling left out, I floated over to wrap around him. He didn’t move. “This is shit,” he concluded. “This is shit!”
“He’s a ghost, dammit!”
“He tricked us. There’s no ghost. It’s a trick.”
If he didn’t believe in ghosts, then it was a good bet he’d not think of other night-walking creatures like vampires. Reassuring.
I slipped away and went solid, crouching out of sight behind the bar, money still in hand. I shoved it safely into a pocket and looked around for something noisy to throw. Nearly everything was breakable glass, then I found a bunch of steel cocktail shakers.
Good enough.
I sent three hurtling in the grifters’ general direction and at least one connected. Sawyer squawked and broke for the door leading to the next car.
Getting there ahead of him, I went solid.
He rocked back on his heels just a hair short of collision, registering shock, then anger. He swung hard, but I shifted to semi-transparent, and his fist went right through.
Solid again, I shoved him, sending him stumbling into Fogelson.
By the time they recovered, I’d vanished and got behind them. Solid, another shove sent Fogelson to the floor along with a few chairs.
To give the man credit, he knew how to keep his head, whatever the circumstance. He hauled a gun from his pocket, a little twenty-two revolver. Nothing much, but I didn’t want shooting.
I darted in, unnaturally fast, and snagged it.
He rolled and tried to tackle me, but I faded to near-transparency and rose toward the ceiling.
Sawyer didn’t seem to be armed, but then he was too busy gaping to move.
Twisting in the air, I floated feet first toward the door, glaring down at them. It had to look impressive; when I righted myself and touched down solid they were frozen.
“No call for violence when you play a square game—I should know,” I said, holding the revolver up. “It was a couple of sharps just like you who killed me in the first place.”
“Killed you?” Sawyer’s whisper was almost too soft to hear.
“You know who I am. I told you about my untimely death.” I opened the revolver and let the bullets tumble from the cylinder.
The last gun on which I’d tried this party trick had been larger; this model was no effort at all. I grabbed the cylinder and frame and twisted until they snapped apart.
Fogelson went green.
“You boys stay off my train from now on,” I said. “Got that?”
Sawyer nodded.
I lowered my tone to a sinister whisper. “Or the next time we play cards it will be for your souls!”
Corny, but the shadowy darkness made it work. Maybe I’d never been on stage, but knew a good exit line. I dropped the broken revolver pieces and rushed toward the grifters, vanishing just before impact. They got another chance to experience of my special kind of cold.
Sawyer and Fogelson’s departure was hasty. Too bad I couldn’t see it; it sounded hilarious with the stumbling, jostling, crashing furniture, and curses.
The door slammed shut.
Counting to thirty, I re-formed and looked around. Nobody here but one amused vampire.
I cleaned up the mess, including the bullets, set chairs right again, and sank into one. Between the concentration required for the card play and the invisible acrobatics I wanted a rest.
What a great way to waste an evening.
Okay, not waste. Counting the money, I was five hundred and ten bucks richer. I’d earned it.
I got my magazine out. Dawn was still hours off, and I wanted to see how The Shadow handled crime in his neck of the woods.
* * * * * * *
__________
KING OF SHREDS AND PATCHES
Author’s Note: I was asked to write something for Martin Greenberg’s ROTTEN RELATIONS for DAW and immediately thought of Shakespeare’s Hamlet as prime material to use. That family had everything: murder, incest, madness, and at least one ghost roaming the castle. Talk about putting the “fun” in dysfunctional! But what if Young Hamlet had it wrong and his Uncle Claudius was NOT the one who bumped off King Hamlet. . . ?
Elsinor Castle, Denmark
Here do I set down for posterity, a true and exact record of the misfortunes that have lately beleaguered the court of Denmark. Whoever finds this, I ask and pray that you hold all knowledge of it from my beloved Queen Gertrude should I predecease her.
-- Claudius Rex --
The death of my brother, King Hamlet, could not have come at a worse time for Denmark.
I was in my chambers, setting to paper a detailed recounting of all that I saw and heard in Norway while acting as his ambassador there when the news of the calamity was brought to me.
Rather than a soft knock from one of Elsinore’s countless pages, I was startled from my task by heavy pounding from a hasty fist. It occurred to me that my fears of an invasion from Norway were about to be fulfilled. I threw down my quill and, being alone, unlatched the door myself and pulled it wide, interrupting a second assault. Old Polonius stood without.
“What is amiss, sir?” I demanded, for obviously something of great import was wrong. His face was as white as his beard except for two red spots high on his cheeks from recent exertion. His breath came hoarse and hard. I’d ever known him as a man well able to keep control of his emotions, now he was positively tottering from inner turmoil. I took his trembling hand and led him inside. “Is it war?”
“W-war, your lordship?” He gave me so blank a look that he might have been struck by one of those strange convulsions that takes a man’s mind away. “There is no war.”
“Then speak, what is amiss?”
His lips quivered and overcome by whatever troubled him, he bowed his head and groaned. I glanced at the open doorway, but none were with him who might inform me of the nature of this trouble. That was odd. He usually had no less than two pages in tow the whole of the day to run his errands. I looked down both ends of the hall, but all was quiet in this part of the castle. From one of my windows I ascertained the courtyard below was also peaceful. It was the end of the hot part of the afternoon, and those who had no duties would take rest while they
could.
In a firm tone I charged Polonius to explain himself. That seemed to break through, and he slowly raised his head. His eyes streamed tears, and without knowing the matter, I felt a kindred ill-omened leadening of my heart.
“Speak, sir,” I whispered.
“Oh, good lord Claudius, your royal brother is dead.”
Let God Himself be my witness, I almost laughed, for it was clear the dear old man had lost his wits and was ranting. “Impossible. I saw him take his walk upon the upper platform this morning as always. He waved greeting to me and I to him.”
But Polonius shook his head again, as though to dislodge a stubborn fly. “Would that I were a liar, your lordship, but he is dead and gone and nothing can change that or bring him back to us.”
I still could not take it in. “How comes this? Was it a fall?” Elsinore was full of stairs, many very steep.
“A fall? No, he was asleep in his orchard. He lies there still.”
“What? Have you sent for a priest?” He blanched even more, and I knew that he had not. If there was the least breath of life remaining, then my brother must give his last confession lest his soul needlessly suffer. Perhaps Polonius was wrong. His sight was dim now with age, and though wise in statecraft, he was often wrong in more mundane matters—not that the death of a king could be considered as such.
“Lord Claudius, King Hamlet is dead. For hours, perhaps.”
“And no one sent for help or told me until now?”
“As soon as I saw for myself, I came straight from there to you—wait, sir! There is more!”
But I was striding swiftly away. I loved Polonius like a second father—he had taught me much of the wisdom of his craft that I could better serve my brother and thus Denmark as ambassador—but could not wait upon him. Impatience and fear engulfed me. Grief, too, though I pushed that roughly from my heart. I could not and would not believe it; Hamlet could not, must not be dead.
