Dead Man's Hand

by Pati Nagle

  The car glided off smoothly, sparking an instant desire in Arnold to own one of these new automobiles. Soon enough, he thought. Soon enough. He’d have a whole fleet of them, and men like this gorilla cop to drive them.

  It occurred to him to wonder why he was alive. Second chance, on account of his dying from George McManus’s stupidity? Why the delay, then? Why dump him here in nineteen-fucking-ninety-whatever, with nothing?

  No answers occurred to him as he watched the streets whiz by. His mind wandered back to Atlantic City. Goddamn if he wouldn’t get there. He needed some R and R.

  In a very short time the cop had pulled up in front of a blocky brick building. Dingy lights lit up the Salvation Army shield—that hadn’t changed, or not much anyway. Arnold hid a grin as he looked for a handle on the car door. The cop opened it from outside before he could find one, and Arnold got out, clutching his little sack of junk.

  “Thank you, officer.”

  “Yeah, all right. Stay off the streets at night, huh? And stay clean.”

  The cop chuckled as he got back in the car and drove off. Arnold went up to the Salvation Army’s door, but it was locked. A sign said to ring the bell after nine. He didn’t see a bell, but there was a button next to the sign so he tried pushing it. A buzz sounded somewhere inside the building, and after a minute someone opened the door.

  The young fellow who looked out was tall and lanky, wore a faded checked shirt and dingy pants, and peered at him with a calculating look. “Can I help you?”

  “I need a place to sleep,” Arnold said, trying to look humble.

  “You eaten today?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Dinner’s over, but I can get you some bread and peanut butter. Come in.”

  Arnold followed him down a hall lit by long glowing tubes overhead. They passed an open doorway to a large, brightly lit room with tables and benches along one side and people lying on mattresses in the middle. The ones that weren’t sleeping were sitting in small groups, talking in low voices. The muttering faded as Arnold followed the guy in the checked shirt down the hall to a kitchen.

  It was huge, obviously designed for feeding a lot of people, with two stoves and lots of storage and counter space and several big pieces of fancy equipment whose function Arnold couldn’t guess.

  The man opened a cupboard and took out a half loaf of bread in a wrapper of something clear and flexible. From another cupboard he took down a jar, then got a butter knife from a drawer and smeared some of the jar’s contents on a slice of bread. He handed it to Arnold.

  “I’m Dave Stewart, I’m the night supervisor. What’s your name?”

  “Arnold. Roth—” Arnold stopped there and hastily took a bite of the bread while he wondered if his name was still well known. Maybe not, but better not to take chances.

  The peanut butter was salty and sweet and very sticky. He swallowed and it went down like a lump.

  “Could I get something to drink?”

  “Sure.”

  Stewart got out a glass and poured some milk into it. Arnold took a big swig, shivering a little as the cold hit his stomach.

  “We’ll get you signed in and get you a bed. You can stay for three nights temporary, then if you still need help you can apply for a long-term shelter.”

  “Thank you,” Arnold mumbled through another mouthful of food.

  Stewart’s gaze traveled over him and an eyebrow rose. “Maybe you’d like a change of clothes.”

  Arnold nodded enthusiastically. “Please!”

  “Where’d you get those? Were you in a hospital or something?”

  Arnold grimaced and shook his head. “Long story. I’d love to have some decent clothes, though. And some shoes.”

  “We’ll get you fixed up.”

  Arnold nodded his thanks as he chewed the last mouthful of bread. He finished the milk and handed back the glass. Stewart put it and the knife in one of two gigantic metal sinks that were molded into the metal counter.

  “OK, let’s get you settled in. There’s a little bit of paperwork.”

  He led Arnold down the hall to an office and gave him a form to fill out, which Arnold cheerfully started covering with lies. No permanent address was about the only true thing he put on there. Some of the items he didn’t understand. He left a lot of it blank and handed it back.

  Stewart glanced over it. “We do need your social.”

  “My what?”

  “Your social security number.”

  “I don’t have one.”

  Stewart frowned. “You never got a card?”

  Arnold shook his head, then glanced down as if ashamed. He wondered what this card was for. If it was good, maybe he should get one.

  “All right. Come on, let’s get you some clothes and a bed.”

  Within half an hour, Arnold was dressed and in the big room. Within an hour, he had pinpointed the power brokers in the room: the drug dealers, the hustlers, and one pimp who offered him half an hour with a scruffy little boy. Arnold hid his disgust and tried to look regretful as he declined.

  There were no women in the room, he realized. Either they had another room to themselves somewhere or this place only accepted men.

  The clothes he’d been given were a workman’s clothes, worn but clean, with a pair of shoes that fit his feet closely and were amazingly supple. He had gladly abandoned the white junk except for the sheet, which he kept to make a better bundle for his things. Rather than expose his valuables to the greedy eyes in the big room, he’d just tied the sheet up around the whole bundle.

  Stewart returned carrying a thin mattress and a couple of threadbare blankets. He handed the blankets to Arnold and flopped the mattress onto the floor at the end of a row. On the mattress next to it a grizzly old man twitched in fretful sleep. Arnold spread the two thin blankets over his mattress, then set his bundle on top.

  “Breakfast is at six,” Stewart said. “You have to clear out by eight, then you can come back at five for supper. Good luck.”

  “Thanks.”

  Arnold watched him go out, then sat down on his bed and listened, waiting for the room to settle. The murmur of voices gradually increased. Arnold glanced up at a clock mounted high on the wall, saw it was ten to ten. They’d probably turn the lights out then, unless they just stayed on all night.

  Last call for pimps and hustlers. Arnold stood up, tucked his bundle under one arm, and strolled toward a half-dozen guys who’d been playing go fish with a battered deck of cards. The game had changed to blackjack, and small piles of coins were changing hands. Arnold watched from a respectful distance. One of the hustlers was dealing, keeping the bank, which said something right there. Arnold had no interest in this particular game—that deck was as good as marked, and the dealer was probably cheating—but the players might answer some questions he had.

  After a couple of minutes the dealer glanced up at him. “Fifty cents to get in the game.”

  Arnold smiled. “I don’t have it. I’m a poker man, anyway. Know where I could find a game?”

  One of the players gave a huff of laughter. “Atlantic City.”

  A tingle went through Arnold. Could be a coincidence, but it seemed strange Atlantic City kept coming up, first in his thoughts, now in conversation.

  He squatted down as if to watch the card game better, and also to make himself less intimidating. “Where in Atlantic City?”

  “Anywhere. All the casinos have poker.”

  Casinos. Sounded like Ben Siegel’s kind of setup. Seigel’d always been shooting off his mouth about how Monte Carlo was so great and they should bring casinos to the states. It would have required some political fixing, on account of gambling being illegal in Jersey. If it had happened—and it sounded like it had—then some big money had changed hands.

  Arnold watched the game a little longer, then wandered away. He checked out a couple of other groups, turned down an offer of a bag of cocaine for ten bucks, noted the dope dealer’s size and appearance in case it might com
e in handy later. He hoped it wouldn’t. He didn’t plan on spending any more time than he had to in this hole.

  The lights were indeed shut off at ten. The blackjack game resumed after a decent interval, illuminated by a flashlight.

  Arnold lay down fully dressed on his wretched bed, between the blankets as he couldn’t bring himself to lie directly on the mattress. With his arms around his bundle he dozed lightly, alert to any sound of danger.

  When morning came, he lined up with the others for a serving of pasty oatmeal and burned toast, accompanied by watery coffee. He ate it in silence, sharing a table with a dozen assorted lowlifes, then left the shelter at a brisk walk, heading for the pawn shop.

  An amazing amount of traffic was cramming the street. The cars had gotten smaller and more colorful, quieter but throbbing with power, and a lot of them seemed to be playing music. As he gazed in wonder at the chaos, his attention was caught by one car that seemed out of place.

  The Packard. Long and black and menacing. He saw it coming toward him, and ducked down a side street and into a shop, hoping he hadn’t been seen.

  He waited a good while, pretending to read a magazine while he watched out the shop window for the car. It passed, and after a few more minutes he put back the magazine and ventured out, peering up and down the street.

  No sign of the car. He got his bearings and headed in the direction of the pawn shop. By the time he got there it was open, metal gate gone, windows filled with glittering junk.

  Arnold walked in and set his bundle on the counter. An overweight, bulb-nosed clerk shuffled out of the back, shot him a skeptical glance, then looked at the bundle in distaste.

  “A fence is expected to be a little subtle about presentation.”

  “This is stuff from my grandmother’s attic,” Arnold said, untying the sheet. “She wouldn’t give me a box.”

  “Yeah, sure. OK, what do we got here?”

  Arnold spread his haul out on the counter. The clerk poked through it, shaking his head. Arnold glanced around the shelves of goods for sale while he waited.

  “This is crap.” said the clerk. “I’ll give you five dollars for all of it.”

  “It’s worth at least ten,” Arnold said, based on his past knowledge and understanding of the species of pawn brokers. He pointed to a table of nicknacks. “You’re going to sell the picture frames for five apiece.”

  “What, you’re not going to rush back and claim them? OK, seven-fifty, and that’s it.”

  “What about the prayer shawl?”

  “It’s no good. See, the fringe has been cut.”

  The clerk held up an end of the shawl. Arnold ignored it and gazed steadily at the clerk instead.

  “It’s still decorative. You can sell it.”

  “OK, three bucks for the shawl. That makes ten.”

  “Ten fifty,” Arnold said.

  Ten-fifty seemed like a lot, but who knew what things cost these days? If a cruddy little used picture frame went for five smackers, then ten wasn’t going to take him very far. The clerk counted out the dough and Arnold stuffed it in his right pocket, feeling a new gratitude for the existence of pockets. From the left he took out the little gold ring. The clerk’s eyebrows went up as he reached for it.

  “Nice,” he said, nodding. “Gold plate.”

  “Solid gold,” Arnold said.

  The clerk gave him a sidelong glance. “Nice little piece. Give you ten for it.”

  “You think?” Arnold reached to take it back. “Maybe I ought to have a jeweler take a look at it.”

  The clerk pulled his hand away. “OK, I’ll make it twenty.”

  “You’ll make it fifty, or no deal.”

  “You’re killing me. I got kids to feed.”

  “Then you better keep your money.” Arnold reached for the ring again.

  “All right, fifty it is.”

  Arnold suspected he was still being cheated, but fifty bucks was a start, anyway. The price of gold must’ve gone sky high. He accepted the cash, pocketed the pawn ticket out of courtesy, and left the shop.

  He returned to the restaurant he’d seen the night before and paid probably too much for a decent breakfast of eggs and bacon, with coffee that was both strong and hot, to wash the taste of oatmeal out of his mouth. Then he found a newsstand where he picked up a paper.

  “What’s the cheapest way to get to Atlantic City?” he asked the proprietor.

  “Bus, probably. Station’s on Hillside Street.”

  Arnold got directions from him, then started off walking. The air was chilly but the sun was out, and he was a lot warmer than he’d been the night before despite having no coat. The new shoes he’d acquired at the Salvation Army were amazingly comfortable to walk in. His mood was picking up, too.

  Soon he’d be in a game, double his cash. Build up a bankroll. As soon as he could afford it he’d buy a decent suit. Then he’d see about this casino business. Might be he could get in on it, streamline the business, improve management. These were his gifts, and he’d used them to build an empire. No reason he couldn’t do it again.

  Atlantic City had been a whoopee spot when he knew it, one of his favorite getaways. The gambling that had gone on there was illicit, though there was plenty of it. The jazz and the gin were equally as big, and had drawn the Hollywood crowd. Shows would open on the piers for test runs before going to Broadway. The Miss America Pageant had brought beautiful girls from all over the country—he wondered if that was still going.

  The black car pulled out of a cross street just ahead of him. Arnold’s stomach did a flip. He stepped backward into an alley, heart racing. Who the hell was following him?

  He turned to head down the alley and flinched back. Standing in his way was a woman, tall and slender, black hair cropped in a bob, dressed in something long, black, and slinky that shimmered with beads, with a stole of black fur draped over her arms. A regular sheba, and for a second Arnold stood frozen in admiration.

  “Mr. Rothstein,” she said in a low voice. “I’ve been looking for you.”

  “Yeah? Why?”

  She tilted her head, her jet black hair brushing her jawline. Her eyes glittered green and cat-like. He was relieved to see she wasn’t holding a weapon, at least none that he could see.

  “Do you want to go to Atlantic City?” she asked.

  Arnold suppressed a shiver. “What if I do?”

  “I’m your guide. I’m here to escort you.”

  “That’s nice. Who sent you?”

  “Simon Penstemon. You won’t recognize his name.”

  “You’re right, I don’t, so why should I accept his hospitality?”

  The sheba smiled. “Mr. Penstemon is hosting a poker game. You’re invited to play.”

  “I don’t have a stake.”

  “You don’t need one. The game isn’t for money.”

  “Then why the hell should I play? You know, the last poker game I was in didn’t turn out so well.”

  “That’s why you’ve been invited to this one. It’s a chance to rectify that unfortunate incident.”

  “Rectify?”

  “Mr. Penstemon will explain it all when we get to the casino. Shall we?” She gestured toward the street with a hand, and he heard the car’s engine behind him.

  Arnold stared at her narrowly, thinking hard. It sounded nuts, but then it was nuts that he was alive, so what the hell. He didn’t have much to lose at this point, and he wanted to check out the casino action anyway.

  “OK, sugar. I’ll play.”

  Arnold squared his shoulders and offered his arm. She smiled and laid a hand on it, and he felt as if a chilly mist had touched him. Ignoring that, he walked her to the car. The back door swung open as they reached it. That right there almost made him bolt, but he restrained himself and handed the lady into the back seat. Her green eyes glinted up at him as he got in beside her. The door swung shut, and the car glided forward.

  “Nice car,” he said.

  “I’m glad you like it.�
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  “A little conspicuous, though, isn’t it? Wouldn’t a modern car be less noticeable?”

  The sheba smiled. “Not at all. I guarantee you no one will notice this car.”

  “I noticed it.”

  “That was the point.”

  She leaned forward and pressed a button on the back of the front seat. A panel opened toward them, revealing a small bar stocked with tumblers, wine glasses, decanters, and an ice bucket, all fine cut crystal.

  “Would you like a drink?”

  Arnold leaned back, deciding to enjoy himself. “Don’t mind if I do.”

  “Champagne or bourbon?”

  “It’s early. How about the champagne?”

  He watched her open a split and pour from it into a flute. “Aren’t you joining me?”

  “I don’t care for champagne.”

  He eyed the crystal flute she’d handed him. “There wouldn’t be anything else in here, would there?”

  “Come, come, Mr. Rothstein. What would be the point of restoring you to life only to kill you again?”

  His eyebrows went up. She was implying that this Penstemon guy was responsible for his being alive.

  “I don’t know. Sadistic gratification?”

  She pursed her dainty lips, then took the flute from him and sipped, leaving a faint haze of lipstick on the edge. “Satisfied?”

  “Sure, honey.”

  She sneezed. Hiding a smile, Arnold filled his mouth with champagne, enjoying the sizzle on his tongue. It was good stuff, as good as the best he’d tasted, and he’d drunk some pretty fine wines in his day. The memory brought a pang of loneliness for Carolyn. He frowned and took another swallow.

  “Tell me about your boss.”

  She raised a finely arched brow. “My boss?”

  “Mr. Penstemon. Isn’t he your boss?”

  She smiled slyly. “He might tell you I’m his boss.”

  “That so?”

  She stretched luxuriously, then smoothed her hair with a hand. “He takes care of me.”

  “Ah.”

  Nice of this Penstemon to send his play-toy to fetch Arnold. Too nice, so Arnold didn’t trust it. Maybe she was supposed to get him all comfortable and tipsy, so he’d have his guard down. Arnold took a tiny sip of champagne. He’d get comfortable, sure, but not careless. He was never careless.