Dead Man's Hand

by Pati Nagle

  Almost never. He’d been careless with McManus.

  He looked out the window, which was smoked glass and hard to see through. He had to concentrate to see out of it, and when he figured out where they were he nearly spilled his champagne.

  “Hey! We’re not driving on the road!”

  “The side is less crowded,” said the sheba.

  The traffic to his right was a mess of shiny blurs. Arnold looked toward the driver to tell him to slow down, and his heart nearly lurched out of his chest. There was no one in the driver’s seat!

  “Shit!”

  “Calm down, Mr. Rothstein.”

  “There’s no fucking driver!”

  “Yes, there is, you just can’t see him. He’s a will-o-wisp.”

  “The cops are gonna be all over us!”

  “I assure you they won’t.”

  There was a car on the shoulder up ahead. Modern car, with red and blue lights flashing on its roof. Arnold’s stomach clenched as the car he was in slowed, then swerved into traffic. They passed the car with the lights and Arnold saw “Police” in big letters on its side. Another car was sitting in front of it. Arnold’s ride swerved back to the shoulder again when they were past.

  Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to look out the window. He leaned back and looked for a place to put the champagne glass. His stomach was complaining. The sheba took the flute from him and handed him a newspaper instead.

  “You might want to see today’s news.”

  Arnold closed his eyes until his stomach was settled, then looked at the paper. The date was an astounding 2012. That would make his age 130, if you counted from his birth date.

  The news was confusing, some of it, and other than that pretty much like it had been in his day. Politicians were still bullshitting. Movie stars were still the subject of endless gossip, and they were doing something called television, some new kind of theater, it sounded like. The country was fighting a war in some godforsaken place he’d never heard of, near another conflict in a place called Israel, which seemed a sorry joke to Arnold.

  Airplanes had become a big thing. There were new diseases, old cons, and all the usual flap. The world was still itself, which was comforting.

  By the time he’d finished skimming the paper, the car had started to slow down. Risking another look out the window Arnold saw they were in a city. He didn’t see anything he recognized, but it must be Atlantic City, because they crossed a street marked Pacific Avenue. It was crawling with scum. Down-and-outs, hookers, and hustlers, mostly negro. Not classy, not at all like the exclusive place he remembered. Town needed cleaning up.

  The light changed, making Arnold look up. It was morning—or not much later than noon, anyway—but now the sky was twilit.

  The Packard eased to a stop in front of a high-rise building. The door next to Arnold opened. He flinched, then got out. He could smell the ocean.

  They were at a hotel, as elegant as the rest of the town was shabby, all glass and chrome and velvet ropes to retain a non-existent crowd. A black velvet awning stretched out over a blue carpet that extended into the hotel.

  The building rose into the sky, a tower of black glass with glowing blue outlining its edges. On top was a gigantic playing card, the queen of spades, all made of light and brilliant against the indigo sky.

  Arnold swallowed. Nighttime, not day. What the hell?

  Just go with it, he told himself, ignoring the pounding of his heart.

  The sheba was standing next to him. Arnold turned to give her a looking over.

  She was sleek and glossy, a sylph all in black with pale ivory skin and those green eyes. She had a beaded belt at her hips that he hadn’t noted before, fastened in the front with a large triangular clasp crusted with diamonds that flashed and sparkled in the sunlight with every move she made. Black beaded fringes dangled down from the clasp to tickle her knees. She was one classy-looking dame, and Arnold couldn’t help but smile. He offered his arm again as the car glided away.

  “What’s your name, honey?” he asked, suppressing a shiver at the chill of her touch.

  “Mishka.”

  “Pretty name. Russian, isn’t it?”

  “I believe you’re right.”

  They strolled toward the hotel. Despite the weirdness, Arnold was enjoying himself. It was nice being driven in a classy car and drinking champagne, especially after the way he’d spent the night.

  Forget about that, he decided. It had just been a bad dream. He’d pick up some cash in a game or two—after finding out exactly what Penstemon wanted to play for—and then start getting himself established. Maybe Mishka would like to help him out, help him find a place to stay and get it set up nice. She could decorate it if she wanted.

  He was getting ahead of himself. Mishka was Penstemon’s girl, and until he had built up some clout he had nothing to offer.

  Uniforms opened the doors for them. Just uniforms. There were no heads beneath the caps that seemed to float in the air above the black coats with polished silver buttons. More whatchacallems, Arnold presumed. Like the driver.

  Quiet, jazzy music played as Arnold followed Mishka into the lobby. An albino woman and a bald-headed guy with long, pointed ears stood talking to a young woman behind the counter. Both wore dark leather pants and jackets with a lot of silver zippers and studs.

  The albino turned her head, fixing ice-blue eyes on Arnold as he passed, then whispered into one of her companion’s astounding ears. He glanced at Arnold and grinned, revealing teeth as long and pointed as the ears. Arnold tensed, remembering stories his grandmother had told. Dubbyks and golems. Stuff to frighten unruly children.

  “What the hell kind of place is this?” Arnold muttered as he followed Mishka to the right.

  “It’s a resort,” she said. “A top-shelf hotel and casino that caters to alternative lifestyles.”

  “Alternative? Is that what you call it? Did you see the ears on that guy?”

  Mishka smoothed her hair over her own ears and ignored the question. “This way,” she said, leading him along a wide corridor that twined snake-like through the hotel.

  He swallowed his misgivings. “They still have good jazz here?”

  Mishka shook her head. “Not like you would remember. Most of the emphasis is on gambling these days.”

  “Too bad.”

  “Mr. Penstemon sponsors good concerts now and then, or so I’ve heard. I’m not a music lover.”

  “Just who is this Penstemon, anyway?”

  She gazed back at him, eyes wide with innocence. “He’s the owner of the Black Queen. You’ll meet him soon.”

  They passed some weird abstract sculptures and a couple more fountains, then went through a lounge area where people were sitting on plush sofas and chairs, listening to a trio of piano, sax, and string bass on a glowing blue dais. The instruments appeared to be playing by themselves.

  The music was good, though the people listening to it were all a little odd. Too tall, too short, too pale or too dark—or too green—to call normal. Some wore strange clothes. Arnold knew he wasn’t up on the current fashions, but he was pretty sure the Thomas Jefferson getup wasn’t a hot fad.

  A red-haired woman in a silvery dress pointed at Arnold and said something to her friends. Heads turned as he and Mishka walked past. Arnold got the feeling these people knew who he was, a feeling that he was used to, but that had been distinctly absent since he woke up in the cemetery.

  Leaving the lounge behind, they followed a curving hallway through an arcade of shops. Tobacconist, liquor store, even a book shop was unremarkable, but some of the other places gave Arnold the creeps.

  One marked “Apothecary” looked more like a zoo. It was full of critters in cages and funny-looking plants. Another simply labeled “Boutique” had the weirdest assortment of clothes he’d ever seen. They seemed to be for women, sort of, but there was nothing frilly in there. Most of it was black, and Arnold didn’t like the look of the tall, skinny guy who was holding a shi
ny black dress up to himself in front of a mirror.

  Mishka led him into a shop beside a small, tasteful brass sign that said “Gentlemen’s Attire.” Racks of suits, from casual to tuxedo, lined the walls around a central display case filled with silk shirts, ties, handkerchiefs, and other fine accessories. Arnold let out a small sigh of satisfaction. The place reeked of money.

  A small, wiry young man with sandy hair and a foxy look to his sharp eyes came forward to greet them. Mishka smiled at him.

  “Alphonse, this is Mr. Rothstein. Please help him choose some more comfortable clothing.” She glanced at Arnold and quelled his half-hearted protest. “Mr. Penstemon’s compliments. He wants you to be comfortable for the game.”

  “Very nice of him. Tell him thanks.”

  She smiled. “I’ll be back in half an hour.”

  Arnold watched her stroll out, then looked back at Alphonse, who was regarding him as a sculptor might look at a chunk of marble. “This is not my usual style,” he said.

  “Of course not,” said Alphonse. “I could tell that immediately. You belong in silk, of course. A classic cut, I think. Let’s look over here.”

  Alphonse turned and with quick, busy steps led the way down a wall of suits. One small section was a bouquet of pastel colors that made Arnold want to gag. Another ranged from dull gold to rust to brown. Alphonse passed both by, to Arnold’s great relief, and paused before a rack of suits in varying shades of gray and black, with one or two dark blue for variety. He reached in and took down a hanger.

  “This one?”

  Arnold gazed at a suit that could have come out of his own closet. “Sure.”

  Alphonse held the jacket out for Arnold to try on. He hesitated, doubting it would hang right over the heavy shirt he was wearing. Alphonse’s brows went up.

  “Oh! Stupid of me.”

  The tailor waved a hand and a cold wind whirled around Arnold. A second later it stopped, and Arnold was wearing a white silk dress shirt. Goose bumps rose on his arms, and not from the breeze.

  “That’s better. Here, now.”

  Numbly, Arnold slid his arms into the sleeves and stood still while Alphonse walked around him, twitching the jacket and tut-tutting.

  “A little longer in the sleeve, I think,” said Alphonse, taking hold of the left jacket cuff, which rode above Arnold’s wrist. He gave it a sharp tug, then smoothed it. The sleeve now brushed the back of Arnold’s hand.

  “Better,” said the tailor, and tugged the other sleeve to match, then passed a hand along Arnold’s upper back. “And a little wider across the shoulders, I think. You do have fine shoulders, if I may say so.”

  Arnold didn’t bother to thank him. He wasn’t sure he could get his tongue unstuck from the roof of his mouth. He tried to decide if he was hallucinating, or in hell. Neither seemed to fit.

  The jacket was fitting better, though. Alphonse muttered and ran his hands down the side seams, and Arnold could feel the cloth shifting to conform to his shape.

  “Now the trousers.”

  More breeze, and more adjustments. Arnold tried not to shiver as he stood there. It was not just the wind that had made him cold and caused his balls to retreat. It was the whole situation. What the hell had he let himself in for?

  “There you are,” said Alphonse from the floor where he’d been kneeling to take up the trouser cuffs, a process that seemed to involve caressing the cloth. “Much better, if I may say so. Let’s just get you some shoes and then you can have a look.”

  He put his hands on Arnold’s supple walking shoes and a small flash like lightning made Arnold jump. His feet were now cased in fine leather. Alphonse smoothed his hands over the shoes and they hugged Arnold’s feet while the hair on his legs stood up.

  “C-could I keep those other shoes?” Arnold asked, noticing with pride that his voice didn’t quaver.

  Alphonse stood up and brushed his hands. “Of course. I’ll have them sent up to your suite. Did you want the other clothes as well?”

  “Uh, no.”

  “Good. I’ll send up a selection of casual wear for you, and some additional shirts and so forth. Would you care to step over here and choose a cravat?”

  Arnold obediently followed him to the display case and picked out a pearl-gray tie with matching pocket square. A sea-blue silk set caught his eye as well, and Alphonse set it aside for him. Arnold was half afraid he would conjure up another windstorm, but instead he turned a mirror on the counter toward Arnold and waited while Arnold tied the gray silk around his neck. That brought Alphonse up a notch or two in Arnold’s esteem. A good tailor knew that a gentleman tied his own tie.

  His hair was a mess. Arnold smoothed a hand over it, then accepted a silver hairbrush and comb from Alphonse and used them to groom his dark hair into submission.

  “Very elegant, sir. Would you care to take in the whole ensemble?”

  A sharp “pop” startled Arnold as a full-length mirror appeared beside him. “I wish you’d quit doing that,” he said, then turned to the mirror to appraise himself.

  “My apologies, sir,” murmured Alphonse. “It’s just quicker.”

  Arnold adjusted the necktie. “Yeah, like the way you tailor a suit is quicker.”

  “I hate fussing with pins. Oh, that reminds me.”

  Alphonse reached under the counter and brought out a small case lined in black velvet. In it rested half a dozen stickpins, each tipped with a sizable jewel. Arnold selected one with a diamond head and carefully placed it in the exact center of his tie.

  “Perfect,” said Alphonse. “You look much better, if I may say so, sir.”

  “Yeah, you may.”

  Arnold turned to the mirror. He felt better, too, though he wondered if the suit would turn into a pumpkin at midnight.

  “Tell me about Penstemon.”

  Alphonse’s eyebrows twitched upward. He blinked, then carefully put away the case of stickpins. “What do you wish to know?”

  “Who is he? Where’d he come from?”

  “He is originally from Florida, I believe. As to who—” The tailor paused to brush the shoulders of Arnold’s suit with a silver-handled clothes brush. His golden eyes met Arnold’s in the mirror.

  “Being in his employ, I might be considered biased, but I think it is fair to say he’s the most powerful warlock in the country.”

  ~ William ~

  Hertfordshire, England

  William Weare sat up, much annoyed, and took the coins from his eyes. He had been in the middle of a perfectly good haunting when a peculiar sensation had gripped him, rather like to being drawn into a maelstrom, though the underwater feeling of it may have just been his imagination. He was dry now, in any case, though rather chilled. That, upon reflection, was unusual.

  He looked around and saw that he was in the Elstree churchyard, right enough. There was the obnoxious Burton monument just near. He was sitting on his own grave, dressed in his Sunday best. He frowned, stood up, and noticed a stray leaf on his sleeve. He brushed at it and it fell off. That was when he realized he was in a living body.

  Disturbing; he’d forgotten how heavy it felt. He took a deep breath and marveled at the smell of mouldering leaves and damp night air. He hefted the two coins in his hand. Guineas, antiques by now. Probably worth a pretty penny. He dropped them into his coat pocket.

  Alive again. He supposed he should be pleased, but he still felt faintly annoyed. He’d got used to being dead. He could go where he liked without anyone bothering him, and if he got bored he could frighten a few good people out of their wits for a laugh. How was he to frighten anyone now?

  And these clothes—the ones he’d been buried in—well, they were absolutely out of fashion now, he knew that much. Frock coat and breeches belonged at a fancy dress ball nowadays.

  The young people he had been haunting were nowhere in sight. Scared off, perhaps, by the maelstrom or whatever it had been. They had gone home, or off to the pub to brag about daring the graveyard. He felt cheated.

&nb
sp; The sound of horses’ hooves clopping on pavement made him turn his head. Outside the churchyard fence he saw a black coach and pair coming down the street. The matched black horses raised their hooves high as they trotted, very showy. The coach pulled up to the gate and stopped.

  William gazed at it with narrowed eyes. He’d never seen the coach before, but it didn’t belong in the middle of 21st century Elstree any more than he did. That meant it must have something to do with the maelstrom and his sudden return to flesh. Well, he might as well have it out with the driver.

  He strode through the churchyard to the gate and went out. Still frowning, he accosted the driver.

  “You there! What’s your business with me?”

  No reply, and he noticed now that there was no face beneath the top hat. He grimaced. He wasn’t fond of magical creatures, preferred to avoid them. They cramped his style.

  The coach door opened and a young man stepped out. He was slender with dark hair and eyes of greenish gold, and wore a black driving coat with several shoulder capes. Very dashing for 1823, but a little out of place now. The fellow bowed to William.

  “Good evening, sir.”

  “Well? What do you want? And what do you mean by coming here in that museum piece?”

  The youth looked at the coach, then back at William. “It’s meant to make you feel at home.”

  The accent was American, definitely. William knew it from watching the telly; he had also seen American tourists often enough, even haunted a few.

  “Feel at home? It’s a bloody antique! Where do you think I’ve been the last hundred and eighty-nine years?”

  The youth looked disconcerted. “Well … you’ve been dead.”

  “Yes, but that doesn’t mean I’m completely out of touch!”

  William eyed the coach with displeasure, partly born of the remembrance of his departure from this mortal coil—or some other mortal coil, more likely. This one was in too good condition to be the same.