Dead Man's Hand

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Dead Man's Hand Page 21

by Pati Nagle


  A curtain was pulled back and light spilled in from the front of the booth. A kid dressed in black with tattoos on his bare arms and all the way up his neck looked in.

  “Can I help you?”

  Not, “What the fuck are you doing here.” Interesting.

  Ned put the dragon back in the waist-high cardboard bin he’d taken it from. “I just came from the hotel.”

  The kid nodded. “Going out? It’s this way.”

  He gestured toward the curtain. Ned blinked, then stepped forward.

  “Thanks.”

  “Not a problem.”

  The kid held the curtain aside for him. Ned walked through and found himself in a carny booth, a dart game. Hit the ace, win a prize. The darts would be crummy and badly weighted, the pips on the cards too small to hit easily. Usual scam. Standing at the counter were a couple of people waiting anxiously to lose their money. The kid lifted a section of the counter and Ned walked through.

  He strolled north, toward where the Taj was. The air smelled like a carnival, with popcorn and grease and sugar and darker, less clean smells, all overlying a whisper of salt and the strange, heavy humidity from the ocean.

  He glanced back and was startled to find he couldn’t see the hotel. There was the Tropicana, and farther down the Hilton, but no Black Queen.

  Ned stopped and stood frowning. How the fuck do you hide an entire hotel? He hadn’t walked that far. He could still see the little carny booth with the dragons. The sign across the top of that said “The Black Queen,” but there was no sign of the hotel behind it.

  Fucking weird. This place was freaking him out. Witches and goblins and black fucking cats. He needed some normal.

  Turning north again, he walked until he was tired, then got into a rolling chair and told the driver he wanted to go to the Taj. A pang of homesickness struck him. Stupid, but he missed Vegas. Everything here was an imitation of his town. The Sands, Tropicana, Caesar’s—all pale shadows of the real things in Vegas. The clientele was a bit different. Atlantic City had six million people living within a short drive, not even counting NYC, so there were lots of little old grayhairs with their oxygen on wheels, feeding their Social Security into the slots.

  In Vegas there were regulars too, but there were a lot more tourists, come for a weekend of decadence, happy to unload a heap of cash they’d been saving up for it. The shows were better, the casinos were better, and the mob didn’t have its teeth in a deathgrip on the whole fucking town, like they did here.

  “Taj Mahal,” said the driver as the chair glided to a stop.

  Ned paid him and headed for the casino entrance. Lots of pretty neon and no weirdos. Everyone looked normal. The grayhairs had mostly gone home to bed by now, so it was down to hardcore regulars and a few restless tourists. Ned kept his hand on his roll of cash as he made his way to the bar.

  He needed to do some serious partying. He called the bartender over with a wave. It was a big guy, older, salt-and-pepper hair and glasses, looked like you wouldn’t want to mess with him. He also had no horns, no claws, and his skin was a normal tan, slightly weathered.

  Ned bought a drink, then pushed a twenty toward the bartender. “Can you recommend a good strip joint?”

  “Bare Exposure’s all nude but it’s BYOB.”

  “Ah, fuck that. Where’s a place with a good bar?”

  “Delilah’s Den.”

  “Thanks.”

  He caught a cab to Delilah’s Den and felt at home the minute he walked in. Loud music thumped, lights flashed in rhythm, and girls were gyrating on several round platform stages and on the floor. On the nearest stage was an all-American gal with long legs and a cute little cowgirl outfit and bouncy blonde curls. For a second Ned thought it was Randy, and an unpleasant jolt of adrenaline went through him.

  He found a table near another stage where an amazon with green eyes and red hair curling down her back was performing feats of gymnastic agility that made him seriously envy her pole. Sitting down with his back to the cowgirl, he ordered tequila and settled in.

  A couple of girls joined him before long. One was Hispanic, probably Puerto Rican in this part of the country. The other was white, no tan which was unusual, with brown hair brushed up into a spiky mess and little silver rings through her ears, her nostril, her lip, one eyebrow and her navel.

  “Hi, I’m Angela,” said the chica. “This is Red.”

  There was nothing red about her that he could see, but whatever. He bought them drinks and stared at Red’s black leather halter top, trying to discern the shape of whatever was pierced through her nipples.

  Angela chattered and giggled, asking his name, was this his first visit to AC, was he all alone. Standard extraction of key information, he’d been through it before. The alone part hurt, though. Back home, the girls had crawled all over him; they all knew who he was, knew he was a mover and a party guy. Here nobody knew him. Nobody gave a fuck.

  “So, Neddy, you wannna lap dance?” said Angela, leaning close and displaying her ample and ill-concealed bosom.

  Ned grinned and slid a finger under her bra strap, trying for a feel of her nipple. “Boy, howdy!”

  Red slunk a long, pale arm around his shoulders and tickled his ear with her tongue. “Both of us. Private dances, a hundred apiece.”

  “Sure, baby,” said Ned, wishing he’d brought some smack with him, or even some coke. “You lead the way.”

  Their second round of drinks had just arrived, and they carried them back to a cramped hallway of booths the size of K-Mart dressing rooms, with no doors. Music boomed from overhead speakers. Red led Ned to the very back, pushed him onto the booth’s vinyl seat and straddled him.

  “Pay up, Neddy,” she crooned.

  With slight difficulty, Ned extracted his money from his pocket and peeled off two hundred. The cash disappeared with lightning speed, Angela’s into her little sequined purse, Red’s into her stiletto-heeled boot. Red got off Ned’s lap and stepped back, and as the Doors’ “Break On Through” started up over the speakers, heavy on the bass, she reached for Angela’s top.

  Ned slammed his drink and leaned back while the girls went to town. Angela was cushy in all the right places, tan everywhere. She’d got all the tan Red missed out on. No silicone either—it was all the real thing.

  Turned out to be rings in Red’s nipples, half-inch silver rings with little silver crosses dangling from them. Ned tried to catch one with his teeth as they brushed by, but she was too good and knew to stay just out of reach.

  He got his money’s worth, though. His lap was danced upon with a vengeance. Both girls ran their shapely gams repeatedly across his crotch, and to his surprise he actually got a hard on, something that wasn’t so easy any more. The girls were a little rough, which he didn’t mind, so he just ordered another round of drinks and when Red asked if he wanted more lap dances, he peeled off another two bills.

  He called it quits when they offered to get him a lay. Why pay for that when he could get it for free back at Penstemon’s place? He’d had a good time here, but he was ready to move on, so he kissed Red and Angela sloppily, tucked an extra twenty into each one’s bra, and stumbled out to a taxicab.

  “Black Queen,” he said, sliding down in the back seat.

  “Where’s that? Never heard of it,” said the driver, a black guy who craned his head around to stare at Ned like he was nuts.

  “Huh? Oh, shit. Crap. OK, just take me to the Plaza.”

  “Got it.”

  At Trump Plaza, Ned got out and went through the casino out to the boardwalk. He was too drunk for poker and kind of tired, too. It was colder now, and he shivered as he walked carefully down the boardwalk. Finally he reached the little Black Queen carny booth.

  The tattooed guy raised an eyebrow as Ned leaned on the counter. “Long night?”

  “Yeah.” Ned stood blinking, peering groggily at the dinosaurs. Dragons. Whatever the fuck they were.

  The guy opened the counter for him. “Come on in.”
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  Ned walked stiffly through and into the back of the booth while the guy held the curtain for him. He paused to look at the stuffed toys again, picked up the pink and orange dragon.

  “I want this,” he said. He fumbled in his pocket, came up with a five dollar chip.

  The tattooed guy waved a hand. “Take it. Have a good night, Mr. Runyon.”

  Mr. Runyon. That was nice. Respectful. Ned gave the guy a smile, hoping it wasn’t too loopy looking.

  “Thanks.” He waved the dragon, then went out the back door into the chilly night.

  There it was, big as the fucking Empire State Building. All the edges of the Black Queen were lit with blue neon. Ned stared up at it, wondering what kind of David Copperfield mirror trick Penstemon had used to hide it from sight from the boardwalk, then remembered Penstemon could probably do Copperfield one better.

  He started forward, clutching his stuffed dragon, following the winding path to the hotel. It seemed like he’d been walking for miles by the time he finally reached the entrance. He went straight to the elevator, straight up to his suite.

  The hallway was deserted. Even with the carpet muffling them, his steps seemed to echo. Maybe that was just his head. He found his door, rummaged in his pockets for the key card, and finally got in. Staggering over to the couch, he sank onto it and closed his eyes.

  Head spinning a little. He waited for it to settle down, then opened his eyes and saw that he was holding the pink dragon on his lap.

  Connie. He’d wanted it for her. He’d send it to her, but he wanted to talk to her first, let her know it was coming. Let her know he still loved her.

  A sob surprised him. He stifled it, even though no one was there. God, how’d he get so down? He needed a hit, settle his nerves.

  He scooted sideways on the couch until he could reach the end table where he’d left his supply of horse. Beautiful black tar, a big gooey lump of it. He put the dragon down next to it, smeared a hit on the tin foil, and picked up the lighter.

  Took a couple of tries but couldn’t get the flame going—his hand was shaking. Annoyed, he took a firmer grip on the lighter and gave it a hard stroke, then held the flame under the foil until the smoke began to rise and curl. He sucked it in and felt it spread out through his head like maple syrup, and with it the bliss he craved.

  He sighed with pleasure. The pink dragon watched him with its googly eyes. He giggled. Chasing the dragon.

  When there was no more smoke he put the foil and lighter down and leaned back on the couch, drifting pleasantly. After a while, he sat up and reached for the phone. Had to call Connie. Tell her the dragon was coming.

  It rang a long time before she picked up. Oops, he’d forgotten to check what time it was. Oh, well.

  “Yes?” she said in a sleepy voice. “Who is it?”

  “Bunny, it’s your daddy. Don’t hang up.”

  “Daddy? Daddy’s dead.”

  “Yeah, well. Haven’t you ever heard of ghost phone calls?” He laughed awkwardly. “It’s really me, Bunny. I just called to tell you I miss you and I love you.”

  She was silent for a long minute. “Where are you?”

  “I ah—well, you probably won’t believe it. I’m in Atlantic City.”

  “Not heaven, huh?”

  “Nope. Closer to hell.”

  She laughed, and the sound rained through him and washed him clean of fear. He put his hand on the pink dragon, soft and fuzzy, then closed his eyes.

  “I love you, Bunny. I wish I could come see you.”

  “Oh, Daddy.”

  “Listen, you watch out for that Griffy bitch, all right? Get a good lawyer.”

  “I’ll be OK, Daddy. Really. You don’t have to worry.”

  “I’m sending you a present. It’s nothing big, just a little reminder so you’ll know this wasn’t just a dream.”

  “What is it?”

  “A little pink dragon. A magic one.”

  “Magic?”

  “Well, maybe. Maybe’s it’s just a toy.”

  He was fuzzy. Not making sense, he knew. Better shut up before he made a fool of himself with his daughter.

  “I’ll let you go, Bunny. Sorry I woke you up.”

  “It’s OK. It’s … good to hear your voice.”

  Ned’s throat tightened and he felt a tear threatening, rubbed at his eye to get rid of it. “I miss you,” he said again. His voice was getting ragged.

  “Miss you, too.”

  “Maybe I’ll come see you in a few days.”

  She didn’t say anything. That was too much, probably. A phone call was one thing, but to have your dead dad come walking in the door…

  “OK, bye,” he said. “Love you, Bunny.”

  “Bye, Daddy.”

  He didn’t hang up. Instead he listened until he heard the click of her disconnecting, then sat with the receiver in his hand, staring numbly at Atlantic City glittering outside the picture window.

  ~ Arnold ~

  Arnold sat at the bar, a glass of soda in front of him, and watched the news on the television hanging overhead. It was witch news, everything you wanted to know about what was happening in the magical underworld. Advertisements for the Black Queen Poker Challenge were interspersed with the news stories. Arnold hid a smirk.

  Quite a machine Penstemon had here. The Black Queen was a golden goose.

  He waited until he was the only one in the bar, which took a good hour or more even though it was quite late. He had been at the poker table for several hours after ditching Weare and the girls, long enough to win the stake he’d decided he’d need.

  Finally, when there was no one else in the place, he beckoned the bartender over.

  “Another drink?”

  “No. I have a question.” Arnold laid a hundred dollar chip on the bar between them. “I need someone highly skilled at magic. I imagine that sort comes in here now and again.”

  The bartender snorted. “Try finding a customer here who isn’t.”

  “I’m not.” Arnold caught his gaze and held it. “This person must also be discreet.”

  “I wouldn’t try to cheat, if I were you. Penstemon is no fool.”

  “I’m aware of that.” Arnold smiled. “I’m no fool either. No, this is a … side bet. Nothing to do with the game.”

  Arnold laid a second chip beside the first, then a third. The bartender gazed at them and licked his lips.

  “I can find you someone. Hang on.”

  Arnold finished his drink while the man was on the phone. A short while later, a tall, gangly woman entered the lounge and came over to him. She was hook-nosed, with long, ratty hair that looked black until it caught the light, when it glinted with dark green highlights. She wore black trousers that hung limp from her bony hips and a frilly red blouse that clashed with her hair. A dozen mismatched bangle bracelets jangled on one wrist. She carried an enormous patchwork purse. Arnold resisted the inclination to sneer.

  She sat on the stool next to Arnold’s and gave him an appraising glance. “You look taller on TV.”

  He ignored this. “I understand you’re an expert?”

  “I’m the best. And I ain’t cheap.”

  Arnold stood and left another chip on the bar. “Let’s walk.”

  ~ James ~

  James woke up on the sofa, where he’d spent most of the night drinking his way through a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label from the bar in his suite. He sat up stiffly, blinking, wondering what time of day it might be. The suite was so quiet. No sounds reached it from outside, only the hum of various machines.

  His glance fell on the curtained windows and his stomach turned uneasily at the mere thought of looking out. He did not want to be reminded of how preposterously high in the air this room was, or to go near the edge of that precipitous drop with only a bit of glass between him and it.

  There was light glowing through the curtains, so he guessed it was daytime. He glanced at the electric light on the table nearby. Always the same, night or day. He wasn�
��t sure he liked this modern world.

  Stumbling into the bathroom to relieve himself, his attention caught on the shower. He stripped off his clothes and stepped into the tub, turned the water on to pour warm and steamy over him, used the miniature bar of soap to scrub himself and his hair. His head was throbbing a bit, and the hot water eased it some, pouring on his scalp in an endless waterfall.

  Some modern things were good, he conceded. Endless hot water at your fingertips, without any lighting fires or filling kettles, was one of them.

  Much refreshed, he got dressed again and went out to use the phone to order breakfast. There was a heap of written information on the desk and it took him a while to find the room service menu and then the directions for using the phone. Finally he managed to place a call and order eggs and bacon, sausage and pancakes, and a pot of coffee.

  There was a motion picture box in the room. Out of curiosity and to pass the time waiting for his breakfast, he played with the control box until he got the picture box to work, but he soon shut it off again. It was too loud, and the pictures moved too fast. Made him dizzy.

  Strange that he should feel so out of place today, when yesterday he’d been happy to indulge himself in every way that offered. He thought about the gal who’d come here with him—Charlene? He couldn’t even remember her name, and though he’d enjoyed every minute he’d spent with her he had no desire to do it again.

  He felt lonely. He wanted his own kind. The other players weren’t like him. No one here was of a like mind with him. Sebastian had been the closest thing to it, probably, but they hadn’t really had a chance to get acquainted, and now the riverboat gambler was gone.

  Breakfast arrived and James ate it in silent solitude, feeling better afterward. He decided he’d better get out of the suite, or else he’d end up moping here all day and putting himself in a foul mood. Not good if he wanted to win this tournament.

  A stroll outside might do him good. Walk in the fresh air, stand by the ocean a whiles. The sea had always been a marvel and a mystery to him.

 

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