by Pati Nagle
Hickok turned over ace-nine of diamonds. Nut hand. He’d win unless Runyon made a full house, which wasn’t very likely.
“Shit!” Runyon said, stomping back and forth like a caged tiger. “Shit, shit!”
“Very nice,” Arnold said quietly to Hickok.
The gunslinger glanced upward beneath the brim of his huge hat. “Thanks.”
The dealer turned up a jack of spades, making a pair on the board. Another jack or the fourth king would give Runyon the win. The idiot was practically dancing, eyes desperate, hands in and out of his pockets as he waited for the purple girl to deal the river card.
Ace of hearts.
The crowd gave a roar of excitement. Runyon stepped back from the table, staring at Hickok.
“You fucking bastard! You fucking—!”
And then he began to dissolve. Arnold took out his pocket handkerchief and held it over his mouth and nose. He’d meant to close his eyes, too, but a slight movement to the side caught his attention.
It was Penstemon, crumbling something between his hands, blowing the dust away. A chill went down Arnold’s spine.
Runyon’s voice turned to a wordless howl that spiraled upward. His ghost drifted up, too, spinning, arms flailing as if he couldn’t get his balance. Everyone in the place was watching him, and Arnold glanced again at Penstemon to see if he was distracted enough for Arnold to slip him the whammy.
No go—the sorcerer finished crumbling whatever it was, dusted his hands, and signaled to Gaeline. She stepped in front of the camera and began giving the go-to-break spiel.
The dealer was counting up Hickok’s stack. She looked up at Arnold.
“Seventy-nine thousand.”
Arnold nodded and counted out the same from his own stack. She pushed it to Hickok along with Runyon’s chips. That hand had made Hickok the chip leader by a good hundred grand.
Arnold riffled a few of his remaining chips, pondering whether he should have folded. No, it had been a good call. What had happened was he’d let Runyon distract him, and Hickok had slipped in the winning hand without his noticing.
He sighed and stood up. No point in worrying about it. He had other fish to fry.
Penstemon was talking to a couple of people from the audience, looked like bigwigs, dark suits, no weird hair or extra appendages. Arnold gazed at him for a minute, then followed Weare over to chat with the girls.
“Tough luck, Arnold,” said Alma.
Arnold shrugged. “Win some, you lose some. Hiya, Joanie, how you doing? Care to come for a stroll with me? Protect me from the ravaging hordes?”
Joanie giggled, then stepped down and took his arm. Arnold strolled away, nodding over his shoulder to Weare and Alma. Weare looked suspicious.
Good, thought Arnold, bending down to whisper a comment in Joanie’s ear about the Rainbow Girls, a set of seven giggly teens in the audience, each wearing a different spectral color with their hair dyed to match. Joanie had mentioned them earlier in the day. Arnold hadn’t noticed them last night, and accused Joanie of making them up.
“I owe you a nickel,” he said now. “You were right.”
She smiled smugly. “Told you so.”
“You sure did. Hey, Joanie, how’d you like to help me play a trick on Penstemon?”
“Trick?”
“Yeah, just a joke, you know. Get him back a little for the cats.”
Joanie’s eyes narrowed. “What did you have in mind?”
“I got this smelly herb bundle here,” he said.
He made sure Penstemon wasn’t watching, then withdrew the charm from his pocket and placed it in her hand. He slid his hand back in his pocket and around the command stick.
“Just slip it in his pocket, OK? Give him a stink.”
“OK,” she said, nodding. Her eyes looked a little glazed.
“Don’t let him see you do it. Just sidle up close to him and drop it in when no one’s looking.”
“Yes.” She nodded again.
“Good girl. Keep it out of sight for now. You’re having a good time, right?”
She broke into a beaming smile. “Right.”
He got her a drink and a soda for himself at the cash bar set up in one corner of the ballroom. The other people in line there were chattering about Runyon’s wipeout. Arnold didn’t comment, just smiled and nodded to the ones who congratulated him.
“Let’s head back,” he said to Joanie. He wanted to do this before the cameras came on again.
“OK,” she said.
Too docile. He liked her better when she was shooting her yap off every other minute about some bit of historical trivia. Maybe he’d keep her around, dress her up, pamper her a little.
Trouble was, she was the honest type. She might think she had to rat on him, not that it would do any good. Once he got control, he knew how to keep it.
He guided her back to the stands, where Penstemon was still chatting with the bigwigs. He whispered in her ear, then leaned against the rail and watched her drift through the crowd, working her way toward Penstemon.
Arnold kept a tight grip on the stick in his pocket. He didn’t want to get too close, but he wasn’t sure about its range, so he took a few rambling steps that brought him closer to Joanie and Penstemon. He hoped to hell he hadn’t negated the charm by handing it to Joanie—should’ve asked about that, damn it, but now it was too late.
He sipped his soda, watching Joanie intently. She sidled nearer to Penstemon, nearer. Within arm’s reach now. Penstemon glanced up, saw her, smiled, and went back to his conversation. Arnold took another swig of his drink.
She had the thing in her hand, which she was holding at the small of her back while she chatted with a woman—he thought it was a woman from the shape—wrapped head to toe in bandages and wearing dark glasses. Penstemon couldn’t see what was Joanie’s hand, but others might. Arnold clamped his jaws shut on his impatience.
She edged nearer to Penstemon, not looking at him, just shuffling slightly sideways as she conversed. Almost close enough.
“Sweet little thing, isn’t she?”
Arnold’s heart skipped, but he managed to keep from jumping. Weare had come up beside him without his noticing. Bad—he’d have to pay more attention. That sort of thing could get you killed.
“Joanie? Sure,” he said, angling his body toward Weare’s while still watching her.
“You wouldn’t disappoint her now, would you?” Weare said.
“Not sure what you mean.”
Joanie was turning the herb bundle around in her hand. Hell, she better not drop it!
“I mean you wouldn’t be thinking of taking advantage. You’ve got a hungry way of looking at her, Arnold.”
Her hand slid down to her side. She was right next to Penstemon, facing slightly away.
Someone nearby laughed loudly, and for a second everyone paused to look. Joanie’s hand came up and dropped the bundle into Penstemon’s pocket. Arnold breathed a sigh of relief, then turned to face Weare.
“What do you take me for, some no-class two-bit loser? She’s a good kid, I won’t hurt her.”
Weare smiled and gave a nod, looking very regal in his fancy old-style cravat. “Very glad to hear it, old boy. You know, I had to ask. She’s my guest, in a way.”
“Sure, I understand.” Arnold flashed the shyster his best smile, then said, “Would you excuse me? Better freshen up before we get started again.”
Without waiting for an answer he stepped away, striding in the direction of the hallway. He stopped before he got there, though, and stood behind one of the cameras, presently dormant and unattended. From there he could see Penstemon clearly. Joanie had drifted away from him again and was now chatting with the Rainbow Girls.
Arnold finished his soda, got rid of the cup, and slid his hand into his pocket. Closing it around the stick, he spoke in a whisper.
“Check your watch.”
Penstemon stiffened for a moment, then looked at his watch. A flood of elation rushed through Arno
ld. He savored the triumph for just a few seconds, then spoke again.
“Say goodbye, then come over to the table.”
He watched Penstemon’s head bob, watched him shake hands with one guy, pat the other on a shoulder. The sorcerer turned around then and started for the poker table. His face wore a frown that seemed half confusion, half concentration.
He was trying to break the spell. Arnold’s heart gave a frightened thump, and he gripped the stick harder. He’d have to make this quick.
Strolling idly toward the table as Penstemon approached, Arnold smiled and nodded as if they were meeting casually. No one else was near, but just in case he still whispered.
“Walk over to that rack of lights with me.”
Penstemon moved stiffly beside him, eyes flashing anger. His lips were moving. Maybe he was trying to work a spell.
“Don’t talk,” Arnold told him hastily, and Penstemon stopped.
When they got to the light rack, Arnold positioned them so they were mostly hidden from view by the equipment. Penstemon’s frown had deepened.
“Show me the magic things you’ve got for us players, like the one you crumbled when Runyon lost.”
Penstemon put a hand in his pocket and drew out three small, roughly round objects that were gray and lumpy like papier mâché. Arnold’s blood went cold as he saw them. So fragile, so easily destroyed. They lay in the palm of the sorcerer’s hand like little eggs.
“Which one’s mine?” Arnold demanded.
Penstemon pointed to one and Arnold picked it up with his free hand. Step one, take away any power Penstemon had over him. He thought about telling Penstemon to crush the other two right then, but that would attract attention. He wanted to do this quietly.
“OK, do the magic to make my body permanent.”
Penstemon blinked, then slowly shook his head. Arnold cussed under his breath.
“Why not? You can talk to tell me.”
“I don’t have the things I need,” Penstemon said in a tight voice. “I have to do it in a power circle.”
“Shit. Where’s that, up in your suite?”
“Yes.”
“Crap.”
Arnold thought furiously, then glanced up at the big movie screens. They were playing his interview, and he was momentarily distracted by his own face large on the screen.
“OK, tell them to play another interview, then meet me out at the elevators. We’re going up to your suite.”
“I don’t think so,” drawled a low voice nearby.
Arnold jumped and turned. Hickok was standing there, holding his six-shooter aimed at Arnold’s heart.
~ Endgame ~
James held Rothstein at gunpoint, wondering what the hell to do next. There was magic going on, he could tell by the cold prickling of his flesh, and he didn’t know what to do about it. Somehow Rothstein was making Penstemon do things. From the look on the sorcerer’s face he wasn’t happy about it.
Penstemon started to walk away. James kept his gaze on Rothstein.
“Tell him to come back.”
“Come back,” Rothstein muttered, his dark eyes hard and angry.
“What are you doing to him?” James demanded.
Rothstein laughed then; a nasty laugh. “Go to hell!”
James had an urge to shoot him right then and there, but he resisted. “Take your hands out of your pockets. Show ‘em to me!” he insisted when the gangster hesitated. “And if you try to give any orders to Penstemon, I’ll blow you away.”
He’d heard Rothstein talking about the little paper balls Penstemon had, how there was one for each of the players and how Penstemon had crumbled Runyon’s. Just the thought of being that close to losing his body scared James silly. He pressed his left palm against his trousers to get the sweat off it.
Rothstein reluctantly took his hands out of his coat pockets. One was empty—he must have left his little paper ball in his pocket—but in the other he was holding a stick. James took a cautious step closer and held out his hand.
“Give it to me.”
A frown creased Rothstein’s brow. He didn’t move.
“One word and I’ll shoot, and if you don’t give me that stick in two seconds I’ll shoot anyway.”
“Give it to him, Arnold,” said a woman’s voice nearby. “The jig’s up.”
James was tempted to look, but he knew better than to take his eyes off Rothstein. The gangster looked, though, shifting his gaze to James’s right, and his face went white with shock.
“Carolyn!” he said in a stunned voice. “What are you doing here?”
The woman stepped into view, and James risked a glance at her. She was all gray—one of the ghosts. Dressed in clothes of an unfamiliar style that clung to her, with a perky little hat and a fur stole around her shoulders.
“Nicky told me about the game,” she said. “I’ve been watching with him and Meyer and a bunch of the others. All your old friends are here.”
Rothstein frowned. Looked right confounded, he did. James hoped to hell he’d listen to the woman and give up the stick.
“Come on, Arnold,” she said softly. “Play it out, huh? You know you can beat these guys.”
Rothstein swallowed, frowning. He inhaled, then several things happened at once: his hand tightened on the stick, his gaze shifted to Penstemon, and he opened his mouth.
James pulled the trigger.
The shot brought all the chatter in the ballroom to a stop, except for the interview that played on. Rothstein’s amplified voice rang out through the suddenly quiet room: “I prefer to be in control of my own fate.”
Someone screamed, but it wasn’t the ghost woman. She just shook her head, disappointed-like, and knelt beside Rothstein who was lying on the floor, back arched, bleeding as his mouth opened and closed, like a beached fish.
“Oh, Arnold,” she said, caressing his hair. “Not again.”
Shouting broke out and the crowd started to rush toward them. Penstemon dove for the little stick lying in Rothstein’s slack palm. When he had it, he shot a glance up at James, then reached for Rothstein’s coat, paying no mind to the blood that was everywhere.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” the sorcerer said to the ghost woman as he dug into Rothstein’s pocket. He brought out the little paper ball.
Holding it in one hand, he looked at Rothstein and said, “I release you.”
He crushed the ball, rolling it between his hands until it was dust. The crowd around gave a gasp as the magic started in. All the blood turned to little sparkling motes and drifted up toward the ceiling. The look of agony left Rothstein’s face, and as his body turned to dust and floated off, the gray ghost that remained gazed calmly into the ghost woman’s eyes.
“Carolyn,” he said again. “I missed you.”
She took his hand. “Well, I missed you, too, you know. I’ve been waiting for you.”
Rothstein sat up and looked around. His gazed hardened as it fell on James.
“Sorry,” James said, and he truly meant it. He’d never liked killing.
Rothstein stared hard at him for a long time, then broke into his dazzling smile. “Win some, you lose some,” he said.
The smile hadn’t got to his eyes. James knew he’d still have to watch out for this one. He was dead, but that didn’t mean he was gone.
Rothstein stood, brushed off his suit, and offered his arm to the ghost woman. She took it and strolled away with him. They rose up over the heads of the crowd, who began to applaud. James saw that the cameras were recording everything. He hadn’t noticed them come on.
As Rothstein disappeared into the ghost crowd, James took a last look around, then relaxed and holstered his gun. Penstemon was on his feet again, watching the gangster’s departure. He looked at James.
“Thank you.”
James pressed his lips together. “Sorry to disrupt everything.”
Penstemon shook his head. “You saved your own life, and Weare’s, and probably mine. I’m in your debt.”
&n
bsp; James shrugged. He didn’t feel like killing a man was something he ought to be thanked for.
“S’pose I ought to withdraw from the game. Killing a player’s against the rules, I figure.”
Penstemon shook his head, a small smile coming onto his face. “It was self-defense. And anyway, it’s my game, so I make the rules. Please finish it out, Mr. Hickok.”
“Yeah, finish the game, Bill!” hooted a voice nearby. James didn’t have to look up to know it was Calamity Jane.
The rest of the audience joined in, hooting and hollering and finally settling down to clapping in rhythm all together. Someone, probably Jane again, started yelling, “Wild Bill, Wild Bill,” over and over again.
James gazed at them all and wondered what the hell he’d ever done to warrant all this fuss. Let that writer fellow publish stories about him, he guessed was how it had started. It all grew from there, and from the damn fool way he’d got himself killed in Deadwood.
Penstemon was still standing beside him. James leaned toward him so as not to have to shout over the crowd.
“Who was that lady Rothstein went off with?”
“His wife, Carolyn,” answered the sorcerer.
James nodded. That made sense, then. “Seemed like a right good woman.”
He glanced up at the chanting crowd, let his gaze run along the ghostly ranks above, who were also chanting and clapping and hollering and making a general fuss. The lights up there by the ceiling glared back at him, making him squint, making him think of the circus. The room was like a circus tent, in a way. He could almost imagine a high wire up there, among all the lights and cables…
“I say, old chap. Shall we get on with it?”
Dressed in his fancy suit with the ruffles at the sleeves and the old-fashioned neckcloth, Weare looked the complete gentleman. James guessed he himself looked like more of a rapscallion. Weare stopped a couple of paces away and made an elaborate, sweeping bow. The crowd roared approval, then went back to chanting.
James stepped toward Weare and held out his hand. They shook, and James caught the glint in Weare’s eye along with the testing squeeze of his grip. The Englishman had by no means given up the show.
