Dead Man's Hand

by Otto Penzler

  "Me, too. But I can't prove a thing."

  "Well, it's a poker game, isn't it?"

  "So?"

  "Wanna run a bluff?"

  No one was happy when MacAullif and I came into the dining room to report. If anything, they seemed annoyed we were holding up their hand.

  "You needn't recapitulate," Judge Granville said. "I know what you're going to say. You've gone over our statements. None of them were particularly useful, but you feel you're making progress. Which is a euphemism for we-haven't-got-a-clue."

  "I wasn't going to say that," MacAullif assured him.

  "Oh? Why not?"

  "It isn't true. We're not making progress. We've made no progress at all."

  Judge Granville raised his eyebrows. "You have nothing?"

  "Give him a break, Judge," I protested. "You're the one who said he has nothing. You gonna knock him for agreeing with you?"

  "You're swapping words with us while there's a murderer sitting at our table," Adam Addington said irritably. "That is your contention, isn't it? That one of us killed him?"

  "Actually, he thinks Kevin did it," Judge Granville said ironically.

  All stared at me with the contempt which a person who professed so dubious an opinion deserved.

  I shrugged. "Well, wouldn't that be nice? Better him than you, right? Wouldn't you all like to be cleared?"

  Even Richard Rosenberg was having trouble swallowing that. "Stanley? Are you serious?"

  "I'm not ruling him in, and I'm not ruling him out. The problem is, as I'm sure you all heard, it looks like Seth was killed with a poisoned pretzel. And Kevin wasn't here to give it to him."

  "Isn't that rather convincing?" Judge Granville said dryly.

  "It's certainly a point in his favor. We're examining possibilities here. To narrow things down, I'd like to try a little experiment."

  Judge Granville frowned suspiciously. "What kind of experiment?"

  "Let's play some cards."

  The six men milled around the poker table. No one sat down. I got the feeling they couldn't quite believe they were there. Which was understandable. MacAullif had to move the crime-scene ribbon to let them in.

  "If you would please take your seats," I invited. "Your original seats, of course."

  "Are you going to reenact the crime?" Judge Granville's tone was mocking.

  "I would, but we don't have Seth."

  I sat in the dead man's seat. The players sat in theirs. MacAullif stood looking on.

  "Okay, let's get the chips off the table. Mr. Poole, you won, you take the pot."

  "Hey, wait a minute," Dan Kingston said. "What do you mean, he won?"

  "He had a flush," I explained. "Even if you hit, you wouldn't have beat him. And you didn't hit. Go on, Harvey, take die chips."

  The pharmacologist raked in the chips, stacked them up.

  "I'd love to pass around the basket of pretzels, but the cops snatched 'em up. Instead, I'm going to deal the cards."

  I picked up the deck, which was on the table in front of Beckman's seat.

  "Are you going to re-deal the last hand?" Judge Granville said.

  "I can't do that. I don't know what everyone had, or when they folded. I suppose I could have taken the time to work it out, but that would have been a lot of trouble. So let's do something else."

  "What?" Dan Kingston said. "What are you going to do?"

  "You ever have a deal-off at the end of the night? Everybody antes a couple of bucks, and you deal a hand of showdown to see who takes the last pot?"

  "Yeah. Sure. Why?"

  "I thought we'd deal a hand of showdown to see who killed Seth."

  Everyone stared at me incredulously.

  "Stanley," Richard said. "Have you lost your mind?"

  "No, but I'm low on options. And we need to get this settled. Let's play one hand of showdown for it. That's fair, isn't it? Everybody's got an equal chance. Okay, here we go."

  Before anyone could protest, I dealt out the cards faceup.

  "Nine for Richard Rosenberg, deuce for banker Driscoll, king for our gracious host, jack for the judge, six for accountant Dan Kingston, three for Mr. Poole, and an eight for the dealer."

  "Hey," Harvey Poole said. "You dealt yourself in."

  "Not me. I dealt Seth in. After all, he could have committed suicide."

  I wouldn't have thought their faces could have looked any more incredulous. I was wrong.

  "Okay," I said. "King is high. So far it's you, Mr. Addington."

  The billionaire in the torn T-shirt looked up at MacAullif. "Do we have to put up with this?"

  "No. I can take you all downtown and we can do everything by the book."

  The men thought that over.

  "Deal!" Addington snapped.

  I dealt another round. "Okay, ace for Richard, queen for the banker, king gets a nine—you're no longer high, Mr. Addington, ten for the judge, deuce for Mr. Kingston, nine for Mr. Poole, and the dealer gets a six."

  "Wait a minute," Benjamin Driscoll said. "Is this five-card or seven-card showdown?"

  The others stared at him. No one could believe he'd asked.

  "Seven-card." I answered with a straight face, as if it were a perfectly natural question. "That's what you were playing, wasn't it?"

  "You're certifiable," Addington said.

  "Maybe. But it's dealer's choice. And I'm the dealer. Here they come again, and, oh! Look! Judge Granville pulls into the lead with a pair of jacks. Is it possible, Your Honor, that you decided to mete out justice at the poker table?"

  The judge favored me with a superior smirk.

  "Here's a five for Mr. Kingston, and, ah, Mr. Poole, three hearts. Possible flush. And you had a flush when Seth Beckman died."

  "So what?"

  I held the deck up, didn't deal the next card. "Well, we have a bit of a problem here. I hate to speak ill of the dead, but apparently Seth Beckman was not a nice man. Everyone here had a motive to kill him. Some more than others."

  "Come on, deal," Driscoll said irritably. I understood his apprehension. His motive was better than most.

  "Yes," I agreed. "Let's see who improves. No apparent help, no apparent help, no apparent help, no help for the judge's jacks, no apparent help." I dealt Poole a spade. "Off the flush. And no help for the dealer. Jacks are still high."

  "Side pot on low," Dan Kingston quipped. He had four cards to a seven, an excellent low hand.

  I pointed at the cards in front of me. They were four to an eight, not quite as good a low, but competitive. "Seth might take you up on that. Too bad he's dead."

  I held the deck again, looked around. "See, here's the problem. How do you force the pretzel? You can't pick it up and hand it to him. The guy reaches in the basket. Takes a pretzel or two. How do you make sure he takes the right one?"

  "You can't," Richard Rosenberg said. "There's no way to do it. At least, none I know of."

  "How about it, guys? Anyone know how to force the pretzel?"

  There was no answer.

  This time it was Judge Granville who said, "Deal."

  I dealt the fifth round. "Here we are, and ... aces for Richard Rosenberg! Sorry about that. Try not to take it personally. Pair of queens for Mr. Driscoll. No help for our host. Oh! Jacks and sevens for the judge!" I dealt Dan Kingston a four, giving him ace, three, four, six, seven. "And a seven low made. You're in the wrong game. No help for the flush. And a ten-high for the dealer."

  Benjamin Driscoll threw his hands in the air. "I can't believe we're sitting here doing this!"

  "That pair of queens got you nervous? Relax. Rosenberg's got aces, and the judge has jacks up. Right now you're a long shot to win."

  I paused again. "So. We got someone who wants to give Seth Beckman a poisoned pretzel. How does he do that without being seen? Particularly during a big hand that Mr. Beckman is in, where everyone will be looking at him? No theories? Okay, let's see another card."

  I dealt the sixth card. "No help for the aces. No help for yo
ur queens, Mr. Driscoll. See, you were worried for nothing. No help for our gracious host. No help for the jacks and sevens. Low hand pairs the threes."

  "We're not playing low hand," the banker said irritably.

  I dealt a heart to Harvey Poole. "Ah. Back on the flush. And a pair of deuces for the decedent."

  I held the deck in my hand, looked around the table. "See, here's the thing. It's easy to poison a pretzel, next to impossible to guide it into the right hand. When you think along those lines, you're in trouble. Once you accept the assumption it couldn't be done, everything falls into place."

  They stared at me incredulously.

  "Okay, moment of truth. Big all-or-nothing card. So far the judge is in front with jacks up. Can Richard Rosenberg unseat him with aces up? No. No help for the aces. Mr. Driscoll ... no help for the queens."

  I swear the banker let out a sigh. "No help for Mr. Addington. No help for Judge Granville, but he's still high with jacks up."

  I dealt Dan Kingston a five. "The seven low improves to a six low." Dan also had three, four, five, she, seven. "Oh! Small straight!" Dan looked sick. As if the hand actually meant anything. "Judge, you're off the hook. Everyone's off the hook."

  I turned to Harvey Poole. "Except you. It all comes down to you, Mr. Poole. The four flush. You, who can hit a heart and win the whole thing. Just like you did when he died."

  Adam Addington frowned. "Hey. What are you saying? Are you saying Harvey did it?"

  "Well, let's think about that. The killer couldn't force the pretzel. Therefore the killer didn't know who he was going to kill; therefore the killer didn't care. The killer wanted to kill someone at the table. Not anyone in particular. Just anyone at all. Does that profile fit any of the suspects?"

  I turned the card over.

  Ace of spades.

  Busted flush.

  "And we have a winner! Dan Kingston, with a small straight. Dan Kingston, who doesn't quite play in the same league, but who'd like to. Who isn't a regular, and only gets called now and then. Who needs the connections and associations this game affords, but who can't network effectively unless he's playing every month. Who needs to knock out a player—any player—to create a seat. I have bad news, Mr. Addington. The killer is your tax accountant. I hope he finished your return."

  Dan's face had drained of color. "That's ridiculous. So I got a straight. It's just a stupid hand of cards."

  "That's not what proves you're guilty," I explained. "You left your fingerprints on the pretzel."

  "The hell I did!" Dan cried. "You can't get fingerprints from a pretzel! I—"

  Dan Kingston broke off in mid-sentence. He stared at me in horror. Then down at his cards. Then up again. He looked so crushed, I almost felt sorry for him.

  "No, you can't," I told him. "I was bluffing. But sometimes you can win with a bluff."

  MacAullif stepped forward and told Dan Kingston he had the right to remain silent. MacAullif needn't have bothered. The little accountant had nothing to say.

  "So," Judge Granville said, after MacAullif had hustled the suspect off to the hoosegow. "All that dealing showdown was just a distraction to get Dan confused so he'd blurt out an admission."

  "Yes, and no. I wanted to get him confused, but I also wanted to accuse him of the crime. That's why I stacked the deck to let him win. Did you see his face when he caught that five? I've never seen a gambler so unhappy to catch an inside straight."

  "How'd you know he did it? Please tell me there wasn't any fingerprint."

  "Of course not. That was a bluff."

  "So, how'd you know?"

  "Actually, you got me thinking in the right direction. When you suggested ironically that you killed him to make way for a more harmonious player. Ridiculous, of course. But not that far from the truth. What if someone knocked out a player to create a seat?"

  "That's absurd."

  "It's not absurd, it's pathetic. But understandable. Particularly when you see the guy. He's like a little kid looking through the window of a candy store, wanting to be invited to the grown-ups' table."

  "You're mixing metaphors."

  "Sue me."

  As if on cue, Richard Rosenberg said, "Come on, guys, don't give him a hard time. After all, he solved the murder."

  The others mumbled their thanks. Considering the circumstance, I couldn't help noticing a decided lack of enthusiasm.

  "I don't expect you guys to be grateful, or anything, but you don't look all that happy."

  "Well," Harvey Poole said. "You gotta remember. We're playing with she people, what with Seth getting killed. With Dan arrested, we're down to five. That's not such a good game."

  Talk about obsessive. Of course, I could understand it. I've played poker myself.

  "You're playing quarter-half?"

  "Yeah."

  I pulled out my wallet. "Deal me in."

  Poker and Shooter

  Sue DeNymme

  Poker and Shooter is an underground game played at a private New England high school where a self-appointed senior Master or Mistress invites victimized students to join "The Secret Circle" in order to avenge them. Using free tequila and a poker kitty as bait, the senior lures the victim's unknowing offender into a pre-game of Truth or Dare where the offender either reveals a shameful secret or commits an illegal act (to be videotaped for the option of blackmail later). Then the poker game begins and drinking rules apply. (Loser always takes a shot; dealer can take a shot or not; and the Master/Mistress may randomly call shots, like it or not.) To make the game appear fair, new members are tricked into winning five hands of five-card stud. The ultimate prize is vengeance.

  Night filled the boathouse, smudging the space into black except for the candle flames and what they struggled to illuminate around the three remaining classmates: the twins and Sharon, their third initiate. In spite of their limited experience with the game, Daphne and her brother Piper had already begun to crave the intoxicating feeling of superiority it provided.

  Daphne leaned into the center of the table where the candles glowed so she could check her Rolex: three-thirty. Five-card stud had taken longer than planned. "Piper?" She nodded at the Cuervo Gold tequila bottle that gleamed in the space between them. "Victory toast." Her twin knew what she meant: time to punish the evil one.

  Her brother picked himself up and smiled with a nod before reciting softly: '"The birds pour forth their souls in notes / Of rapture from a thousand throats.' William Wordsworth." As he reached to pour out the Gold, the veins bulged in his arms in the same shade of blue as the sheen on his buzz cut. Overnight, his skin had paled as the whites of his eyes brightened with red. Stubble had sprouted to camouflage his fatigue, and it all worked toward his ultimate goal of keeping people away from them by disguising their family wealth.

  Openmouthed, Sharon squinted at Daphne's brother. "What birds? What are you talking about?" She had to be the dumbest sophomore they had ever met: suspended twice for cheating within six months, and ugly, too. Her awful teeth, honking nose, and fur-ball hair made her look like a yak. She moved her eyes back and forth as if she were seeing two heads on his neck.

  "Just ignore him." Daphne pocketed the trick deck and snapped her fingers. "Circle, please." It was too late for the twins to be awake, still playing and overcharged with adrenaline. The sounds of the creaking boathouse were intensifying everyone's paranoia. Each of them, wired and clammy as gravediggers in the dew, had mentioned the pylons that groaned beneath the floorboards, but Daphne had reassured them that the structure had only been erected a year before and was thus totally sound. Still, Daphne found herself grimacing in hope that the planks wouldn't cave as she took Piper's and Sharon's hands and said, "Repeat after me, Sharon. I hereby renew my vow never to tell a soul of anything occurring here tonight."

  Sharon nodded, stumbled forward a bit, and little flames shone in her eyes as she righted herself, slurring the pledge.

  "Sharon," Daphne beamed, proud of her superior liquor tolerance, "from this day
forward, you are bound by blood to the Secret Circle. Together we will help you pursue happiness and the welfare of our Circle, and it all starts with the spoils of your victory here tonight." She winked at her brother and raised her glass, smug in her authority. "Congratulations, Sharon."

  Piper's diesel-colored eyes and the sweat on his Adam's apple reflected the flickering light as he said, "Go, Poker and Shooter!" It sounded like a sports chant.

  Beneath the A-frame ceiling of the school boathouse, the three clinked their glasses as they reached into the pyramid of darkness. As Daphne toasted, she gritted her teeth, trying to make the smile look real even though she loathed herself for doing it since that was why her veneers kept chipping, and cracking a tooth meant begging her dad to pay the bill and enduring the humiliation of his power games again. The thought surged inside, shorting the buzz she'd worked so hard to get. Eyeing the glass in her hand, she assured herself that the next shot would anoint her again with that baptismal burn, restoring that sublime sensation of having swallowed the sky.

  They drank and winced, then opened their mouths and breathed together like fish.

  Smiling, Sharon jogged her shoulders like a kid. "I can't believe I won," she said. "I always lose at poker." Sitting on the edge of her stool, she scooped the betting money into her purse, displaying the letters on her knuckles that spelled out Cornell. It was an open tribute to him, the love of her life, the boy Christina had taken away. Nodding slowly, she unwrapped a piece of gum, popped it between her yellow teeth, and chomped. "So, what about Christina? It's an eye for an eye, right? You're not really going to help that backstabber win Homecoming Queen, are you?"

  Sharon had no idea they'd been reading her cards, fixing the game for her to win, and Daphne was not about to break the spell. Daphne got off on rigging the cards and tricking the other kids into loyalty. "Of course not." A malicious titter escaped Daphne's lips. When they'd rowed up the river to the campus, the fog had frizzed Sharon's copper curls into sections that snaked out like the snapping hair of Medusa, chief of the Gorgons, whose face was so ugly it would turn men to stone if they looked at her, and right now Sharon seemed to be having a similar effect on Daphne. In fact, she hadn't noticed it earlier, but the blind space above felt oppressive. That and the creaking of the pylons made Daphne nervous.