Devil's Hand

by M. E. Patterson

  Trent turned the bike onto The Strip and headed south toward Sands Avenue. Jack had a small casino–The Inferno–near the corner of Sands and Paradise, a quieter, off-Strip location surrounded by ordinary businesses and low-rent apartments.

  As the bike wheeled slow through the weather-stalled traffic, Trent gawked at the chaos. A few casino employees on break in front of the MGM Grand were pelting each other with snowballs, using the bridge that arced over the boulevard as an ersatz fort. The police had a group of looters up against the side of the neon-encrusted Walgreens, guns pointed at them while bags of merchandise and piles of broken glass sat quietly on the sidewalk in front of the closed store. The Bellagio fountains had already frozen over, and the big pool looked like an ice skating rink. The insipid Sirens show at Treasure Island had closed (thank God, Trent thought, with a grin) and the pirate ship rested silently in its frozen basin below the faux bombed-out Spanish building. The two neon N’s on The Wynn had been knocked out, and now the sign simply asked, in fancy cursive neon, ‘Wy.’ Street preachers in front of The Venetian bore signs that read ‘Jesus is coming!’ and ‘The End is Near.’ Trent thought about how he used to believe the street preachers were crazy. Now he wasn’t so sure.

  He steered the Ducati down Sands Avenue, then into an alley a few blocks down that ran behind a number of the off-Strip casinos and thinly veiled brothels masquerading as nightclubs. He stopped next to a steel back door on a raised loading dock. It was normally used for loading casino profits into armored cars, but Trent knew that Jack also encouraged his more secretive clientele to come in through the back. Trent had been through that same door many times.

  He and Celia walked up the platform steps and were met at the door by a pair of large guards, both wearing handguns.

  “Who are you?” one of the guys asked.

  “Trent Hawkins.” He added, “To see Jack.”

  The bigger of the two, who hadn’t yet spoken, cocked his head slightly and pressed a finger to a black ear bud.

  “Okay, Jack is cool,” he intoned in a rumbling bass.

  The smaller guard reached back and opened the door without ever taking his eyes off Trent and Celia. “In.”

  They did as commanded, but before they could make their way inside, the smaller guard reached out and blocked Trent’s passage with an arm.

  “Armed?”

  Trent remembered the Desert Eagle in the back of his waistband. He frowned, drew the weapon and handed it to the guard. The big man smiled and then let him pass.

  The back entrance led first into a small hallway that bordered a kitchen on one side and a conference room on the other. The kind of conferences held there were usually of the breaking-bones variety. Trent had had one conference there. It was the last time he had seen Jack Mars.

  He put a hand on Celia’s shoulder as he led her down the hallway, past the conference room. The guard followed close. It made Trent feel a tiny bit better to note that Celia had tucked The Book discreetly into her new jacket.

  The less time she spent staring at the thing, the better, he thought. I’ll have to take it away from her next time I get a chance.

  They walked into the kitchen. It was pretty standard as kitchens go and had a special card table set up in the back. Jack Mars had come from the city’s seedy underworld and made it his business to cater to the same. Though the bulk of the Inferno casino was on the up-and-up, this back-kitchen table was reserved for one thing and one thing only: high-stakes poker between people who had a lot of money that they were not supposed to have.

  Jack sat on the table, his feet dangling over the edge. He waited alone, sitting casually on the edge of the felt. The kitchen was otherwise empty.

  “Well, look who’s here?” Jack had a shit-eating grin on his face. “Come back for more, Trent?”

  Jack was middle-aged, only a few years older than Trent. His hair, though, had gone white at an early age and was pretty thin in the front. He had a slight paunch, but was otherwise impeccably dressed in an open-collar blue dress shirt, black pinstripe sport jacket and black slacks. A pair of small round glasses perched precariously atop his nose, as though they had climbed up there of their own accord and then refused to leave.

  Trent pushed Celia in front of him. He wanted to make sure Jack could see her. He wagered that Celia would be enough shield for the both of them.

  “No trouble, Jack. Not in front of the kid.”

  “Abandoned your wife for someone younger, huh? That’s not so legal, but I don’t judge.”

  Trent seethed at Susan’s mention, but held back his fury. He lied, “She’s my niece. Celia.”

  “Nice to meet you, kid.” Jack nodded and smiled disingenuously.

  “So tell me, Trent. Why would you and your niece come willingly to a man like me? Didn’t I say I’d kill you if I ever saw you again?”

  “You called me, Jack.” Trent shrugged. “Do you have some answers or what? How can we get out of here?” Trent glared at him.

  Jack laughed. “I hear you’re in some sort of trouble with the law. What did you do, Trent? Exactly who are you running from, besides the cops? Not me, apparently.”

  “I’m betting you already know.”

  Jack wagged a finger in caution. “No, no! No more betting between you and I.” He grinned. “Besides, this is a legitimate business. I can’t just have kidnappers and perverts hanging around. At least not the ones who’ve gotten on the wrong side of Johnny Law. Metro don’t like me and I don’t like them.”

  He winked at Celia.

  “If you just called me here to harass me, I’ve got far worse things I can go deal with out there.” Trent gestured toward the door.

  Jack pretended to think and stared again at the ceiling, though Trent could tell that his mind was already decided. Instead of answering, he pulled a phone from his suit pocket and put it to his ear.

  “Seems I have Mr. Trent Hawkins here.” He shot Trent a wink. “Would you finally like to meet him at the table?” A few seconds of quiet, and then Jack hung up.

  “Looks like you have a choice to make, Trent. You can play a friendly game of poker, and maybe learn a few things.” He patted the table he was sitting on. “Or you can hit the streets and hope the cops don’t find you and your lovely niece. Don’t worry, I probably wouldn’t tell them I saw you, at least not right away.”

  It had been years since Trent had played a poker game. He had sworn off gambling after the Gaming Control Board trashed him. The Inferno had been the last place to kick him to the curb, and he had left owing Jack Mars a large sum of money, though not because of any losses. Trent had never lost, and that was exactly the problem.

  But, on the other hand, he decided, if Jack had some unique info–which he tended to have–then Trent wanted to know. Anything to find a solution to his current troubles. Something told him that Jack Mars wore more faces than the fake one he was fond of winking with. Trent reached for his wallet and then realized with dismay that he had left it at the apartment early that morning.

  “Don’t have any cash. I couldn’t even make the first blind,” he said.

  The guard reached past Trent and Celia and handed the Desert Eagle to Jack. Jack eyed it with an admiring smile.

  “My, this trouble you’re in is serious, isn’t it? I thought you used to say that you didn’t need a gun for protection? How did you put it? ‘I’m too lucky for guns.’ Something like that, right?”

  “Something like that,” Trent mumbled.

  It embarrassed him that he’d been so cocky. The statement had been true back then. A couple of nasty run-ins during his casino days where he should have been shot, but wasn’t. His luck had saved his life on more than one occasion. But things had apparently changed.

  Jack twirled the handgun by the trigger guard. “Maybe the gun’s worth something, then. At least enough to get you into the first hand. With your luck–” Jack spit the word out like it tasted bad. “–I don’t imagine you’ll need much more starting cash than that.” />
  Trent weighed his options. He could agree to the game and get at least a few hours of security for Celia and himself, or he could turn it down and head back out into the streets.

  “Jack,” he said finally. “No one gets in here without you knowing, right? You promise we’ll be safe tonight if I play in your game?”

  Jack nodded. “I suppose I should warn you, though.” His grin turned devious. “You’ll be playing against some very interesting opponents.” He chuckled and added, “I’ll treat you right. Bygones and all. On account of my good nature.” He grinned at Celia lasciviously. “You don’t even have to win tonight. As long as you play a good game, I promise no harm will come to you. Just give our honored guests your best game.”

  “Fine.”

  Trent had grown wary of Jack’s sudden accommodating attitude, but they had no better offer.

  One of the bouncers crept up and tapped Jack on the shoulder. He whispered something in Jack’s ear and then gestured a meaty thumb toward the front of the casino. Trent could have sworn he heard the bouncer say the word ‘blond,’ but kept his mouth shut.

  Jack frowned. “I have a pair of irritations to deal with,” he said. “Game starts in one hour, when the others get here. Help yourself to anything in the kitchen.” He made a sweeping gesture, then hopped off the table and headed for the front of the casino.

  Trent watched him go and scowled. Celia saw it and spoke up for the first time since they had arrived.

  “I don’t like him.” Her voice quivered.

  Trent sighed. “Neither do I,” he replied. “You’ll just have to trust me here. Come on, let’s get you some food.”

  They wandered around the kitchen for a few minutes, looking for anything edible. Jack had known there wasn’t much here and knew they wouldn’t dare venture out into the main part of the casino. There were often cops hanging around, undercover.

  The Inferno had been connected to dozens of crimes, big and small, though none of those tenuous connections ever panned out. The cops liked to keep a presence near the casino at all times, just in case. Trent just hoped that Jack would keep his word and not sell them out.

  In a small freezer they found an unopened plastic bag full of frozen, pre-cooked shrimp. He hauled it out, brushed off some of the ice, and stared at it in dismay. Celia grabbed it out of his hand and tore the bag open. Trent had not realized how hungry she was.

  “Don’t you want those heated up or something?”

  “I’ve never had shrimp before,” she mumbled, stuffing two in her mouth. “They’re good cold.”

  “You’ve never had shrimp?”

  “No,” Celia replied, in between handfuls of the pink crustaceans. “Doctors were worried about my allergies. Just in case.”

  Trent’s mind drifted to thoughts of Susan. He remembered holding her slim hand in the hospital, remembered finding out for the first time that they couldn’t have children due to the experimental allergy drugs, remembered her smile when she awoke from the hospital painkillers, remembered her trembling body as she came down from the adrenaline shots. The memories flooded in and Trent forced himself to fight back tears.

  “What are you allergic to?” he asked, trying hard to force his mind away from Susan.

  Celia had already eaten three handfuls of shrimp and said, with mouth full, “Just the water thing. Something about cell counts.”

  “Water?”

  “Yeah, makes my skin itch and my throat close up,” she explained. “Sometimes worse, like last night.” She frowned.

  Trent nodded. So many strange things had happened in one day, but already certain ones were starting to add up in his mind. Salvatore’s powers. Celia’s allergy. Snow in Las Vegas. All of it water.

  Celia finished gorging herself on shrimp and set the bag aside.

  Trent marveled at how many she had already eaten. “You really tore through that bag.”

  “Sorry.”

  “No, it’s fine. You’re hungry. Eat all you want.”

  “Why does that guy Jack want to kill you?”

  Trent sighed, “Long story.”

  Celia gave him a we’ve-got-all-night look.

  “Yeah, so you know about my luck right?”

  “I saw one of the TV specials about you. It was called– umm– the Undying Gambler. I think that’s right...”

  Trent had expected that, but still frowned. He remembered the nickname as the title of a made-for-TV special about him. It was one of the more famous ones, more for its ridiculousness than for its adherence to fact. For weeks after the plane crash, he had been a news headline–the only survivor of Flight 2778. For months after, a piece of nostalgia. He had even made it into mass-market trivia games.

  “Yeah, that was me, I guess.”

  “You guess?”

  “Well yeah, that show was based on me, but it was really stupid.”

  Celia shrugged. “My Mom watched everything about you. That crash really sucked. But then you were famous, so that was cool, right?”

  Trent shook his head. “I just wanted everyone to leave me alone.”

  “Yeah?” Celia frowned. “I think being famous would be cool. So why does Jack want to kill you?”

  “Oh, well I’m sure the show highlighted my gambling career, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Jack was my last stop. Last game. Lots of big stakes international players. He wanted me to throw the game, turn my back and let this one asshole win. Man, I hated that guy...”

  “So you won it anyway, just to piss him off?”

  “Actually, I tried to throw it. I knew what Jack would do to me if I didn’t. I had a terrible hand, so I bet a bunch of money on first street, then tried to fold before the flop. The big asshole got all pissed, wanted me to stay in. I could tell Jack wanted me to stay in, too. Guy didn’t want to win on a fold. He wanted to beat me with his hand.”

  “What hand did you have?”

  “You know Texas Hold ‘Em?”

  “I go to public school in Las Vegas.”

  Trent chuckled. “Okay, I had a seven-three off-suit.”

  Celia wrinkled up her face in disgust. It was the cutest expression Trent had seen her make all day. “That is a bad hand.”

  “Yeah, so to make everybody happy I had to go all-in. Something like twenty million.”

  “Whoa!”

  “Yeah. High stakes.”

  Trent paused and looked at the ceiling for a second, as if waiting for Heaven to deliver him from the rest of his bad memories.

  “Anyway, Asshole went all-in too and the cards were turned over. Now, the funny thing is, I had known he had a better hand than three-seven. That’s why I was trying to fold before the flop.”

  Celia was on the edge of the table with excitement. “So what did he put down?”

  “Pocket aces.”

  “Oh, man!”

  “Like I said, it wasn’t hard to guess he had something good. It was written all over his face. So the dealer announces both hands and Asshole makes a big show of his, waving his arms to pump up the crowd that had gathered around the table. Serious show-boating.”

  “I bet you were pissed.”

  “Yeah. I had a lot of pride in my game. I was okay with a loss, but not a three-seven against pocket aces. That just made me look like a damn rookie.”

  “So let me guess, you got all sevens on the flop, right?”

  Trent laughed. “No, that would have been interesting. But I think what happened was even worse. Dealer starts turning over cards. The flop comes out three-spades, six-diamonds, and I think there was a ten or something.”

  “So, Asshole–”

  Trent frowned at her.

  “Sorry.” She rolled her eyes. “The ‘big mean nasty guy’– that better?” She grinned at him.

  Trent smiled.

  She continued, “So the guy has pocket aces and you’ve only got a pair of threes?”

  “Yeah. Dealer turns over fourth street and gets another ace, spades I think. Assho
le wasn’t even nervous. I had a low pair against his three aces. He was already shaking hands and dancing around the room like an idiot. That’s when the dealer went to turn over the last card.

  “I had a pair of threes and a useless seven in my hand. But before the dealer can turn fifth street, there’s this huge bang and a casino spotlight drops onto the table, totally out of nowhere, lands right on my cards. Chips scatter all over the place. The whole room goes nuts. Jack Mars tries to declare a re-do but the Asshole won’t have it. He wants to win with his pocket aces. Jack asks him if he’s sure, but the guy insists.”

  Celia’s eyes went wide.

  “Strangest thing. I’m sitting there in my chair, knowing I should lose this hand, lose the game, knowing Jack will do something terrible if I win, but all I could think of was Susan. Some part of me wanted to win, wanted to take this hand, to show Asshole up and walk home with enough money to retire, to give Susan the life she really wanted, just us and a nice house somewhere...” Trent stared at the cold walls of the old kitchen, quiet for a moment.

  “Anyway,” he said, “I could have sworn I had a three-seven in my hand, but when they lift up the spotlight, there’s a three-six sitting on the table.”

  Celia’s mouth dropped open. “So you had two-pair, not one. Pair of threes and a pair of sixes!”

  “Yeah, but still doesn’t beat three aces–”

  “But there’s fifth street! The dealer hasn’t turned it over yet, right?”

  Seeing the excitement on the teenager’s face made Trent feel better, somehow.

  “Exactly. Except Jack tries again to declare a re-do when everyone sees the six. But Asshole won’t have it. He still sees three-aces against a low two-pair and is dying to take down the ‘unbeatable gambler.’ Everyone quiets back down, the dealer turns fifth street, and–”