by P. N. Elrod
“Another hand,” said Fogelson, decisively. “You want a chance to win that pot back, don’t you, Wollmuth?”
“Oh, yes, I guess I do. My luck’s been pretty good tonight. You know, I think using money over matchsticks has done the trick. Let’s give that old card player something to see.”
“If you’re sure…”
I returned, fired up and ready to go, and put a few tens on the table. “Absolutely!”
It took some doing, but they built the pot up. I won more than lost, and the wins got smaller while the less frequent losses got larger. Apparently unaware of this, I worked at keeping Sawyer distracted by observations about the temperature and strange movement of shadows. Fogelson held things together, seeing to it I got the right cards at the right time for the right stakes. I hardly needed to play at all but made an effort.
At some point I got hold of the second joker without them noticing and held it safe in my palm next to its brother.
Around two in the morning they’d gotten set up for the kill. The pot was over a thousand dollars, half of it had begun the evening safe in my pocket. The rest was their investment in the game.
I checked my hand, and it was a damned good one. Fogelson had dealt me another full house: three queens and two jacks. They looked very cozy together. Sawyer probably had another straight flush, but four of a kind would do just as well to clean me out.
As expected, I bet everything I had. Sawyer matched it; Fogelson had folded his hand with regret, but didn’t look nervous.
When it came time to show our cards I’d swapped the jacks for the wild cards and presented five of a kind, my queens beating Sawyer’s straight flush of spades.
The grifters froze. I took the opportunity to shuffle the cash together. “My gosh—that was some game. I’m glad you explained wild cards to me. I was temped to throw them back.” I did my best to sound like a cheerful fool.
Sawyer cut a murderous look at Fogelson, who gave the smallest head shake. He’d not been careless with the deal; something was wrong. By the time their attention swung back to me I had the cash in a neat, easy-to-grab stack.
“Wollmuth. . .I think you’ve been less than square with us,” Fogelson sounded dangerous.
I pretended shock. “Really? In what way?”
They stood at the same time, looming over me. “You know why.”
“Gentlemen, I have played this game just as square with you as you have with me.” I managed to deliver that one absolutely deadpan.
The grifters were not appreciative of my acting ability. Two to one, they’d be dirty fighters, and hadn’t I given them the idea of throwing another gambler off the train?
“One more game,” said Fogelson. “Cut for high card. Give us a chance to recoup a little.”
“Tomorrow,” I said firmly. “This has been the pip, but I’m awful tired now—”
He slammed the table with the side of his fist. “Cut for high card.”
I grinned, closing my fingers tight around the wad of cash, and raised the bait up to eye level. They tensed, ready to pounce as soon as I tried something stupid.
Instead, I vanished. Like switching off a light.
Dead silence.
“The hell. . . ?” said Fogelson.
I wrapped my non-corporeal self around the more vulnerable Sawyer. In this state I’m a cold portent of the grave, and have been told that it’s remarkably unpleasant. He yelped, twitched, and backed away, cursing in a high, strained voice.
“What’s the matter?” Fogelson demanded.
“It’s him. He’s the ghost. He’s on me!” There was a fine panic to Sawyer’s tone.
Fogelson didn’t have a comment for that. As he might be feeling left out, I floated over to wrap around him. He didn’t move. “This is shit,” he concluded. “This is shit!”
“He’s a ghost, dammit!”
“He tricked us. There’s no ghost. It’s a trick.”
If he didn’t believe in ghosts, then it was a good bet he’d not think of other night-walking creatures like vampires. Reassuring.
I slipped away and went solid, crouching out of sight behind the bar, money still in hand. I shoved it safely into a pocket and looked around for something noisy to throw. Nearly everything was breakable glass, then I found a bunch of steel cocktail shakers.
Good enough.
I sent three hurtling in the grifters’ general direction and at least one connected. Sawyer squawked and broke for the door leading to the next car.
Getting there ahead of him, I went solid.
He rocked back on his heels just a hair short of collision, registering shock, then anger. He swung hard, but I shifted to semi-transparent, and his fist went right through.
Solid again, I shoved him, sending him stumbling into Fogelson.
By the time they recovered, I’d vanished and got behind them. Solid, another shove sent Fogelson to the floor along with a few chairs.
To give the man credit, he knew how to keep his head, whatever the circumstance. He hauled a gun from his pocket, a little twenty-two revolver. Nothing much, but I didn’t want shooting.
I darted in, unnaturally fast, and snagged it.
He rolled and tried to tackle me, but I faded to near-transparency and rose toward the ceiling.
Sawyer didn’t seem to be armed, but then he was too busy gaping to move.
Twisting in the air, I floated feet first toward the door, glaring down at them. It had to look impressive; when I righted myself and touched down solid they were frozen.
“No call for violence when you play a square game—I should know,” I said, holding the revolver up. “It was a couple of sharps just like you who killed me in the first place.”
“Killed you?” Sawyer’s whisper was almost too soft to hear.
“You know who I am. I told you about my untimely death.” I opened the revolver and let the bullets tumble from the cylinder.
The last gun on which I’d tried this party trick had been larger; this model was no effort at all. I grabbed the cylinder and frame and twisted until they snapped apart.
Fogelson went green.
“You boys stay off my train from now on,” I said. “Got that?”
Sawyer nodded.
I lowered my tone to a sinister whisper. “Or the next time we play cards it will be for your souls!”
Corny, but the shadowy darkness made it work. Maybe I’d never been on stage, but knew a good exit line. I dropped the broken revolver pieces and rushed toward the grifters, vanishing just before impact. They got another chance to experience of my special kind of cold.
Sawyer and Fogelson’s departure was hasty. Too bad I couldn’t see it; it sounded hilarious with the stumbling, jostling, crashing furniture, and curses.
The door slammed shut.
Counting to thirty, I re-formed and looked around. Nobody here but one amused vampire.
I cleaned up the mess, including the bullets, set chairs right again, and sank into one. Between the concentration required for the card play and the invisible acrobatics I wanted a rest.
What a great way to waste an evening.
Okay, not waste. Counting the money, I was five hundred and ten bucks richer. I’d earned it.
I got my magazine out. Dawn was still hours off, and I wanted to see how The Shadow handled crime in his neck of the woods.
* * * * * * *
__________
KING OF SHREDS AND PATCHES
Author’s Note: I was asked to write something for Martin Greenberg’s ROTTEN RELATIONS for DAW and immediately thought of Shakespeare’s Hamlet as prime material to use. That family had everything: murder, incest, madness, and at least one ghost roaming the castle. Talk about putting the “fun” in dysfunctional! But what if Young Hamlet had it wrong and his Uncle Claudius was NOT the one who bumped off King Hamlet. . . ?
Elsinor Castle, Denmark
Here do I set down for posterity, a true and exact record of the misfortunes that have lately beleaguered th
e court of Denmark. Whoever finds this, I ask and pray that you hold all knowledge of it from my beloved Queen Gertrude should I predecease her.
-- Claudius Rex --
The death of my brother, King Hamlet, could not have come at a worse time for Denmark.
I was in my chambers, setting to paper a detailed recounting of all that I saw and heard in Norway while acting as his ambassador there when the news of the calamity was brought to me.
Rather than a soft knock from one of Elsinore’s countless pages, I was startled from my task by heavy pounding from a hasty fist. It occurred to me that my fears of an invasion from Norway were about to be fulfilled. I threw down my quill and, being alone, unlatched the door myself and pulled it wide, interrupting a second assault. Old Polonius stood without.
“What is amiss, sir?” I demanded, for obviously something of great import was wrong. His face was as white as his beard except for two red spots high on his cheeks from recent exertion. His breath came hoarse and hard. I’d ever known him as a man well able to keep control of his emotions, now he was positively tottering from inner turmoil. I took his trembling hand and led him inside. “Is it war?”
“W-war, your lordship?” He gave me so blank a look that he might have been struck by one of those strange convulsions that takes a man’s mind away. “There is no war.”
“Then speak, what is amiss?”
His lips quivered and overcome by whatever troubled him, he bowed his head and groaned. I glanced at the open doorway, but none were with him who might inform me of the nature of this trouble. That was odd. He usually had no less than two pages in tow the whole of the day to run his errands. I looked down both ends of the hall, but all was quiet in this part of the castle. From one of my windows I ascertained the courtyard below was also peaceful. It was the end of the hot part of the afternoon, and those who had no duties would take rest while they could.
In a firm tone I charged Polonius to explain himself. That seemed to break through, and he slowly raised his head. His eyes streamed tears, and without knowing the matter, I felt a kindred ill-omened leadening of my heart.
“Speak, sir,” I whispered.
“Oh, good lord Claudius, your royal brother is dead.”
Let God Himself be my witness, I almost laughed, for it was clear the dear old man had lost his wits and was ranting. “Impossible. I saw him take his walk upon the upper platform this morning as always. He waved greeting to me and I to him.”
But Polonius shook his head again, as though to dislodge a stubborn fly. “Would that I were a liar, your lordship, but he is dead and gone and nothing can change that or bring him back to us.”
I still could not take it in. “How comes this? Was it a fall?” Elsinore was full of stairs, many very steep.
“A fall? No, he was asleep in his orchard. He lies there still.”
“What? Have you sent for a priest?” He blanched even more, and I knew that he had not. If there was the least breath of life remaining, then my brother must give his last confession lest his soul needlessly suffer. Perhaps Polonius was wrong. His sight was dim now with age, and though wise in statecraft, he was often wrong in more mundane matters—not that the death of a king could be considered as such.
“Lord Claudius, King Hamlet is dead. For hours, perhaps.”
“And no one sent for help or told me until now?”
“As soon as I saw for myself, I came straight from there to you—wait, sir! There is more!”
But I was striding swiftly away. I loved Polonius like a second father—he had taught me much of the wisdom of his craft that I could better serve my brother and thus Denmark as ambassador—but could not wait upon him. Impatience and fear engulfed me. Grief, too, though I pushed that roughly from my heart. I could not and would not believe it; Hamlet could not, must not be dead.
Those inhabitants of Elsinore I passed to reach my brother’s apartments continued their normal business with the peace of ignorance. Apparently Polonius spoke the truth about seeing me first, and word had not yet spread. Only when I descended several flights and entered the arched hall leading to Hamlet’s private orchard did I perceive signs of trouble. Six guardsmen stood clustered before the orchard door. As a man, they had their swords ready in hand, tardily prepared to defend their royal master, but against what? Death? When his bony hand falls upon your shoulder, what mortal army can turn his purpose?
“Let me pass,” I said.
The tallest, Francisco, planted himself in my way. “I beg forgiveness, Lord Claudius, but Lord Polonius ordered that we arm and keep all from the enclosure until his return.”
My flare of anger was reflected in their frightened faces. “Even the king’s brother?”
“Even so, lord.” He looked to be highly unhappy with his lot. “I will send a man to fetch him here, though.”
I could have bullied my way in, but chose to hold back. If it was true, if my dear brother was dead, then it would be best to follow the forms of custom and wait. “Do that. And quickly. He was last in my chambers.”
Francisco nodded shortly to the youngest in his charge, who sheathed his weapon and hurried off.
“Do you know aught of what has happened?” I asked.
“Only that at the telling of the last hour Lord Polonius went to rouse his majesty from his sleep as usual. I was on watch. His lordship came out, seeming most stricken. He told me to bring more men, and when I did he then instructed us to stand firm and let none inside.”
That made sense. The unexpected death of a much-loved king was bad enough, but letting the news fly forth without consideration for its effect on the common people could cause disorder. Polonius was well aware of the impending threat from Norway; the last thing Denmark needed was to be thrown into chaos and thus be seen as vulnerable by the rapacious Fortinbras.
“You did well,” I said. “We’ll wait for the lord chamberlain’s return.”
“Lord? Do you know what is wrong?” Behind him, his men cast uneasy glances at the closed door to the orchard, ominous in shadows. They would be guessing the worst, of course. In light of Polonius’s odd actions and orders, of me here at this time of day, of the king not showing himself, they would guess rightly. If the worst were true, then this would have to be handled with great care.
“Be at peace, all will be revealed soon.”
That did little to bolster them, quite the opposite. I curbed my impatience as best I could until Polonius arrived, short-winded and troubled. He must have known his orders would have gone ill with me, but I put a reassuring hand on his arm to let him know I was not offended. He had done the right thing.
“Stand down,” he puffed at Francisco, “and let Lord Claudius pass.”
One of them thrust open the door and the yellow light of late afternoon flooded the dim hall. I blinked against the glare and stepped into it, looking around. There was a strong scent of apple blossoms on the sea-washed air. This was my brother’s sanctuary from the cares of his crown. Few were allowed here: myself, his queen, their son, Polonius, and a gardener whose only job was to tend this great garden. He worked alone and was always gone when Hamlet desired its peace. Ever busy with other concerns, I’d not been here in decades, not since Hamlet and I played within its high walls as children and certainly not since he was crowned king all those years past.
I recalled childhood memories of this place, but they were of no use now. Whatever paths we played on then were changed. Trees had grown, died, been uprooted, and replaced with other growth. This space covered no more than an acre, but the plantings were high and dense, and one could easily become lost.
Polonius was at my side. “This way, lord.”
“Have you sent for a priest? For a physician?”
“Both, lord. They will be here anon.”
He took me on a twisting path that seemed to lead toward the center. It was a cunning design, giving the illusion of a goodly walk, and within a turn or two it felt like we were in a shady orchard miles away. The branches
above laced together in some spots concealing even the looming bulk of Elsinore castle.
I recognized a landmark. Ahead, overlooked by an old apple tree, was a vast stone bench. It was part of the very base of the massive sea cliff that Elsinore rested upon. The thrust of stone was larger than two beds pushed together and much longer. A master hand had, in ancient times, carved it with fantastical shapes and patterns on the sides. The top was smoothed to within a foot of the ground, and polished. It had served as throne, fort, feasting table, ship, riding steed, and other imaginings in our childhood play until we outgrew it. Now it was covered with thick robes to lend ease to the hard stone and there would my brother find respite from his cares.
And there he lay in his last rest.
I’d seen battle, and knew death’s countenance. At a dozen paces I recognized the stillness peculiar to its presence. That it had come for my brother was true after all, and I was no longer master of my progress. Halting, I leaned on Polonius as the certainty swept over me. With no mind to the words, a prayer fled from my lips, and I crossed myself.
“This is trouble enough, but a harsher, more evil woe awaits,” he told me.
“What mean you?”
For once Polonius was unable to summon words for explanation and again would only shake his head. My curiosity became stronger than my anguish. Hanging on each other like two old women, we slowly approached my brother’s final couch of rest, my heart filled with dread.
The cushioning robes were in disarray, tossed about as though Hamlet had fought desperately against a relentless foe. His arms were flung wide over his head, hands turned into grasping claws, his whole body twisted and frozen in a posture of extreme agony. As we came closer, more details revealed themselves to the eye, but the mind denies such awfulness as being too impossible to exist, and so we stare and stare and stare into overwhelming horror.
My poor brother’s skin was crusted and splotched with some loathsome excretion, as though he sweated the puss of vile infection through each and every pore. Crusted also was his very blood, which had burst from his eyes, nose, and gaping mouth. A stench like that of a man dead for a week, not mere hours, rose from him to merge with the sweetness of the apple flowers. Flies buzzed in legions around him.
