Dead Man's Hand (14 page)

When he'd finished, he pushed the empty plates aside and picked up a packet of cards and broke it open. They were like the ones they'd used in the show at the No. 10, unnaturally slippery, coated with plastic. The backs were black with a blue diamond check pattern and “The Black Queen,” again in gold.

He fiddled with the cards, dealing out poker hands a half dozen at a time to see which would win. If he won the tournament he could maybe go on to more games, live comfortably, enjoy a chance to sink gracefully into the old age of which he'd been robbed. It seemed strange to be given another shot at that. He wasn't sure it was what he wanted.

If he lost, maybe he could hire on with Mr. Penstemon to deal cards, or do some kind of show though he'd be the first to admit he was not the best of showmen. He'd have to meet Penstemon first and size him up before considering any such arrangement.

He set the deck aside and strolled over to the draperies. Daylight was seeping in around the edges, which implied they covered a window. He pulled one aside and immediately stumbled back, letting it fall again.

His room was floating in air. He stood staring at the gently swinging drape, breathing hard and fast, his breakfast churning in his stomach. Clenching his teeth together, he cautiously stepped toward the drape again and peeked out.

Far below him the beach spread out, white sand along the edge of a bright blue ocean. People were down there, crawling on the sand like so many ants. The whole wall in front of him, floor to ceiling, was glass. He put a hand against it and felt the warmth of the morning sun.

He could see a tower rising up into the sky a little way down the shore. A building, impossibly tall. Maybe he was in the same sort of building. The tallest he'd ever seen was in New York, six stories.

He swallowed. Different times, and he'd better adjust. He found a little rod attached to the drape and used it to push the curtain aside, then took a couple of steps back from the window ‘til he felt safe. He saw no way to open the window, which was just as well because he had no desire to risk a fall.

“Magnificent view, isn't it?”

James spun around, hand to his guns and ready to draw. He hadn't heard the door open, but there was the fellow who'd spoken, a tall man with blond hair waving over his brow and falling thickly to brush the shoulders of his black jacket. He wore black trousers and shoes as well, and one of the modern neckties that looked so strange, of a blue so rich it seemed to glow. A tiny pin nestled in the middle of the tie, a diamond set in gold.

“Forgive me,” the man said in the same melodious voice. “I didn't mean to startle you, Mr. Hickok. I'm Simon Penstemon.”

He stepped forward, a small smile curving his lips as he offered a hand. James relaxed and shook hands, noting Penstemon's firm grip, his stance, his eyes that were clear and sharp, the sort of eyes that didn't miss much.

His skin was naturally fair but had a slight golden tint to it as if he'd spent some time in the sun. His mouth was pretty like a girl's, but the line of his jaw was firm and took away any hint of the effeminate.

“How do,” said James, nodding. “Much obliged for the hospitality.”

“I'm delighted you chose to join us. I hope the staff has given you everything you need?”

James nodded again, watching the fellow and trying to make up his mind what sort of man he was. Penstemon didn't seem like the showman type. That sort was usually full of bluster and bravado, not quiet like this man. He remembered Bill Cody, how he was constantly looking to display himself to advantage. Maybe Penstemon would act different in public, but just now he showed none of that inclination.

“Tell me about your poker game, Mr. Penstemon.”

The smile tugged again at the corners of Penstemon's mouth. “I'd prefer to explain the terms to all of you at once. The final player should arrive around noon. If it's agreeable to you, we'll all have a late lunch together and I'll go over the rules then.”

“Fair enough. Exhibition game, is it?”

The smile widened into a grin. “Indeed it is. I see nothing escapes you, Mr. Hickok.”

“I like to think ahead. So was it you that raised me from the dead, so to speak?”

“Ah—yes, but we're getting into the explanation I'd like to make to all of you together. If you don't mind, I'll save that. Why don't we go down to the casino now, and I'll show you around?”

“All right.” James got his hat and shrugged into his buckskin jacket.

“Do you have your key?” Penstemon asked.

James went back and found the queen of spades and slid her into his pocket, then followed Mr. Penstemon to the door. Penstemon led him down the long hall and back into the little hallway that gave onto the square windowless room. He pushed a little light on the wall, same as Kitty had done.

A flute started playing somewhere near. Penstemon took a little silver box out of his pocket and the music got louder. He glanced up at James.

“Please excuse me.”

Penstemon poked the box with a finger and the music stopped as he held it up to his ear. “Yes? Yes, I know, Donovan told me. Well, find him! How hard can it be? Ask the people at the bus station.” He frowned as he put the box back in his pocket, then noticed James watching him.

“Sorry about that. Administrative problem. Nothing to worry about.”

James nodded agreeably. A bell chimed and the metal doors slid open. Penstemon stepped into the square room and invited James to follow.

“Is this a magical thing?” James asked as the doors closed and his stomach sank again.

Penstemon smiled. “No, it's technological. It's called an elevator. Carries us from floor to floor on long cables.”

“I see.”

James leaned against the wall, trying to look casual though he had a firm grip on the railing with one hand. The sensation did remind him of falling, now that he knew what it was, which wasn't a pleasant thought.

“You people sure have come up with a lot of ways to travel fast,” he said.

Penstemon smiled again. It seemed a smile was constantly hovering at the edge of his mouth and only waiting for a reason to slide onto it.

“As a line from one of my favorite movies says, ‘The world has got itself in a big damn hurry.'”

James raised an eyebrow. “Movies?”

“Moving pictures. Another technological innovation. A sequence of many photographs, taken very swiftly by a camera and then played back at the same speed by a projector. You'll see.”

After a much longer ride than the first one, the elevator finally came to a stop with a gentle bounce and opened its doors. James saw an identical set of doors across from him, then Penstemon led him out and to the side into a gigantic blue-carpeted room.

A barrage of color and sound came at him and he paused to compose himself before following Penstemon out into it. There was music of a sort, though it had no melody and hung in the background, a constant ripple of sound.

Penstemon led him down a broad carpeted walkway in between rows of silver machines that seemed to be the source of the music. People were sitting in front of some of them, punching buttons that caused lights to flash.

“Slot machines,” Penstemon said as they left the machines behind, continuing into the casino between a pair of roulette tables. “A game of chance, rather unimaginative. There's absolutely no skill involved. I don't care for them myself, but the customers expect them. Hello, Stan,” he added, nodding to a croupier.

“Morning, Mr. Penstemon,” said Stan, who had a black beard that covered his whole face nearly up to the eyes. It was neatly trimmed, granted, but still gave him something of a savage look, and didn't quite fit with his starched white shirt, blue brocade vest, and stiff, black bow tie. James just had time to notice that his ears were hairy as well, and then they were past, moving into a section of card tables.

The room was bigger than any ballroom he'd ever seen, more like the size of an arena where Bill Cody's Wild West Show might be performed. It was filled with tables for dice and cards and roulette, and more rows of the slot machines.

One young lady dealing beneath a sign that said “Omaha” caught James's eye—she had black hair hanging down her back like a dark waterfall, deep blue eyes, and skin a vibrant shade of violet. She glanced up at James as they passed and smiled, revealing silver teeth. He shivered, unable to avoid imagining those teeth fixing on some part of his anatomy.

“You've got some interesting folks working here,” James said.

“I'm an equal opportunity employer,” said Penstemon.

“How come none of those invisible critters are dealing?”

“The will-o-wisps? I had some of them dealing to begin with, but the customers tended to avoid their tables. They prefer to see what the dealer's hands are doing. This is the poker room,” he added, leading James into a somewhat less gigantic room off the side of the big one, still big enough to hold a respectable crowd.

The tables here were bigger than the others and lower to the ground, so the players could sit in regular chairs instead of on stools—except for the one green fellow who was too big for a regular chair. He was sitting on a large crate at the short end of one of the tables. He was green from head to foot: green hair, green eyes, and he wore a dark green outfit, nicely tailored, which was about the only thing that kept him from looking like a big old troll.

Only two of the ten or so poker tables had games going. James watched the cards being dealt around at one of them and got a tingling feeling in the palms of his hands.

“Why's the dealer throwing cards face up in the middle?” he asked, staring at the table.

“It's Texas Hold'em,” said Penstemon. “A variation on seven-card stud. You'll learn all about it, don't worry.”

“What's the matter with draw?”

“Nothing, but this game is in fashion. It's the game used in all the big poker championships.”

Two of the players were whispering together, staring at James. As he watched, the word went around the table like a brisk wind, and the players all began to steal glances at him.

“You know,” James said in a musing tone, stroking his mustache with his left hand, “in the past I have been compensated for playing in public venues, over and above any winnings I have claimed.”

The smile twitched onto Penstemon's lips. He answered just as quietly, still gazing at the poker game.

“That isn't quite appropriate in this case. You'll have everything you want now and while the game is going on, but trust me, after it's finished it really won't matter.”

James misliked the sound of that. He wasn't about to trust Penstemon, though he wasn't about to annoy him either, if he could help it. He frowned, and the huge green fellow at the poker table hastily glanced away down at his cards, as if afraid of having angered James.

Penstemon turned to him. “Would you like a drink, Mr. Hickok?”

James's suspicions were instantly reduced, though not altogether eliminated, by this suggestion. “Don't mind if I do.”

They strolled together to a saloon that opened off the big gambling room. It was dark and cozy inside, with furniture that looked like it was made of big pillows. Penstemon led him to a couple of chairs with a tiny round table between them. James sank into one with a sigh and wondered if he'd ever be able to get out of it again.

A pretty gal with legs a mile long that were covered with nothing but a wisp of black stocking came up to them. She had on a little blue satin shift that stretched tight over her bosom and didn't quite hide her very attractive bottom and that no self-respecting whore of James's time would be caught dead in. She noticed him staring and gave him a little smile. James felt himself coloring up to his scalp.

Penstemon glanced up at her. “Hello, Nichole. A martini for me, and I imagine Mr. Hickok would like bourbon.”

“You imagine right,” James managed to say. He couldn't take his eyes off Nichole until she passed out of his view. When she was gone he looked back at Penstemon, who seemed amused.

“If you'd like some feminine company, it can be arranged.”

James cleared his throat. “I might could use a little.”

A pang of guilt struck him but he tried to ignore it. Agnes was dead by now, surely, so the tumble he was contemplating would not violate his marriage vow.

Or had Mr. Penstemon raised her up, too? Surely he would have brought her round in that case. But even if he had done, death had most definitely parted her and James, so the promise was null and void.

James shifted uneasily in the chair. He never wanted to cause Agnes any pain. He feared he had done so, getting killed so stupidly. He wished vaguely that he could make it up to her somehow.

Nichole returned with the drinks. James stared at her lovely young body again, but the heart had gone out of him and he couldn't muster up any lustfulness. He thanked her for the glass she handed him and sipped at the generous helping of bourbon in it, then sighed.

“See that screen?” Penstemon said, pointing up toward the ceiling off to one side. James looked that way and saw a rectangle, something like a picture frame but filled with flickering colored light.

“Moving pictures,” Penstemon said.

Moving awful fast. James at first couldn't make out what the pictures were of, then he realized it was people on broomsticks, flying madly about and dodging what looked like cannonballs. The speed of it all was too much for him. He looked away.

“Mighty impressive,” he said, feeling some compliment was expected.

“Your poker game will be broadcast like that,” Penstemon said.

James sipped the bourbon again, enjoying the glow beginning to light in his belly. “That a fact?”

“Yes. So millions of people will be watching.”

“Millions, eh?”

James was a mite skeptical about that. There'd have to be one of those rectangles in every home in the country for millions to be able to see it, and how could you put the pictures on all those things at once?