American Gods by Neil Gaiman Read Free Book Online Page A

glass, and blew hard, and several more golden coins dropped into the glass from his hand. He tipped the glass of sticky coins into his jacket pocket, and then tapped the pocket to show, unmistakably, that it was empty.
    â€œThere,” he said. “That’s a coin trick for you.”
    Shadow, who had been watching closely, put his head on one side. “I need to know how you did it.”
    â€œI did it,” said Sweeney, with the air of one confiding a huge secret, “with panache and style. That’s how I did it.” He laughed, silently, rocking on his heels, his gappy teeth bared.
    â€œYes,” said Shadow. “That is how you did it. You’ve got to teach me. All the ways of doing the Miser’s Dream that I’ve read, you’d be hiding the coins in the hand that holds the glass, and dropping them in while you produce and vanish the coin in your right hand.”
    â€œSounds like a hell of a lot of work to me,” said Mad Sweeney. “It’s easier just to pick them out of the air.”
    Wednesday said, “Mead for you, Shadow. I’ll stick with Mister Jack Daniel’s, and for the freeloading Irishman . . . ?”
    â€œA bottled beer, something dark for preference,” said Sweeney. “Freeloader, is it?” He picked up what was left of his drink, and raised it to Wednesday in a toast. “May the storm pass over us, and leave us hale and unharmed,” he said, and knocked the drink back.
    â€œA fine toast,” said Wednesday. “But it won’t.”
    Another mead was placed in front of Shadow.
    â€œDo I have to drink this?”
    â€œI’m afraid you do. It seals our deal. Third time’s the charm, eh?”
    â€œShit,” said Shadow. He swallowed the mead in two large gulps. The pickled-honey taste filled his mouth.
    â€œThere,” said Mr. Wednesday. “You’re my man, now.”
    â€œSo,” said Sweeney, “you want to know the trick of how it’s done?”
    â€œYes,” said Shadow. “Were you loading them in your sleeve?”
    â€œThey were never in my sleeve,” said Sweeney. He chortled to himself, rocking and bouncing as if he were a lanky, bearded volcano preparing to erupt with delight at his own brilliance. “It’s the simplest trick in the world. I’ll fight you for it.”
    Shadow shook his head. “I’ll pass.”
    â€œNow there’s a fine thing,” said Sweeney to the room. “Old Wednesday gets himself a bodyguard, and the feller’s too scared to put up his fists, even.”
    â€œI won’t fight you,” agreed Shadow.
    Sweeney swayed and sweated. He fiddled with the peak of his baseball cap. Then he pulled one of his coins out of the air and placed it on the table. “Real gold, if you were wondering,” said Sweeney. “Win or lose—and you’ll lose—it’s yours if you fight me. A big fellow like you—who’d’a thought you’d be a fucken coward?”
    â€œHe’s already said he won’t fight you,” said Wednesday. “Go away, Mad Sweeney. Take your beer and leave us in peace.”
    Sweeney took a step closer to Wednesday. “Call me a freeloader, will you, you doomed old creature? You cold-blooded, heartless old tree-hanger.” His face was turning a deep, angry red.
    Wednesday put out his hands, palms up, pacific. “Foolishness, Sweeney. Watch where you put your words.”
    Sweeney glared at him. Then he said, with the gravity of the very drunk, “You’ve hired a coward. What would he do if I hurt you, do you think?”
    Wednesday turned to Shadow. “I’ve had enough of this,” he said. “Deal with it.”
    Shadow got to his feet and looked up into Mad Sweeney’s face: how tall was the man? he wondered. “You’re bothering us,” he said. “You’re drunk. I think you ought to leave now.”
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