Dead Man's Hand by Pati Nagle Read Free Book Online Page A

thumbs up sign and headed for the door. When it closed behind him he paused for a moment as the hush of the hotel hallway descended on him.
    In the distance he imagined he could hear the siren call of the slots, beckoning him to the casinos. Game of Hold ‘em to settle his nerves. Maybe stop by a strip joint, find a cutie, score some horse. He sucked in a deep breath and let it out with a happy sigh, then headed for the elevator.
    Â 

 
    Â 
    Â 
~ Clive ~
    Bloomfield, New Jersey
    H e woke from one nightmare to find himself in the middle of another. He’d been dreaming of Orson Jones, the captain of the Silver Slipper, who had taken exception to his success at cards in the Slipper ’s saloon and pursued him into Bloomfield.
    Clive remembered quite clearly running from the captain, who had been rendered unreceptive by drink and who, most unreasonably, demanded the return of the monies Clive had won. Memory clouded after that. The dream had been terrible, and seemed to have repeated itself over and over. There was always a knife, a wicked blade in the captain’s right hand. The other details were unclear, but the blade shone sharp and bright, though it had felt much the same as a punch, going in.
    Clive moaned and rolled over. The ground he was on was very hard. He put a hand beneath his face to shield it and tried to recapture sleep, but it was hopeless. He would only dream again, and he had been caught in that dream far too long.
    Over and over, the knife, the blow, falling and more blows, Jones’s hands rifling his pockets, the chink of gold as the captain took his winnings. Then the dragging, the endless dragging.
    He put a hand to the back of his head, expecting to find it sore. It was not. The night was silent except for the occasional swish of water from the paddlewheel of a passing steamboat. He listened for the creak of wagon wheels on the towpath. It never came.
    Strange. Clive opened his eyes. There was an odd, smoky smell in the air. He had an intuition things weren’t right.
    He lifted his head, and in doing so became aware that he was not in Bloomfield, at least not in any part of it he remembered. The road beneath him was peculiar, like pressed gravel coated with tar. He sat up and found that it was not a road at all.
    He’d been lying between two monstrous machines, somewhat like locomotives though smaller, and not sitting on any rails. They were painted identically with shields labeled “New Jersey State Police” on their sides. Clive sat still for a long while, listening and pondering.
    It occurred to him to check the wounds Jones’s knife had given him. He wasn’t able to find them, which rather annoyed him after all that endless dreaming. He felt perfectly all right.
    Had it been a trick knife, then? The sort used on stage, with a disappearing blade; it must have been. Jones had used it to catch him off guard and had robbed him. And he’d fallen for it!
    His pockets were empty of everything, valuable or not. A glance around where he’d been lying informed him that Jones had apparently taken his valise as well. And his beaver hat.
    That was the last straw. He’d find that miserable bastard and have his hat back. It was a good hat, it fit him well, and he wanted it.
    Let Orson Jones beware! Clive’s dignity had suffered a worse blow than his person, and he brooked no insults to his dignity. He wanted his own back on that rascal.
    He stood up and looked around, trying to get his bearings. He saw a building, large and blockish, lit very brightly by what had to be electric lights. He’d seen those in Manhattan, but not in Bloomfield.
    Doubt shook him, stopping him in his tracks. This building was no part of Bloomfield, either. Though to inquire within seemed the simplest way to get help, his intuition warned him away from it.
    Go south, a silent urging told him. South, to the coast, to the sea. To the Atlantic.
    A seaside resort, yes. Pleasant