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

weather, pleasant company, civilized folk who might enjoy a friendly game. A smile tugged at the corner of Clive’s mouth.
    The thought of such company was certainly more alluring than the idea of confronting Jones, knife or no knife. He’d get his own back, make no mistake, but at present he was disadvantaged. If he could build up a stake, he could hire a lawyer to harass Captain Jones, and perhaps extract additional damages from him.
    Clive’s eyes narrowed even as his smile widened. Yes, that would be the way to handle that brute. The gentleman’s way.
    Parentage aside, Clive considered himself a gentleman in every respect, saving the minor detail that he was not above turning a card to win a pot. A fellow had to make a living, after all.
    The night sky was starless, heavy with cloud. With a last glance at the strangely lit building, Clive turned away and walked out into the darkness, toward the swishing sounds that must be coming from the canal. There he’d find passage with the next willing boat captain.
    Jones and his Slipper were probably long gone. He knew Jones had been heading down to Jersey City, so he might as well head that way himself. If the Slipper was not in evidence, he’d proceed down the coast, restore his finances, and then come back and find Jones.
    Happy to have this plan settled, he dared to whistle a tune as he strolled down a street toward the canal. Houses on both sides—strange, boxy structures—unfamiliar, but never mind. The rushing sounds were growing louder. They came and went, stopping and starting, which Clive found rather disturbing. No steamboat he’d ever been on had operated in that way. He found himself revisiting his nightmare, realizing this sound had been in it, sometimes. Not every time.
    The more he listened, the less it seemed like any sound he’d heard associated with a riverboat. Some other kind of machinery, then? Locks, or something? He knew the Morris Canal was fully contraptionized to an extent that bored him silly. Engineering had never interested him. He was a man of opportunity.
    There were more lights ahead, electric lights on top of preposterously tall posts that he could see even above the buildings and trees. A drizzling rain began to fall and he turned up the collar of his jacket, wishing for his greatcoat that, alas, had been in his valise. He uttered a curse at Orson Jones’s expense.
    The rushing sounds grew louder as he crossed a final street. On the far side he found not the canal, but a wall, a good ten feet high or better, and made of concrete. The noise came from beyond it, a river of sound, and a line of the lights on tall posts stood beyond it as well. A road of the same tarred gravel upon which he’d awakened ran alongside the wall.
    Hearing a mechanical growl to his left, he turned and saw two bright white lights barreling toward him at phenomenal speed, raindrops sparking in their beams. He caught his breath and stepped back, blinded. An airhorn sounded, making him jump even more, then the thing swept past him, spattering him with water. It resembled the locomotives he’d woken among.
    Perhaps he was still dreaming. He knew of nothing like that contraption, even in Manhattan.
    Suddenly his knees felt weak. Not wanting to faint, he squatted at the side of the road. He rested his face in his hands and took deep breaths, trying to calm himself. After a moment he had a sense of not being alone, and looked up.
    To his right, a riverboat was gliding toward him where a moment before there had been nothing. The boat was black as soot all over, with lanterns flickering orange on its upper deck like evil, winking eyes.
    Clive shuddered. Another dream? He almost hoped he was asleep, but reason told him he was not. Reason could not explain the steamboat, though, floating along without any water beneath it.
    The boat was coming for him. It was Charon, come to take him across the river Styx, to the underworld. Come to