Dead Man's Hand by Pati Nagle

ought to have a jeweler take a look at it.”
    The clerk pulled his hand away. “OK, I’ll make it twenty.”
    â€œYou’ll make it fifty, or no deal.”
    â€œYou’re killing me. I got kids to feed.”
    â€œThen you better keep your money.” Arnold reached for the ring again.
    â€œAll right, fifty it is.”
    Arnold suspected he was still being cheated, but fifty bucks was a start, anyway. The price of gold must’ve gone sky high. He accepted the cash, pocketed the pawn ticket out of courtesy, and left the shop.
    He returned to the restaurant he’d seen the night before and paid probably too much for a decent breakfast of eggs and bacon, with coffee that was both strong and hot, to wash the taste of oatmeal out of his mouth. Then he found a newsstand where he picked up a paper.
    â€œWhat’s the cheapest way to get to Atlantic City?” he asked the proprietor.
    â€œBus, probably. Station’s on Hillside Street.”
    Arnold got directions from him, then started off walking. The air was chilly but the sun was out, and he was a lot warmer than he’d been the night before despite having no coat. The new shoes he’d acquired at the Salvation Army were amazingly comfortable to walk in. His mood was picking up, too.
    Soon he’d be in a game, double his cash. Build up a bankroll. As soon as he could afford it he’d buy a decent suit. Then he’d see about this casino business. Might be he could get in on it, streamline the business, improve management. These were his gifts, and he’d used them to build an empire. No reason he couldn’t do it again.
    Atlantic City had been a whoopee spot when he knew it, one of his favorite getaways. The gambling that had gone on there was illicit, though there was plenty of it. The jazz and the gin were equally as big, and had drawn the Hollywood crowd. Shows would open on the piers for test runs before going to Broadway. The Miss America Pageant had brought beautiful girls from all over the country—he wondered if that was still going.
    The black car pulled out of a cross street just ahead of him. Arnold’s stomach did a flip. He stepped backward into an alley, heart racing. Who the hell was following him?
    He turned to head down the alley and flinched back. Standing in his way was a woman, tall and slender, black hair cropped in a bob, dressed in something long, black, and slinky that shimmered with beads, with a stole of black fur draped over her arms. A regular sheba, and for a second Arnold stood frozen in admiration.
    â€œMr. Rothstein,” she said in a low voice. “I’ve been looking for you.”
    â€œYeah? Why?”
    She tilted her head, her jet black hair brushing her jawline. Her eyes glittered green and cat-like. He was relieved to see she wasn’t holding a weapon, at least none that he could see.
    â€œDo you want to go to Atlantic City?” she asked.
    Arnold suppressed a shiver. “What if I do?”
    â€œI’m your guide. I’m here to escort you.”
    â€œThat’s nice. Who sent you?”
    â€œSimon Penstemon. You won’t recognize his name.”
    â€œYou’re right, I don’t, so why should I accept his hospitality?”
    The sheba smiled. “Mr. Penstemon is hosting a poker game. You’re invited to play.”
    â€œI don’t have a stake.”
    â€œYou don’t need one. The game isn’t for money.”
    â€œThen why the hell should I play? You know, the last poker game I was in didn’t turn out so well.”
    â€œThat’s why you’ve been invited to this one. It’s a chance to rectify that unfortunate incident.”
    â€œRectify?”
    â€œMr. Penstemon will explain it all when we get to the casino. Shall we?” She gestured toward the street with a hand, and he heard the car’s engine behind him.
    Arnold stared at her narrowly, thinking hard. It sounded nuts, but then it