Free Dead Man's Hand by Pati Nagle

to go down to Atlantic City, take in a nightclub act, enjoy the sea breezes. That was crazy, though. He must be disoriented on account of having been shot to death by that idiot McManus.
    First order of business, get some decent clothes. Damn, he wished he’d been buried in a suit! He’d have had one of his stickpins to pawn for cash. Now he had nothing but this stupid sheet, not even his wedding ring.
    He bent down and picked up the prayer shawl. It might bring him a dime or two. He needed everything he could get. He glanced at the hood and the cloth that had been over his face. Wouldn’t get a cent for those—not like the Jews would use them again.
    He started toward the street. A glint from the ground caught his attention. Photograph in a frame, sitting at the foot of a grave. He picked it up, frowning.
    The photo was of a young woman wearing strange clothes, and even in the dim light from the distant street he could see that the picture was tinted with brilliant colors. He opened the frame, pulled out the photo and dropped it on the grave, then put the frame back together. He should be able to get a few cents for it.
    Glancing at the headstone, he saw the woman’s death date and drew in a hissing breath: 1996! Holy crap!
    That meant things were more complicated than he’d thought. No wonder the cars sounded strange. He’d have to catch up on stuff.
    It also meant Carolyn was almost certainly dead. She’d be buried in some Catholic cemetery, probably with her family.
    Arnold flinched at the sharp pang of loneliness. He couldn’t afford it. Survival came first. He’d miss Carolyn, but he had other problems to deal with.
    Atlantic City called to him, sea breezes, good gin, and hot honeys. A place to forget about things. He would dearly love to forget about the miserable way his life—or former life, perhaps he should say—had ended.
    He began combing the graveyard, adding to his collection of items for the pawn shop. A nice vase, a couple more picture frames. He found a small gold ring on one of the graves, a jackpot for him. Probably not left by a mourner, unless in a fit of anger. Didn’t matter. It would be worth a few bucks. He wished to hell these damn clothes had some pockets. Wished to hell he had some shoes, too, or socks at least—his feet were freezing.
    He stuck the ring on his pinkie and continued scrounging. When he had as much junk as he could carry he left the graveyard, glancing back to look at the name on the gate. Union Fields. That was in Queens. Damn, a long way from Manhattan.
    A car sat by the curb, a long black Packard. The headlights came on as he looked at it. Arnold turned and walked the other way. The car followed.
    Crap. Just what he needed.
    He switched directions, staring a challenge at the car as he walked toward it, then hurrying past. Before the car could turn around, he crossed the street. There were houses here, a lot of them. He zig-zagged through the neighborhood until he was sure he’d lost the car, then started looking for a pawn shop where he could sell his loot and maybe pick up some real clothes.
    He wasn’t a vain man, but he liked to look respectable, and preferred to look elegant. He hated sticking out. He had never courted attention; in fact, he avoided it whenever he could. Making waves just made trouble.
    After walking for what seemed like forever, he finally started coming into a business district. The houses gave way to auto shops and delis, all of them closed. Nothing looked familiar. The signs were all lit up, some looked like colored glass lit from inside, pretty snazzy.
    He found a pawn shop but it was closed, the whole front of the shop covered with a metal grating. Other shops had similar barriers. Things must’ve gotten rough.
    He kept walking, his feet now sore as well as frozen. A brightly lit building turned out to be a restaurant that was actually open. He passed it by, not wanting to make a scene