Free Dead Man's Hand by Pati Nagle Page A

in his outlandish clothing. He had no money for food anyway, though he was beginning to get hungry.
    He found a park and put down his collection on a bench, sitting beside it. Tucked the bottom of his sheet around his feet and tried not to shiver. He must look like a damned vagrant, and that made him angry.
    Never mind. He’d fix things. He’d always been able to fix things, always relied on his wits. A few bucks from the pawn shop he could turn into more, easily enough. Find a craps game or a card game, play the odds. He was good at numbers. He always had been.
    Sitting on the bench, he mused about George McManus. Why the hell had that idiot lost his cool and shot him? Stupid thing to do. McManus was worried about collecting for his goddamn poker game, which had been a goddamned crooked game, and Arnold wished he’d known that to begin with. He’d never have played. Instead he’d refused to pay up, and that drunken idiot McManus had tried to threaten him, and then shot him. Probably pulled the goddamn trigger by accident.
    He wondered if McManus had been tried. Sent to prison. Serve the stupid jerk right, he supposed.
    He wondered if Carolyn had been all right. He’d stood to win a cool half million on bets on the election, but they’d be a loss since he’d died. His other interests would have been snapped up by the wolves—Luciano, Lansky, Siegel. He hoped to hell Carolyn hadn’t died poor.
    He shook his head. Best not to think about her. She was gone.
    A movement off to the side caught his attention, brought him suddenly alert. Someone coming toward him through the dark. Arnold turned his head and fixed a cold stare on the skinny figure that emerged from between two trees. A kid, probably no more than twenty. Eyes big with fear, and a knife in his hand. Not good.
    â€œGimme your money,” the kid said.
    â€œDo I look like I have any fucking money? Get the fuck out of here.”
    Arnold stayed where he was, arm thrown across the back of the bench protectively over his pitiful little pile of junk. He shifted slightly to face the kid, at the same time curling the finger with the ring out of sight.
    â€œI mean it, man! I’ll cut you!”
    The kid was shaking. Arnold stood up, letting the sheet fall to the ground. He wasn’t a giant, but he was taller than this little punk. He squared his shoulders and bunched his fists. The kid should back down, unless he got stupid.
    â€œI got no money. Try your luck elsewhere, bucko.”
    â€œGimme your wallet, man!”
    He was panicking. Arnold roared back in his face, all the while keeping an eye on the blade. “I don’t have a fucking wallet! I don’t have a fucking pocket to keep a fucking wallet in! Now scram!”
    The kid made a move with the knife. Arnold knocked the hand aside and gut-punched him, sending him to the ground. He stomped on the kid’s wrist until he dropped the knife, then bent and picked it up, stuck the point of the blade in the kid’s nose.
    â€œGet the fuck out of here and don’t come back.”
    Terror filled the kid’s eyes. He was trembling all over. Probably high as a kite. Arnold stepped back, keeping the knife. He watched the kid roll over and get up on his hands and knees. Just as he was getting to his feet, Arnold planted a foot on his butt and gave him a shove to get him going. The kid stumbled away, out of the park and down the street. Arnold watched until he disappeared around a corner.
    Well, now he had a nice knife. Might come in handy, too.
    He grimaced. He preferred to leave the violence to others, but at the moment he didn’t have a choice in the matter. Without money, he had to do everything himself.
    He decided a couple of changes were in order. First, for the sake of privacy and mobility, he took off the outermost of the two white shirts he was wearing and used that to tie up his junk in a bundle. He was colder, but could now move in a hurry.