Free Dead Man's Hand by Pati Nagle Page B

Moving was the second change—he didn’t want that punk kid to find his courage and come back for him, maybe with a gun.
    The knife was a problem. He didn’t have anywhere to stash it except in the bundle. He’d rather have it to hand, but walking down the street with it in his hand was a bad idea. Cops didn’t take kindly to that sort of thing, and the last thing he wanted to do was piss off some cop.
    He put the knife in the bundle, placing it carefully between two picture frames so it wouldn’t cut the cloth. Then he tied the gold ring into the knot in his belt so it didn’t show, and wrapped the sheet around himself again. Hefting the bundle, he started off. Probably looked like fucking Santa Claus. He left the park in the opposite direction to where the kid had gone, regretting the loss of the place but not sorry to be moving. At least walking warmed him up some.
    What he should do was find a mission or someplace. Sisters of Charity, maybe. Someplace that would give him a meal and a place to flop.
    He laughed under his breath. Arnold Rothstein, the Big Bankroll, sleeping in a goddamn mission. His associates would have laughed, if they hadn’t been dead.
    Well, he’d started from nothing before, he could do it again. He’d have to make connections, but he was good at that. He was the best.
    A bright light flickered along the sidewalk ahead of him. He stopped, frowning, and realized the light was coming from behind him. He looked around and was blinded by a spotlight. Behind it he heard the purr of a car engine.
    â€œYou are the cleanest damned vagrant I ever saw,” said a man’s voice.
    Cop. Arnold shaded his eyes with his free hand, trying to see the cop’s face. The car’s headlights were huge and wide apart.
    â€œWhat’s in the bag, ice-cream man?”
    â€œJust my things, officer.”
    â€œYeah? Cold night for taking your stuff for a walk.”
    â€œSomeone tried to rob me in the park.”
    â€œFigures.”
    With the bright light in his face, Arnold could barely make out the shape of the car, long, low and wide. He had an idea, and put on a humble expression.
    â€œOfficer, can you tell me where there’s a mission or someplace? I’d like to get out of the cold.”
    â€œYeah, I bet you would.”
    The car door opened and the cop got out, shining yet another light in Arnold’s face. This guy was big and built like a gorilla, looming over Arnold on the sidewalk. The sort of man Arnold liked to have around for protection. He wondered fleetingly if Tammany Hall was still operating, then dropped the thought. Even if it was, all his contacts there would be dead or so old they’d be worthless.
    â€œGoddamn, you’re clean,” said the cop. “Whatcha doing roaming the streets in the middle of the night?”
    â€œJust trying to stay out of trouble, sir. I’m just a fellow down on his luck.”
    â€œUh-huh. OK, you got a driver’s license?”
    â€œNo, sir.”
    â€œID card?”
    Arnold shook his head, lowered his gaze and did his best to look miserable. He wanted the cop to think he was just a sad case, harmless.
    â€œWhat are you, some kind of religious nut, or did you escape from a toga party?”
    â€œSir?”
    â€œWhat’s with the white getup?”
    Deciding the crack about religion was as good a cue as any, Arnold followed up. “We walk before the Lord in humble simplicity,” he said, and shifted his feet a little so the cop would notice he was barefoot.
    â€œYeah, right,” muttered the cop. “OK, Jesus buddy, climb in the back. I’ll give you a ride to the Salvation Army shelter.”
    â€œThank you, sir. May God bless you.”
    The cop opened the back door of the car and Arnold got in, setting his bundle on the seat beside him carefully so it wouldn’t clink. The door shut with a heavy thunk, and the cop got in the driver’s