Dead Man's Hand by Pati Nagle

seat.
    The car glided off smoothly, sparking an instant desire in Arnold to own one of these new automobiles. Soon enough, he thought. Soon enough. He’d have a whole fleet of them, and men like this gorilla cop to drive them.
    It occurred to him to wonder why he was alive. Second chance, on account of his dying from George McManus’s stupidity? Why the delay, then? Why dump him here in nineteen-fucking-ninety-whatever, with nothing?
    No answers occurred to him as he watched the streets whiz by. His mind wandered back to Atlantic City. Goddamn if he wouldn’t get there. He needed some R and R.
    In a very short time the cop had pulled up in front of a blocky brick building. Dingy lights lit up the Salvation Army shield—that hadn’t changed, or not much anyway. Arnold hid a grin as he looked for a handle on the car door. The cop opened it from outside before he could find one, and Arnold got out, clutching his little sack of junk.
    â€œThank you, officer.”
    â€œYeah, all right. Stay off the streets at night, huh? And stay clean.”
    The cop chuckled as he got back in the car and drove off. Arnold went up to the Salvation Army’s door, but it was locked. A sign said to ring the bell after nine. He didn’t see a bell, but there was a button next to the sign so he tried pushing it. A buzz sounded somewhere inside the building, and after a minute someone opened the door.
    The young fellow who looked out was tall and lanky, wore a faded checked shirt and dingy pants, and peered at him with a calculating look. “Can I help you?”
    â€œI need a place to sleep,” Arnold said, trying to look humble.
    â€œYou eaten today?”
    â€œNo, sir.”
    â€œDinner’s over, but I can get you some bread and peanut butter. Come in.”
    Arnold followed him down a hall lit by long glowing tubes overhead. They passed an open doorway to a large, brightly lit room with tables and benches along one side and people lying on mattresses in the middle. The ones that weren’t sleeping were sitting in small groups, talking in low voices. The muttering faded as Arnold followed the guy in the checked shirt down the hall to a kitchen.
    It was huge, obviously designed for feeding a lot of people, with two stoves and lots of storage and counter space and several big pieces of fancy equipment whose function Arnold couldn’t guess.
    The man opened a cupboard and took out a half loaf of bread in a wrapper of something clear and flexible. From another cupboard he took down a jar, then got a butter knife from a drawer and smeared some of the jar’s contents on a slice of bread. He handed it to Arnold.
    â€œI’m Dave Stewart, I’m the night supervisor. What’s your name?”
    â€œArnold. Roth—” Arnold stopped there and hastily took a bite of the bread while he wondered if his name was still well known. Maybe not, but better not to take chances.
    The peanut butter was salty and sweet and very sticky. He swallowed and it went down like a lump.
    â€œCould I get something to drink?”
    â€œSure.”
    Stewart got out a glass and poured some milk into it. Arnold took a big swig, shivering a little as the cold hit his stomach.
    â€œWe’ll get you signed in and get you a bed. You can stay for three nights temporary, then if you still need help you can apply for a long-term shelter.”
    â€œThank you,” Arnold mumbled through another mouthful of food.
    Stewart’s gaze traveled over him and an eyebrow rose. “Maybe you’d like a change of clothes.”
    Arnold nodded enthusiastically. “Please!”
    â€œWhere’d you get those? Were you in a hospital or something?”
    Arnold grimaced and shook his head. “Long story. I’d love to have some decent clothes, though. And some shoes.”
    â€œWe’ll get you fixed up.”
    Arnold nodded his thanks as he chewed the last mouthful of bread. He finished the milk