Dead Man's Hand by Pati Nagle Page B

gambling being illegal in Jersey. If it had happened—and it sounded like it had—then some big money had changed hands.
    Arnold watched the game a little longer, then wandered away. He checked out a couple of other groups, turned down an offer of a bag of cocaine for ten bucks, noted the dope dealer’s size and appearance in case it might come in handy later. He hoped it wouldn’t. He didn’t plan on spending any more time than he had to in this hole.
    The lights were indeed shut off at ten. The blackjack game resumed after a decent interval, illuminated by a flashlight.
    Arnold lay down fully dressed on his wretched bed, between the blankets as he couldn’t bring himself to lie directly on the mattress. With his arms around his bundle he dozed lightly, alert to any sound of danger.
    When morning came, he lined up with the others for a serving of pasty oatmeal and burned toast, accompanied by watery coffee. He ate it in silence, sharing a table with a dozen assorted lowlifes, then left the shelter at a brisk walk, heading for the pawn shop.
    An amazing amount of traffic was cramming the street. The cars had gotten smaller and more colorful, quieter but throbbing with power, and a lot of them seemed to be playing music. As he gazed in wonder at the chaos, his attention was caught by one car that seemed out of place.
    The Packard. Long and black and menacing. He saw it coming toward him, and ducked down a side street and into a shop, hoping he hadn’t been seen.
    He waited a good while, pretending to read a magazine while he watched out the shop window for the car. It passed, and after a few more minutes he put back the magazine and ventured out, peering up and down the street.
    No sign of the car. He got his bearings and headed in the direction of the pawn shop. By the time he got there it was open, metal gate gone, windows filled with glittering junk.
    Arnold walked in and set his bundle on the counter. An overweight, bulb-nosed clerk shuffled out of the back, shot him a skeptical glance, then looked at the bundle in distaste.
    â€œA fence is expected to be a little subtle about presentation.”
    â€œThis is stuff from my grandmother’s attic,” Arnold said, untying the sheet. “She wouldn’t give me a box.”
    â€œYeah, sure. OK, what do we got here?”
    Arnold spread his haul out on the counter. The clerk poked through it, shaking his head. Arnold glanced around the shelves of goods for sale while he waited.
    â€œThis is crap.” said the clerk. “I’ll give you five dollars for all of it.”
    â€œIt’s worth at least ten,” Arnold said, based on his past knowledge and understanding of the species of pawn brokers. He pointed to a table of nicknacks. “You’re going to sell the picture frames for five apiece.”
    â€œWhat, you’re not going to rush back and claim them? OK, seven-fifty, and that’s it.”
    â€œWhat about the prayer shawl?”
    â€œIt’s no good. See, the fringe has been cut.”
    The clerk held up an end of the shawl. Arnold ignored it and gazed steadily at the clerk instead.
    â€œIt’s still decorative. You can sell it.”
    â€œOK, three bucks for the shawl. That makes ten.”
    â€œTen fifty,” Arnold said.
    Ten-fifty seemed like a lot, but who knew what things cost these days? If a cruddy little used picture frame went for five smackers, then ten wasn’t going to take him very far. The clerk counted out the dough and Arnold stuffed it in his right pocket, feeling a new gratitude for the existence of pockets. From the left he took out the little gold ring. The clerk’s eyebrows went up as he reached for it.
    â€œNice,” he said, nodding. “Gold plate.”
    â€œSolid gold,” Arnold said.
    The clerk gave him a sidelong glance. “Nice little piece. Give you ten for it.”
    â€œYou think?” Arnold reached to take it back. “Maybe I