American Gods by Neil Gaiman Page A

his jacket pocket, and then tapped the pocket to show, unmistakably, that it was empty.
    “There,” he said. “ That’s a coin trick for you.”
    Shadow, who had been watching closely throughout the impromptu performance, put his head on one side. “We have to talk about that,” he said. “I need to know how you did it.”
    “I did it,” said Sweeney, with the air of one confiding a huge secret, “with panache and style. That’s how I did it.” He laughed, silently, rocking on his heels, his gappy teeth bared.
    “Yes,” said Shadow. “That is how you did it. You’ve got to teach me. All the ways of doing the Miser’s Dream that I’ve read about you’d be hiding the coins in the hand that holds the glass, and dropping them in while you produce and vanish the coin in your right hand.”
    “Sounds like a hell of a lot of work to me,” said Mad Sweeney. “It’s easier just to pick them out of the air.” He picked up his half-finished Southern Comfort and Coke, looked at it, and put it down on the table.
    Wednesday stared at both of them as if he had just discovered new and previously unimagined life forms. Then he said, “Mead for you, Shadow. I’ll stick with Mister Jack Daniel’s, and for the freeloading Irishman…?”
    “A bottled beer, something dark for preference,” said Sweeney. “Freeloader, is it?” He picked up what was left of his drink, and raised it to Wednesday in a toast. “May the storm pass over us, and leave us hale and unharmed,” he said, and knocked the drink back.
    “A fine toast,” said Wednesday. “But it won’t.”
    Another mead was placed in front of Shadow.
    “Do I have to drink this?” he asked, without enthusiasm.
    “Yes, I’m afraid you do. It seals our deal. Third time’s the charm, eh?”
    “Shit,” said Shadow. He swallowed the mead in two large gulps. The pickled honey taste filled his mouth.
    “There,” said Mr. Wednesday. “You’re my man, now.”
    “So,” said Sweeney, “you want to know the trick of how it’s done?”
    “Yes,” said Shadow. “Were you loading them in your sleeve?”
    “They were never in my sleeve,” said Sweeney. He chortled to himself, rocking and bouncing as if he were a lanky, bearded, drunken volcano preparing to erupt with delight at his own brilliance. “It’s the simplest trick in the world. I’ll fight you for it.”
    Shadow shook his head. “I’ll pass.”
    “Now there’s a fine thing,” said Sweeney to the room. “Old Wednesdaygets himself a bodyguard, and the feller’s too scared to put up his fists, even.”
    “I won’t fight you,” agreed Shadow.
    Sweeney swayed and sweated. He fiddled with the peak of his baseball cap. Then he pulled one of his coins out of the air and placed it on the table. “Real gold, if you were wondering,” said Sweeney. “Win or lose—and you’ll lose—it’s yours if you fight me. A big fellow like you—who’d’a thought you’d be a fucken coward?”
    “He’s already said he won’t fight you,” said Wednesday. “Go away, Mad Sweeney. Take your beer and leave us in peace.”
    Sweeney took a step closer to Wednesday. “Call me a freeloader, will you, you doomed old creature? You cold-blooded, heartless old tree-hanger.” His face was turning a deep, angry red.
    Wednesday put out his hands, palms up, pacific. “Foolishness, Sweeney. Watch where you put your words.”
    Sweeney glared at him. Then he said, with the gravity of the very drunk, “You’ve hired a coward. What would he do if I hurt you, do you think?”
    Wednesday turned to Shadow. “I’ve had enough of this,” he said. “Deal with it.”
    Shadow got to his feet and looked up into Mad Sweeney’s face: how tall was the man? he wondered. “You’re bothering us,” he said. “You’re drunk. I think you ought to leave now.”
    A slow smile spread over Sweeney’s face. “There, now,” he said. “Like a little yapping dog, it’s finally ready to fight. Hey, everybody,” he called to