Dead Man's Hand by Pati Nagle Page A

said. “That OK?”
    â€œOh, yes, thank you.”
    â€œI think there’s an evening bus to Atlantic City,” the woman continued.
    â€œIt may have left already,” said the man.
    What was a bus, Clive wondered? He’d find out, he supposed. If it was a means of conveyance and would take him to Atlantic City, he’d be satisfied. He had an intuition that his troubles would be solved if he could hie himself to that resort.
    A spell by the sea would soothe his soul. A game or two of bluff would restore his pocket, and he might find some pleasant feminine company. All would be well.
    â€œWe’re Bob and Sheila Dickerson,” the woman said, turning her head to speak to him. He could hear the smile in her voice.
    â€œClive Sebastian.”
    â€œNice to meet you, Clive. I’m sorry it’s under such unhappy circumstances.”
    â€œThank you kindly, ma’am. And thank you for your assistance. I’m most humbly grateful.”
    The vehicle was accelerating at a frightening pace. Clive was suddenly glad of the lashings holding him to the seat. He bit down on a scream of terror as they hurtled forward into the night.
    â€œYou really ought to report being robbed,” said the man sternly.
    â€œIf he doesn’t want to, that’s his choice,” said the woman.
    Clive couldn’t answer, as he was still occupied with fighting not to scream. Lights of other vehicles sped toward them, then just when he was sure they would collide they swept past, so close he could hear the rush of wind. The car leaned from side to side as the man, who was driving, followed the road that disappeared before them into the dark.
    It was a nightmare after all, Clive decided, which might be a blessing. Eventually he’d have to wake up.
    â€œSometimes the police aren’t any help, I’m sorry to say,” the woman added.
    Clive had an intuition these were God-fearing people, in spite of how the woman had been dressed, how familiarly she addressed him and how intimately she’d touched him while lashing him to the seat. He knew how to speak to such folk.
    With an effort he swallowed, then unclenched his teeth long enough to say, “The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.”
    â€œAmen,” said the woman.
    Aha. He’d been right. He revised the little plan he’d been making of suggesting a game of cards to the gentleman when they stopped. He’d been hoping to begin repairing his pocket. Not with these folks, though, and just as well. Their generosity should not be repaid with despoiling their financial resources. Clive made a silent vow, in case Mr. Dickerson did want to play cards, not to cheat.
    â€œWhere are you from, Clive?” asked Mrs. Dickerson.
    He cleared his throat. “Tennessee, ma’am. Clarksville.”
    â€œAnd what do you do?”
    That question posed him a difficulty. To admit that he made his living by gambling would not win him any favor from these good folk. He decided on an answer that was truthful while avoiding the mark.
    â€œI am a traveler, ma’am.”
    â€œA traveler?” said Mr. Dickerson, sounding displeased. “You mean a migrant?”
    â€œBob, please,” said Mrs. Dickerson.
    Clive sensed he was on dangerous ground. “I have been a stevedore, a fireman, and a roustabout,” he said. “I make my living where I can, sir. It may not be glamorous, but it’s honest work.”
    â€œOf course it is,” said the lady, her tone reproachful toward her husband. “And how terrible that you’ve been robbed! Oh, my goodness—are you hurt? I didn’t even think to ask!”
    â€œNo, I’m all right,” Clive said, even as a memory of Jones’s knife flashed in his mind.
    â€œWe could take you to a hospital—”
    â€œNo, no. Thank you, ma’am, but I am unhurt.”
    Reminded of how unexpected that was, Clive fell into silent pondering. Where had