Dead Man's Hand Read Online Free PDF Page A

strangest desire to go to Atlantic City. That made no sense, but what the hell did make sense in this screwy world?
    He searched the mausoleum for a back door. Found one, but it was bolted shut, too. Didn’t they have fire regulations about that?
    He jogged back to the front doors. Just that little effort got him sweating. He needed to lose weight, get back in shape. Doctors were always nagging him. Probably they were right, but he just didn’t care enough. He had money, so he could get what he wanted without being young and beautiful. Good thing, ‘cause he was neither any more.
    Once he had been. Once the girls had hung on him just for his looks, forget the money. Of course, it didn’t hurt to be the son of Ronny Runyon, founder of the Rabbit’s Foot Casino. Old Ronny had been one of the friendliest gamesters in town and one of the meanest SOBs if you crossed him. Living in his shadow was a hell of a drag, but the perks made it tolerable.
    Daddy Ronny was long dead, though. He was up there in the marble wall. Ned had succeeded him as owner of the Rabbit’s Foot, but he’d lost the casino, along with his gaming license, in a power struggle with his siblings. He now had nothing left to do in life except indulge his appetites.
    The drugs, the women, the gambling. They would kill him someday, but he was resigned to that. He enjoyed the hell out of them, and had no reason to go looking for another kind of life.
    His gaze fell on a fire extinguisher mounted to the wall by the hallway. He grabbed it and swung it at one of the glass doors. It took two tries to break through, and a few more swings to clear enough glass so he could get through the opening. Alarm bells clanged the whole time, but he ignored them. He tossed the fire extinguisher aside and stepped through the door.
    A big, black limo sat at the curb. Lincoln town car, had mob written all over it.
    Ned’s heart started pumping and he turned around, heading behind the mausoleum. He hustled his steps and was out of breath by the time he’d got the building between him and the car.
    He sneezed and rubbed at his eyes some more. A hot breeze was blowing, and there was always some obnoxious, high-allergen weed blooming in the desert.
    Maybe he should go to Atlantic City. Might change his luck. Get away from Randy, find a less sadistic bitch to warm his bed. Randy was a fucking psychopath. Not that she was warming his bed much anymore. She only came around when she wanted something from him.
    He frowned, trying to remember whatever it was that niggled at him. Randy wanted money.
    She always wanted money. No, that wasn’t it. He’d figure it out later. First he had to get home.
    He dashed to the wall that surrounded the grounds, keeping an eye peeled toward the limo. No sign of movement there. He climbed on top of a dumpster and hopped over the wall, then hustled up the street, keeping off the sidewalk as much as he could.
    When he got to the corner he looked cautiously around. No limo, but no taxis either. Not much traffic; this time of night all the action was downtown and on the Strip.
    He really didn’t want to walk anywhere, but it looked like he’d have to find a phone, ‘cause there weren’t any taxis around here at night. Cussing under his breath, he crossed the street to a convenience store, keeping a wary eye out for the black limo.
    He could see the lights of Fremont Street and the tower of the Rabbit’s Foot. He felt a pang for the old casino, even though these days he preferred the Palms. He squinted at the tower. For a minute it looked like the big rabbit’s foot was gone, replaced with a giant “R.”
    Hallucinating. He shook his head and rubbed at his eyes, but it didn’t go away. Annoyed, he went into the convenience store.
    His feet were killing him. The shoes he had on, Armanis, were new and expensive and uncomfortable as hell, not meant for hiking around in. He was getting a blister