The Dead Man’s Hand

Author’s Note: This story was previously published in Frontier Cthulhu: Ancient Horrors in the New World (Call of Cthulhu Fiction), Chaosium 2007.  I loved writing a story set in Seattle.  I later used the character of Remington Borri in a number of other stories and even novels.

“The Dead Man’s Hand”

by Jason Andrew

On the steamship voyage from San Francisco to Seattle, Finneas Bagley won three thousand dollars in a poker game while sipping his customary olive martini.  He had planned to spend a quiet, leisurely trip on the upper passenger deck.  He might have resisted the temptation to gamble if a young lad had not overheard his name mentioned by the concierge.  The boy gingerly approached him holding a weathered copy of a dime novel titled Wild West Stories.  “Are you Finneas Bagley?”

Finneas had not been considered young in several decades, but his eyes still gleamed with boyish charm.  He had gained a small pooch in his belly, but he was still an impressive figure clad in velvet.  “I have that dubious honor, son.”

“Is it true that you saw Wild Bill draw the Dead Man’s Hand?”

The old man rolled his eyes and then wiped his brow.  “I did indeed witness that unfortunate tragedy.”

After that, various passengers constantly harangued him to recall the dreadful night.  Of course, he told the popularized version of the evening’s events.  If he had told them the truth, he would be labeled a madman.  It was quite arduous, but then he never had to pay for a single meal or drink.  Several men wanted to play poker with one of the men that had been playing poker when Wild Bill Hickok drew the infamous aces and eights in black and was murdered by Jack McCall.

Finneas was careful to avoid winning too much.  Professional gamblers sometimes paid scouts to watch opponents for their tells.  There was a big game in Seattle, perhaps the biggest of his career.  Finneas made a strong effort to keep his winnings low, but several traveling businessmen insisted upon making colossal blunders.  He prided himself on being an honest gambler and an occasional scoundrel.  Many sharpers were rogues that cheated to win.  Still, he could use the extra money to build his stake.  He wasn’t entirely certain how much money was required to enter this game.  He only knew that this game would be his last chance for immortality.

As soon as the ship reached port, he hailed a carriage and passed along a note with an address.  The coachman winked and Finneas suspected he was well acquainted with the destination.

The landscape of the Puget Sound was lush with vibrant colors of green and brown.  Seattle was a small camp built in the middle of a series of murky mudflats.  The trip from the docks was quite bumpy as the driver attempted to dodge several of the potholes in the dirt road.  Some of them were several feet deep and filled with foul-smelling water.  The carriage slid to a stop, jerking Finneas forward and knocking the bowler off his head.  He glanced out of the window to see one of the only brick buildings in the camp.  He stepped out, over another mud puddle, and was warmly greeted by a short boisterous woman of many curves and charms.  “Finneas Bagley!  It’s about time you show up, you old scoundrel!”

Finneas kissed her lightly upon the cheek.  “Miss Lou Graham, it is my privilege and honor to see you once again; though I am unaware that I had announced my arrival.”

She grinned slyly.  “I run the best brothel and gambling hall in three states.  Not much happens in this town that I don’t hear about in the morning over toast and coffee.”  Lou curtsied wryly.  “And when I found out what deck they would be playing with, I knew you would be arriving soon enough.”

Finneas wiggled his eyebrows and leaned closer.  “As I hoped, my beautiful dove.  Alas, while I have heard news of the pending game, I have not yet secured arrangements for an invitation.”

Lou fluttered her eyes.  “Such arrangements might be nigh on impossible.  I’ve seen man and beast with better clothing and fatter wallets turned away.”  She whispered into his ear.  “But it might be possible that I know of a potential benefactor for your cause.”

“How much would such information cost, my ever succulent lambchop?”

Lou’s eyes narrowed.  “Fifteen percent.”

Finneas scoffed.  “Would you take my shirt and shoes then?  Five percent!”

Lou rubbed his chin with her forefinger.  “Ten percent.  And a free room.”

Finneas took her hand and kissed it.  “My dear, we have an understanding between us.”

Lou’s smile returned.  “You want to find Lewis Borri.  He’s a local Jew doctor.  He has a stake in the game, but doesn’t play cards.  I’ve heard that he’s looking for a proxy.”

Finneas rubbed his hands together eagerly.  “I’ve heard many stories of him in other circles.  Well then, Miss Lou, if you would honor my arm by escorting me to the tables?”

The gambling den smelled of sweat, tobacco, booze, and cheap perfume, which suited Finneas nicely.  Lou had five poker tables, all of them busy.  Customers gulped drinks at an ornate wooden bar.  Several of Lou’s soiled doves were plying their trade.  Some were dancing for twenty-five cents a song.  Others were hawking drinks or other more intimate pleasures.  Lou gestured to a dark curly-haired man who appeared to be no older than twenty.

Finneas frowned.  “That cannot be Borri!  Surely it is his son.  The man should be pushing forty, if the stories are true.”

“I’ve known him for fifteen years and he’s never aged a day.”  Lou shrugged. “Everyone is too afraid to call him on it.  He might look like a tenderfoot, but he can turn a man yellow with just a word.  He’s a real curly wolf that one.”

Borri was a thin, frail looking man with delicate features.  He was studying the various games, tracking the winners and losers.  Lou tugged him towards the center of the room, amongst the tables and players.  “Pick a table and we’ll cash you in, Mr. Bagley.  We’ll have your room ready for you when you are tired.”  It was said loudly enough that several turned their heads from their various activities to take a look at the new player.  Now, the gamblers knew that he had money, and if Lou’s attentions were an indication, quite a bit of it.

Finneas closed his eyes and listened to the shuffling of the decks.  The familiar rhythm of cards shuffling brought a grin to his face.  He listened for a few seconds and then scowled. “Alas, Miss Lou, I regret that I can not play cards in this establishment.”  Several of the gamblers craned their necks to listen.  He pointed at a thin gaunt man that had been shuffling the cards.  “The dealer is cheating.”

The players at the table reached for their guns.  Lou pulled a derringer from her garter belt and shot into the air.  “Wait!  Wait!  My games are all clean according to Hoyle!”  She glared at Finneas.  “You’d best explain yourself.”

Finneas held his own hands in the air, palms up.  “If I may demonstrate.”

Lou wagged her finger at him.  “You had better be right.  We take accusations of cheating dead serious around here.”

Finneas winked.  “What was the high card from the hand?”

“Ace of Spades,” a ruffian replied.  He had a small pile of chips and a peacemaker revolver in his hand and wasn’t in a mood to be too particular about who he used it on.

Finneas reached across the table and scooped the deck of cards into his hands.  “Let’s just deal face up and see what would have happened.”

He expertly dealt the players their hands, in the same order as the round would have played.  Deuce of Clubs, Five of Diamonds, Six of Hearts, and the Ace of Spades.

The burly man with a dusty rancher’s hat snarled defensively.  He had the largest pile of chips at the table.  “That just proves I’m lucky.”  He leveled his six-shooter at Finneas, but the other three players were aiming their weapons towards him.

The gaunt man cocked his pistol and stood.  “You cheating, Bart?  You ain’t ever had a lucky streak like this!”

The dealer started sweating.  He raised his hands gingerly.  “That don’t prove nothing.”

Finneas nodded, solemnly.  “That my lad, is very true.  But let us continue and see what fate the cards had for these players.”  He quickly dealt through the rest of the deal.  Bart drew the Ace of Clubs, the Ace of Diamonds, and the Five of Hearts.  “That my friends is a handsome hand.”

Lou aimed her derringer to the back of the dealer’s head.  “How’d he do it?”

“There is a rather unique sound to dealing from the bottom of the deck.  It is a hard thump, but with the noise in this room hardly noticeable unless you were listening for it.”  Finneas waved his hand over the covered poker table.  “That is why steamboats on the Mississippi only allow hard wood tables.”

Lou cocked her derringer and patted the dealer on the shoulder.  He closed his eyes, shaking, fighting tears.  “Sorry, Pete.  You know the rules.”

Finneas quietly sipped a martini, annoyed that there were no olives to be had in Seattle.  The ruckus from the gunfight had died down and he was weary.  He wanted to go to his room minus the complementary dancing girl, but he waited for Borri to approach him.  He did not have to wait long.  “I’ve heard a great deal about you, Mr. Bagley.”

Finneas nodded.  “It would seem that the deeds of my youth have been wildly exaggerated.”

“Lou informs me we have common business interests.”  He gestured to a side room.  “Shall we speak in private?”

“Of course, Doctor Borri.  Your reputation is well-known.”

Borri strode to a door on the side of the bar, opened it, and bowed.  Finneas followed and entered first, secretly gripping his pistol.  Borri followed and closed the door behind them, locked it, and then gestured to two comfortable looking plush chairs.  “Please sit, Mr. Bagley.  I am going to ensure that our conversation remains private.”  He pulled a small beaker from his jacket pocket and pulled out the wooden cork.  It was filled with a white, milk-like liquid.  He dropped a few drips in front of the door and smiled.  “There!  That is as much privacy as I can assure.”

Finneas wasn’t certain what Borri had just done, but he didn’t want to ask.  Borri was quite infamous for his involvement in the occult.  “I trust this is about the upcoming game.”

Borri nodded.  “You are seeking Tituba’s Deck.  I am seeking a proxy to play for my interests.  The winner of the evening will receive Tituba’s Deck.  It has become known to me that you wish to procure it.  Why?”

Finneas swallowed nervously.  “That damned deck of cards destroyed a great man.  I’ve tracked it for years while learning all that I could about it.  I know that it can’t be destroyed, but I can prevent others from falling to its seductive charms.”

“And you believe that you can resist its siren charms?”  Borri asked.

“I did once before in Deadwood with Wild Bill.  I caused him to draw the Dead Man’s Hand.”  Finneas finished his martini.  It felt good to admit this to someone.  “If I had stayed in the game, I would have burned off the last few cards.”

Borri narrowed his eyes.  “If that is true, then you saw what really happened.”

“I felt uneasy and didn’t know why so I folded.  I ordered a drink and stepped away from the table.  After Wild Bill drew the Dead Man’s Hand, a thick black fog seeped forth from the cards.  A black figure reached for Wild Bill.  We were all struck with panic.  It laughed maliciously.  McCall panicked and shot Wild Bill.  Afterwards, the smoke cleared and no one else there seemed to remember that part.  If I hadn’t folded, Wild Bill wouldn’t have drawn that hand.”

“Perhaps that is true.  However, I believe that fate and the cards will not be denied.”

“Does the Dead Man’s Hand always mean death?”  Finneas asked.

Borri shook his head sadly.  “Not as you mean it.  Tituba’s Deck was made in mockery of the tarot.  Spades for swords, hearts for cups, diamonds for coins, and clubs for wands.  During play, if a player draws the correct combination of cards, it can summon the Black Man.”

“The Lord of Witches?  I had heard the legend, but hardly credited it to be true, despite what I had witnessed,” Finneas protested.

Borri shrugged. “He is known by many names.  In this guise, he is the lord of witches.  I suspect his company would be unpleasant for you.”

“Do you know where it came from?”

“I do.  And if you agree to be my proxy, I shall explain all.”

“What are the stakes?”  Finneas asked.  He didn’t like playing without knowing the rewards.

“Several luminaries are quarreling over matters that do not concern you.  The winner of this game will be allowed to dictate certain terms that do not concern you and yours.”

“Why would they let a card game decide?”  Finneas asked.

“As you know, this deck of cards is special.  Unique.  Some of them will consider this a form of worship.”  Borri shrugged his shoulders.  “I cannot say more until I have your word that you will be my proxy.”

“What happens if I lose?”  Finneas asked.

“There is no penalty for losing.”  Borri grinned.  “Of course, the game has other dangers, of which you have witnessed, yes?”

“What would have happened if McCall hadn’t shot Wild Bill?”

“The Black Man would have taken him.  His life would have been a series of unending torments.  McCall unknowingly did him quite the favor.”

“Forgive me for seeming rude, but why not play yourself?”  Finneas asked.

Borri coughed.  “Gambling is not one of my skills, Mr. Bagley.  This is a game that cannot be fixed or marked.  Tituba’s Deck won’t allow it.”

Finneas spat in his hand and extended it.  Borri rolled his eyes, spat in his hand, and then took his hand.  “We have a compact then.  I shall make the arrangements.”

“It would help me win if I knew everything about Tituba’s Deck.”

Borri nodded.  “The legend is true.  Tituba’s Deck was a gift from the Black Man to the witch Tituba in Salem over two hundred years ago.  It has the ability to tempt those that play to lose themselves in the game.”

Finneas scratched his chin.  Wild Bill had played like a fiend, foregoing sleep and food.  Had he been enchanted?  “Why was I able to leave the game then?”

“I suspect that you view gambling as a profession, a skill.  It is not mysterious, nor random to you.”  Borri coughed into his handkerchief.  “Forgive me, I was recently poisoned and the toxin is still working its way through my system.  As you might surmise, the cards have a life of their own.  Madness follows Tituba’s Deck everywhere.  Salem is proof enough of that.”

Finneas thought about it a moment.  “You seem to know quite a bit at such a young age.”

Borri grinned, showing off his perfect white teeth.  “I assure you that I am far older that I appear.”

“If that is so, sir, then you must have found the legendary fountain of youth.”  Borri appeared no older than twenty years.  “Would you care to share the secret?”

“Perhaps, if you win this game this evening, I shall give you a small taste.”

Lou’s brothel had been closed to the public around eleven that evening.  It was very early end for the brothel, but the tournament promised that Lou would make up every lost cent and double an average night’s profits.  Finneas was pleased that the arrangements had been made so quickly, but learned that the other players had been waiting for Borri to select a proxy for several weeks.  Whatever the stakes of the game, he realized that the contestants considered it very important.

Finneas took a bath and a shave. He then dressed in his finest ensemble and tied his favorite cravat.  If he was going to die gambling tonight, he wanted to ensure that he left a well-groomed and snappily dressed corpse.  He descended the stairs and was surprised to see that the layout of the gaming room had been rearranged.  The overhead oil lamps had been removed and replaced with candles.  The air of jovial excitement had been drained from the room; there was only anticipation, dread, and loathing.  He had seen many strange things in the dark cracks of this world, but rarely had he felt the dread creeping into his stomach as it did as he entered the gaming room.  It smelled faintly of fish and sulfur.

Borri glanced over Finneas’s clothing and nodded his wry approval.  He gestured for Finneas to take the fourth seat at the poker table.  Lou sat in the dealer’s chair and introduced each of the players.  There was a small group of presumed luminaries hidden in the shadows whispering to each other.  They spoke in hideous, unknowable languages with clicks of the tongue and gargles of the throat.  He tried to get a good look at them, but the candle light left too many shadows for them to hide their faces.  “It would perhaps be better if you didn’t look too closely in the shadows,” Borri whispered.

Finneas felt like a christian awaiting the lions in the coliseum.  He watched the other players carefully during the first few rounds of the game.  Jimmy “the shark” Schultz was a lean fellow with large bulbous eyes.  His cheeks were sunken and his lips were wide giving the impression of a fish.  He knew that the Shark was from the east coast and stuck mostly to Massachusetts.  Occasionally, the Shark won a couple of large pots in Boston and then disappeared for years at a time.  He played cautiously, slowing grinding out small wins.

Dog-Eye Eric Vanhee was a swarthy, voluminous man with jet black hair.  He chewed constantly like a goat, occasionally spitting into a spittoon.  Dog-Eye traveled extensively in the southern territories, occasionally making it to San Francisco.  Finneas had the dubious pleasure of meeting Dog-Eye at a gambling house in Chinatown where he had a pretty girl on each arm and a jug of rice wine on the table.  Finneas had been able to watch him play before leaving.  He played aggressively, as though each hand meant life or death.

Samuel Kane was an old man with thin, puffs of white hair upon his otherwise bald head.  It was rare for a gambler to reach old age without retiring willing or via the busiest end of a bullet.  Samuel rarely moved as it seemed that each motion stirred pain in his joints.  As his own hands had started to creak in the mornings, Finneas very much sympathized.  Samuel seemed content to play each hand and take a measure of his opponents.  Although he had never heard of this man, Finneas pegged him as the potential threat.

The game progressed slowly.  Schultz played conservatively while Vanhee raised the pot several times.  It was easy enough to push Dog-Eye Vanhee out of the game.  Aside from keeping count of the various cards in play, Finneas noted that Vanhee counted his chips every time he had a good hand.  His body would tense as though preparing to fight.  Finneas, Schultz, and Samuel took turns draining Vanhee’s chips.

Two hours into the game, Finneas won a hand with three of kind.  Vanhee growled.  His cheeks flushed and he slammed his fists down upon the table.  His fingers became clawlike, ferrous, and monstrous.  Tiny bone horns peeked out from his thick hair.  Worried, Finneas started to reach subtly for his pistol.  A deep voice from the shadows silenced Vanhee; it chilled Finneas.  “Do not shame me further.”

Vanhee’s shoulders slumped and then he stood and left the table.  Finneas and Samuel had piles of chips roughly the same size.  Schultz trailed them by half, but he had been slowly adding to his pile.  Finneas changed his strategy and started betting less and letting Schultz win a couple of hands.  Samuel matched his attack, which worried him.  Meanwhile, Schultz started getting more aggressive.  Each win of five dollars became a loss of ten dollars in his mind.  As he started winning more hands, Schultz started betting more.  Finneas and Samuel fed him just a little and then pulled the chair out from under him.  Schultz started losing in larger and larger quantities.  Once his nerve was rattled, Schultz was desperate to win big.  An hour later, Vanhee lost his last hand.  He bowed to the table and left.

“Time for a break, gentlemen,” Lou announced.

Borri handed Finneas a martini with olives.  “Thank you, kind sir.  How ever did you manage to find olives?”

Borri shrugged shyly and chose not to answer the question.  “You seem to be doing quite well.”

Finneas scowled.  “Perhaps not, sir.”

“Explain.”

“Mr. Kane is a complete conundrum.  I cannot fathom his tells.”  He sipped the martini.  “And he is good.  He’s playing off me as though he knows everything.”

Borri took a drink of coffee.  “That he is, but then he has been playing for many a year.”

“Surely, I would have heard of him,” Finneas protested.  He knew all of the best sharps in the country.

“That man has had many names.  I wouldn’t be surprised if you did know of some of them.  He is the reason I sought you.  I couldn’t gamble against him.”  Borri wiped his brow, sweating.

“Perhaps, if you told me his story, I could play better against him.”

“He is my third son.”

Finneas glanced over to Samuel Kane and took note of his advanced years and thin grey hair.  “Of course, he is.”

“My appearance is quite deceiving.  I am a master of the alchemical arts.  I have lived quite well for far longer than you can imagine possible, Mr. Bagley.”

“Why do you want your son to lose so badly?”  Finneas asked.

Borri grimaced.  “If he wins, he shall face a doom hither fore unknown to this world.”

“He’s dying, isn’t he?”  Finneas asked, suspicious.

“Enemies of mine poisoned all of my children.  I was able to counteract the toxin, but at a price.  My art can no longer prolong his life.  He was condemned to a single lifetime.  And now, he seeks to win the approval of the Black Man.”

“His immortal soul for his life?”

“Save my son, and that which I cannot give onto him shall be yours.”

Finneas began the next round slowly.  He wanted to prolong each hand, hoping that Samuel would become impatient.  His opponent remained calm.  They played for several hours, neither side taking a decisive victory.  It had turned into an endurance game.

Finneas drew the Queen of Hearts and the Queen of Diamonds for his two face-up cards.  Samuel drew the Ace of Spades and the Eight of Clubs.  Finneas started the bet at five dollars.  Samuel matched it, raising it by ten.  Finneas called and then Lou dealt each of them the rest of their cards.

Finneas glanced at his cards and was pleased to see three Queens and a Jack of Diamonds.  Samuel checked his cards and visibly blanched.  Finneas raised the bet by fifty.  Sweating, Samuel matched the raise and bet an additional five hundred.  It was all of his chips.  Finneas barely had enough to match it.  It was a risky move, but it wasn’t his money and he had to try to win at all costs.  “Call.”

Samuel sighed.  He flipped over his hand; Ace of Spades, Ace of Clubs, Eight of Spades, Eight of Clubs and six of Clubs.  The crowd was gasped; it was the Dead Man’s Hand.

Finneas glanced over at Borri.  He had the cards to win, but wasn’t sure that Borri would still want it.  The alchemist nodded sadly.  The room was silent like the dead.  Finneas flipped over his hand.

Samuel clutched his chest as the black mist began to rise from the cards, burning his fingers.  Finneas dropped the cards and tried to see Samuel through the haze.  He imagined Samuel’s heart beating, struggling to burst through the chest.  His own heart burned, his chest barely able to contain his fear.  A hand formed in the mist and reached for Samuel.  “Father!  Help me!”

Finneas drew his pistol, aimed at Samuel’s heart, and fired twice.  Samuel slumped into his seat.  Black blood seeped from his wound.  A heinous howl erupted from the mist as it began to fade.  “Tell my father, I understand.”

Borri stood over his son.  He leaned over him and whispered.  “I am very proud of you, Son.”

Samuel struggled to make his last few wet, raspy breaths.  He reached for his father, but his muscles twitched throwing off his aim.  Borri held his son’s hand and watched him die.  “I’m very sorry, Doctor Borri,” Finneas whispered.  “I couldn’t stand to let the Black Man take him.”

Borri reached into his pocket and produced a small vial.  “Drink this within the hour and all I promised shall come true.”

Finneas accepted the vial gratefully and turned to scoop up the remaining cards in Tituba’s Deck.  “Thank you, Doctor Borri.”

“I would run now, if I were you.”  Borri cradled his dead son in his arms.  “It has already started.”

Finneas sniffed the air.  There was smoke somewhere near by.  He had not noticed it previously due to the mist.  “We should leave the building.”

Borri scoffed.  “I will remain here.  I suggest leaving now, Mr. Bagley.”

Finneas slipped Tituba’s Deck into his pocket, grabbed Lou by the arm, and made his way to the door.  The black smoke was thick on the city streets.  “Do you have a fire department?”

“Only a bunch of drunken volunteers!”  Lou yelled.

She had to yell over the screams and panic of the townspeople.  As the fire swept up the street consuming building after building, they treaded up the steep slope hoping to escape the city limits.  An explosion rocked the area as the liquor store caught fire.  Exhausted, they stood on the hill watching the city burn.  He thought of Tituba’s Deck and wondered if it had caused this as punishment for denying the Black Man his rightful prey.  He pulled out the small vial and flipped the stopper off with his thumb.  Finneas gulped the foul-smelling liquid and fell back upon his rear.

“I’m ruined!”  Lou cried.

“So are we all, Miss Lou.  So are we all.”