David Barbour - Shadows Bend

Howard looked at the information on the roadside billboard. “I can see why it was man that conquered the planet,” said Howard. “Sorry, Glory, for bein’ so difficult.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“Seven hundred twenty-six feet high when it’s finished. Wow, that’s higher than the tallest pyramid, ain’t it?”

“The Great Pyramid of Khufu is only four hundred eighty-one feet tall, if I remember correctly from my research for Houdini,” said Lovecraft. “The dam will be thirty feet shorter than the pyramid is wide when it is complete.”

“Well, that makes this a hell of a lot more magnificent, don’t it? A nation like this could conquer the world, huh?”

“Do not forget,” said Lovecraft. “The Mesoamericans built an even greater pyramid. The old druidic races built Stonehenge, the Romans built their Coliseum, their roads, and their aqueducts. This makes me think less of conquest than of the wonders of the ancient world.”

“Please,” said Howard, but he was too late.

“The great Colossus over the harbor of Rhodes, the Lighthouse of Alexandria, the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, the Temple of Artemis at Ephesus, the—”

“Great Eye Pyramid of Atlantis,” said Howard, knowing that it would annoy him.

Lovecraft drew his eyebrows together to mark his displeasure. “Well, and now what are they all but ruins or myths? This rampart of stone is impressive for the moment, but it will not stand the test of centuries. Nor will the nation that built it. As for Atlantis, perhaps it has left not even a ruin of its great pyramid because it was all a figment of some man’s imagination.”

“Well, thank you very much for such an uplifting lecture,” said Glory.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to damp your high spirits,” said Lovecraft. “It’s just that I have little regard for such myths as Atlantis, Mu, and Lemuria. It has always disappointed me that Bob and Klarkash-Ton would write of such places when their own imaginations could have provided ample rich settings.”

“Like what?” Howard asked. “Some inbred New England backwater where you wouldn’t know if you were diddlin’ your cousin or a cow?”

Lovecraft turned away and didn’t reply.

“Bob,” Glory said, “don’t you think…” He had already stalked off to the car. She joined him there and sat for a while until Lovecraft had cooled down enough to return, and they drove the rest of the way to Boulder City in a stony silence.

WHEN THEY REACHED the fringes of the burgeoning town of Las Vegas, Glory was filled with the relief of knowing her trip was over. “Take the next right on Fremont Street,” she said.

“Where did you say your sister was employed?” Lovecraft inquired as if he were about to note the fact in his journal.

“The Boulder Club.”

Lovecraft couldn’t help the sarcasm that tinged his voice. “Ah, I should have guessed,” he said. “It seems to be a running theme in this barren province.”

As they entered the dim interior of the Boulder Club, Lovecraft was suddenly struck by the cold. He pulled his jacket around himself and looked around through the smoke that tinged the air. The smell of spilt beer and liquor, stale smoke, bad cooking from the kitchen; a tinge of anxiety, excitement, and dejection in the air in the scent of human sweat; the murmur of voices, mumbles under the breath, the occasional loud curse or shout of joy. This was not the place for him; this was the gateway of a doomed city, the fringe of Gomorrah waiting for its harbinger of destruction. Lovecraft followed Howard and Glory past the clatter and click of one-armed bandits spinning out their symbols and spitting out their change, the rustle and shuffle of dealers flicking cards onto green-velvet tabletops. And in the periphery, men pretending to look nonchalant as they kept vigil over each and every customer.

Glory’s sister, Beatrice, appeared to be about five years her elder.

Her station was behind the ornate wrought-iron grillwork of the cashier’s booth, and when Glory surprised her and they embraced through the bars it looked as if she were in a baroque jail cell. Glory made introductions, Beatrice eyeing the men, particularly Lovecraft, with a hint of suspicion. But she was pleasant, and after she signaled for someone to cover for her, she motioned the men over. “Here, please accept a complimentary chip on the house.” She gave Lovecraft and Howard each a fifty-cent chip. “You can only spend it here. Good luck.” Taking the hint, Lovecraft and Howard excused themselves to wander about the casino while the sisters absorbed themselves in their sisterly talk.

The casino was hardly full. As they walked about, obviously at a loss for what to do, a dealer motioned them over to an empty blackjack table.

“Afternoon, gents. Care to try a hand of blackjack?”

Howard looked down at the chip in his hand as if he had never seen one before. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said.

“I beg your pardon?”

Howard pulled at the dressing on his arm and produced the chip Imanito had wrapped there. It bore the symbol of a rock-exactly like’ the chips Beatrice had given them. “Now how do ya suppose he knew,’ huh?”

“Once again, I must beg your pardon, Bob. I have no clue regarding your allusion.”

“Imanito gave me this chip from this club.” When Lovecraft didn’t share his wonder, Howard simply shrugged. “Whaddaya say, Hp? We’ve both got a chip, and now there’s this extra. How’ bout some blackjack? ”

“No thank you, Bob. I believe I’ve experienced enough cheap parlor tricks for one trip with our Indian companion last night.” He handed his chip to Howard. “By all means though, you go right ahead and give this fine establishment its money back.”

“Since you’re insistin’.”

Howard placed both chips on the table and on his first hand he hit blackjack: a queen of spades and an ace of clubs. The dealer stopped with eighteen, and Howard had doubled his money. He grinned with pleasure and let the money ride, winning again. “Hey,” he said. “This could get to be fun.”

The dealer lost the next four hands in a row, busting each time after a sixteen or seventeen and Howard was up to sixteen dollars. Lovecraft was suspicious, but was not sure why until he realized that Howard had never been dealt a red card. Lovecraft paid close attention to the dealer now, but there was nothing amiss about his dealing except for the occasional twitch in his neck-probably just a nervous tic from working in such a stressful establishment. Now Lovecraft turned his attention to Howard, watching from behind as he flipped his facedown cards over to examine them. There was also nothing amiss, but once, as Howard was in the process of turning the card over and it still faced the table at an oblique angle so that its suit was still hidden to Howard, Lovecraft was sure he saw a seven of hearts. He was certain of it-it flashed a brilliant red, but then as the card angled up between Howard’s thumb and forefinger, it seemed to shimmer for a split second, and what Howard saw was a nine of spades. Lovecraft rubbed his eyes and shook his head. He tried to follow the turning of other cards, but Howard never again flipped one at just the right angle.

Finally, Lovecraft pulled Howard aside. “Doesn’t this seem to be the least bit strange to you?”

“What? I’m up to thirty-two bucks already.”

“I do not profess to know much about games of chance, but this dealer seems suspiciously inept. And have you noticed that you haven’t held a single red card? That flies against the laws of probability.”

“Look, I know you see Cthulhu arid your Great Old Ones in every dark corner, but I don’t think he hangs out in a damned casino. Leave me be, okay?”