Page 31 of Joker's Ghost
“What?” Cobra gives me a look like I’m speaking a foreign language.
“The hi-def flat screens where we watch baseball, football . . .”
Cobra’s brows draw together, amping up my anxiety. “Put the radio on in my office if you wanna hear the scores.”
I pat my pockets, looking for my phone. That would tell me the exact date, ending this bullshit once and for all. One thing they couldn’t argue with was technology.
“What are you looking for, your smokes?” Cobra asks.
“Nah, my phone.”
“Your phone?” Cobra makes a face. “You wanna make a call?” He digs a nickel out of his pocket and slaps it on the bar. “Use the payphone in the back.”
“I don’t know what the hell is goin’ on here, or if you guys are just fuckin’ with me, but something ain’t right.”
“Yeah, you seem a little confused. Maybe you oughta go home and rest.”
“It’s not me who’s confused.” I motion around the room. “This place looks exactly like the picture you showed me when The Gold Mine first opened in the late 30s.”
Cobra cocks his head. “You mean that one?” He points to the newspaper folded on the other side of the bar.
“Hey, Rattler, give me that paper.”
Rattler hands me the paper, and below the fold is an article about The Gold Mine. Then I look at the date in the margin: October 31, 1939.
“Where did you get this paper?” I ask him.
“The kid delivered it this morning.”
“Like something special for the party.” My heart is pumping faster, and what’s worse, Rattler and Cobra are looking at me like I’m fuckin’ nuts.
“The same kid who delivers the paper every morning.” Rattler takes it from me and puts it back behind the bar. “I’m saving it to read later, then I’ll cut out the picture and tack it up behind the bar.”
Right, the same yellowed, wrinkled picture framed behind the bar in 2025. Something very fucked up is going on here, but I realize if I don’t play along, they’ll think I’m crazy for sure.
Python joins us at the bar, then leans into Cobra. “You hear anything yet, Boss?”
“Nah, all quiet so far. Maybe they’re gonna lay low and let us enjoy our Halloween.”
“Who’re you talking about?” I ask.
Cobra and Rattler exchange a look. “Warrior and his crew from up north.”
“Refresh my memory.” I rub the back of my head where a golf-ball-size lump has popped up. “I’m still a little foggy.”
“The Shoshones got all of Northern Nevada, and up past Oregon, but when they heard we were building a big casino up on The Strip, they got greedy. They wanted a piece of it, claiming all this land was originally theirs.”
“It probably was theirs.”
“Yeah, well, we got The Gold Mine, and we bought the property on The Strip, fair and square. Just ‘cause Warrior’s young, he’s trying to prove himself, but he can forget it.”
“Warrior’s young?”
“Shit, how hard did you hit your head?” Python laughs. “You were with us the other day when we had the sit-down with him.”
“Yeah, right.” Only the sit-down I remember took place in 2025, not 1939, and Warrior was an old man.
I let Cobra and Python continue the conversation without me. I remember going down the basement with Python for a case of beer. Then, on the way back up, I heard that fucked-up sound, and then I fell—like someone or something pushed me.
