Dead Man's Hand by Pati Nagle

Penstemon’s girl, and until he had built up some clout he had nothing to offer.
    Uniforms opened the doors for them. Just uniforms. There were no heads beneath the caps that seemed to float in the air above the black coats with polished silver buttons. More whatchacallems, Arnold presumed. Like the driver.
    Quiet, jazzy music played as Arnold followed Mishka into the lobby. An albino woman and a bald-headed guy with long, pointed ears stood talking to a young woman behind the counter. Both wore dark leather pants and jackets with a lot of silver zippers and studs.
    The albino turned her head, fixing ice-blue eyes on Arnold as he passed, then whispered into one of her companion’s astounding ears. He glanced at Arnold and grinned, revealing teeth as long and pointed as the ears. Arnold tensed, remembering stories his grandmother had told. Dubbyks and golems. Stuff to frighten unruly children.
    â€œWhat the hell kind of place is this?” Arnold muttered as he followed Mishka to the right.
    â€œIt’s a resort,” she said. “A top-shelf hotel and casino that caters to alternative lifestyles.”
    â€œAlternative? Is that what you call it? Did you see the ears on that guy?”
    Mishka smoothed her hair over her own ears and ignored the question. “This way,” she said, leading him along a wide corridor that twined snake-like through the hotel.
    He swallowed his misgivings. “They still have good jazz here?”
    Mishka shook her head. “Not like you would remember. Most of the emphasis is on gambling these days.”
    â€œToo bad.”
    â€œMr. Penstemon sponsors good concerts now and then, or so I’ve heard. I’m not a music lover.”
    â€œJust who is this Penstemon, anyway?”
    She gazed back at him, eyes wide with innocence. “He’s the owner of the Black Queen. You’ll meet him soon.”
    They passed some weird abstract sculptures and a couple more fountains, then went through a lounge area where people were sitting on plush sofas and chairs, listening to a trio of piano, sax, and string bass on a glowing blue dais. The instruments appeared to be playing by themselves.
    The music was good, though the people listening to it were all a little odd. Too tall, too short, too pale or too dark—or too green—to call normal. Some wore strange clothes. Arnold knew he wasn’t up on the current fashions, but he was pretty sure the Thomas Jefferson getup wasn’t a hot fad.
    A red-haired woman in a silvery dress pointed at Arnold and said something to her friends. Heads turned as he and Mishka walked past. Arnold got the feeling these people knew who he was, a feeling that he was used to, but that had been distinctly absent since he woke up in the cemetery.
    Leaving the lounge behind, they followed a curving hallway through an arcade of shops. Tobacconist, liquor store, even a book shop was unremarkable, but some of the other places gave Arnold the creeps.
    One marked “Apothecary” looked more like a zoo. It was full of critters in cages and funny-looking plants. Another simply labeled “Boutique” had the weirdest assortment of clothes he’d ever seen. They seemed to be for women, sort of, but there was nothing frilly in there. Most of it was black, and Arnold didn’t like the look of the tall, skinny guy who was holding a shiny black dress up to himself in front of a mirror.
    Mishka led him into a shop beside a small, tasteful brass sign that said “Gentlemen’s Attire.” Racks of suits, from casual to tuxedo, lined the walls around a central display case filled with silk shirts, ties, handkerchiefs, and other fine accessories. Arnold let out a small sigh of satisfaction. The place reeked of money.
    A small, wiry young man with sandy hair and a foxy look to his sharp eyes came forward to greet them. Mishka smiled at him.
    â€œAlphonse, this is Mr. Rothstein. Please help him choose some more