Authors: Steve Gannon
Since my problem began, I hadn’t been able to drink. Not much, anyway. One or two cocktails hit me hard, and
I would
spend
the rest of the evening trying not to slur. I nursed a beer until we sat down to dinner.
Sarah outdid herself that night: Caesar salad, seafood pasta with shrimp, scallops, and clams in a spicy red sauce, hot garlic bread, and tiramisù for dessert. I think she was unconsciously trying to get our lives back on track with that meal. I wasn’t hungry. Nonetheless, the evening went well until Holden started expounding his gambling
theory
. Sarah and I had heard it
before
; his performance was obviously for Sandee’s benefit. Mumbling something about helping
to
clear the table, I excused myself, grabbed some dishes, and followed Sarah into the kitchen.
As I began rinsing plates
, I found myself listening to Holden’s explanation
in the next room
, begrudgingly admitting that despite his didactic tone
,
my friend did have a few things to say about gaming. Holden was a professional gambler.
“Why does the average Joe leave the tables a loser?”
Holden
began, talking around
a mouthful
of tiramisù. Then, answering his own question, “Simple. It’s because he plays till he loses. The house has the resource
s
to hang in while he’s winning, so if the guy keeps playing—and they all do—sooner or later he’s gonna lose. And when that happens and he’s lost the farm and then some, he’s forced to quit. The house just has to wait him out.”
“So how do
you
do it?” wide-eyed Sandee asked as Sarah and I returned for more dishes.
“Simple. I quit when I’m ahead,” Holden replied. “I only play craps, which is as close to even odds as you can get, and every day, rain or shine, I place a five-hundred-dollar bet on the pass line. If I win, I walk away a winner.”
“And if you lose?”
“Then I double the wager. If I lose again, I double the
bet once more, and so on. I have
enough to double-up
ten
times, but I’ve never had to go that far. And as soon as I win, I quit—ahead five hundred bucks every day I play. Tax free, too,” he added slyly.
“Of course, it’s not quite that simple,” he went on after a moment, clearly pleased with Sandee’s reaction. “If I pass the fifth repetition, I exceed the single-bet limit of
ten thousand dollars. But I have
a way around that as well, and I’ve only had to go to the seventh roll once. It’s foolproof. Know the chances of losing
ten
times straight?”
Sandee didn’t have a clue.
I did.
I had
worked
it out; it was about one in a thousand
. I also knew where Holden got his backing. He’d taken out a $250,000 home-equity credit line years ago, and to my knowledge
he
had dipped into it deeply more than once. In my book, Holden was heading for a fall. I was coming back from the kitchen carrying a carafe of decaf when I suddenly tired of the subject.
“Enough about gambling,” I
said
. “Why don’t we talk about something—”
All at once I froze. I couldn’t move. As if in a dream, I heard the coffee hit the floor.
“Honey, what’s wrong?” Sarah cried. I heard her run in from the kitchen and felt her hands steadying me. I tried to speak, but couldn’t.
Seconds ticked by. At
last,
the paralytic fist that
had gripped
me eased. Sarah helped me to a chair. I slipped into it gratefully, cradling my head in my hands.
“What the hell was
that
?”
said
Holden.
“John’s been having trouble sleeping lately,” Sarah answered, rubbing my neck. “Feeling better, hon?”
“No,” I answered. God, I was tired.
“Hey, we’ve gotta be goin’ anyway,” said Holden, taking that as his cue to leave. “Sandee’s shift starts in twenty minutes. Time I got to work, too. Thanks for dinner, Sarah.” He kissed her, then gave me a thump on the back. “Take care of yourself, pal. Get some sleep.”
Get some sleep. Sounded fine to me. If only it were that easy.
After they left I stumbled to the bathroom, grabbed my prescription vial, and shook out
several
of Dr. O’Brien’s miracle pills. I inspected them doubtfully.
Were these small
pills
to be my salvation?
I wondered. I took two, as directed. Then I took two more for good measure.
That night Sarah and I made love. Afterward I stared at the insides of my eyelids until I heard her breathing
turn soft and regular. Then
I
eased out of bed, made my way
to the den
,
and turned on the
TV
. Not bothering to search for a station, I just sat gazing blankly at the
TV
snow. After a while I noticed something peculiar. Leaning closer, I peered
at
the screen. A chill ran through me. Reflected in the glass I could see myself in a smaller screen, where I was sitting before a yet smaller screen, and another, and another
, and another
. . .
The weird thing was—I was looking at my back.
I got Sarah’s hand mirror. Holding it to one side, I che
cked the screen. The figure there
was holding a mirror too, but now I could see his face
in each smaller mirror
.
It was me.
I rubbed my eyes, then peered again at my images. A
nd a
s I watched,
they
changed. I saw my multiple selves in one of the casinos. I couldn’t tell which
casino it was
, but knew
I would
recognize it if I saw it again. I was playing blackjack. And winning. Winning big.
Each blackjack hand was crystal clear, etched
in
my memory as if
I had
seen it many times before. I could make out the dealer, along with several other players. And there was someone else—
a shadowy
figure standing behind me. Although I tried, I couldn’t see his face.
Once more the scene shifted and I was in a dark room surround
ed
by looming, unfamiliar objects. The shadowy figure from the casino crept up behind me.
He raised something
over his head.
It looked like a knife.
I wanted to scream a warni
ng, but horror held me silent. I saw myself stagger
and crumple to the floor, my hands trying to ward off the attacker’s blows.
And
God,
oh, God, the blood.
I turned off the set and sat in the darkness until my heart
stopped racing
and my breathing returned to normal.
What had I seen? Had I glimpsed the future? Or had it simply been a waking nightmare,
a result
of my insomnia?
I had to find out.
Without making a sound, I
returned to
the bedroom and dressed. Sarah was still
tucked under the covers,
curled comfortably around her dreams. How I envied her. On the way out I paused in the doorway, then
reentered the room
. From the top shelf of the closet I pulled down a small box. I opened it and took out a revolver
that I had
bought years
earlier
after my office was burglarized. It was a Smith & Wesson .38 Special with a four-inch barrel. It felt like a snake in my hand.
I inserted five copper-clad shells, le
aving the first cylinder empty. I
shoved the pistol into my belt at the small of my back. My coat covered it just fine. If what I’d seen hadn’t been a hallucination, I planned
on being
prepared.
The green numerals on the dashboard of my
car
read three-thirty as I wheeled out of
the
driveway and headed downtown. The desert air was still sizzling and I opened all the windows, letting the hot drafts bathe my face. After passing McCarran Airport
,
I hung a right on Las Vegas Boulevard, wondering where to begin my search. Deciding one place was as good as the next, I pulled into the Dunes, left my car in the lot, and entered the casino. Right away I knew it was
wrong. I left the Dunes and
worked my way
along
the Strip, stopping at the Sands, the Desert Inn, the Stardust, Circus Circus,
Bellagio,
and the Riviera. No luck at any
of those, either. I kept going. At around 5:00 AM, I
arrived at the Hilton. When I pushed through the Hilton’s heavy glass doors, I knew
I had
found it. It just felt . . .
right.
Even that late
,
the casino was still busy—alarms announcing slots winners, keno girls hustling bets, players huddled around the tables, and everywhere the smell of alcohol, stale cigarettes, and sweat. I
entered the casino
,
afraid that
I was heading for trouble but unable to stop. I had to find out.
I slid onto a stool at a deserted hundred-dollar blackjack table. With a chill, I recognized the dealer. No doubt about it—he was the one
I had
seen in my vision. He gave me a bored look, then scooped up a fan of cards laid out
on the felt
and began a six-deck shuffle. I opened my wallet and
placed
four hundred dollars on the
table
.
Upon finishing his shuffle, the dealer offered
me a stiff red card. After I
cut, he dropped the decks into a shoe, converted my bills to a small stack of chips, and gazed over expectantly. “Place your bet, sir.”
I hesitated, wanting to be wrong about what I’d seen in my den. But deep down, I knew I wasn’t. I knew
what cards would be coming up. I hadn’t memorized them—I just knew
.
With a feeling of dread, I pushed my whole stack onto the bet line. I hit on twelve and held on eighteen. The dealer stayed on seventeen. I let it ride, recalling that my next hand was going
to be a natural—
an ace and a queen.
It was.
I played on, placing minimum wagers on hands I knew I was going to lose, betting my whole stack on the winners. Before long I was playing the table limit. Twenty minutes later, when I realized I no longer knew what cards would be coming up, I quit. By then a small crowd had gathered behind me.
I counted my chips. Forty-two thousand dollars. “May I deposit this in a hotel account?” I asked, starting to sweat as I recalled the second part of my vision. Even though I could feel the reassuring weight of the pistol pressing into my back, I didn’t want to leave with all that money, even in the form of a check.
“Yes, sir,” the pit boss answered. He stepped forward from behind the dealer, where
I had
noticed him watching as soon as my bets hit the limit. “I’ll have someone assist you,” he added, signaling a security guard.
“Thanks.” I slipped the dealer a thousand-dollar chip. “For the boys.”
“Thank you, sir!” the dealer replied with a smile, tapping it on the table twice before dropping it into his shirt pocket.
It was still dark outside when I started for my car. On the way I suddenly had the feeling I was being followed. I heard footsteps behind me. I stopped. They stopped. I whirled.
Nothing.
I walked faster, certain I was
approaching
some horrible fate I couldn’t avoid. Soon I was running. I could still hear him
running
behind me, getting closer. My breath coming in ragged gasps, I turned a corner and
raced
into the parking garage. Ahead I saw my
car
. Fighting an impulse to jump in and speed away, I ducked behind
a concrete column.
I had to know.
Heart pounding, hands slippery with sweat, I pulled out the pistol. Whatever the cost, I decided to end things there and then.
Holding
the revolver
at
my side, I pulled the trigger once, hearing the hammer click on
an
empty cylinder. The next one
held
a live shell.
I intended to use it.
I held my breath as the footsteps approached, the gun heavy in my hand. I could smell my
own sweat, sour and rancid
. A figure appeared. I tried to raise the gun. With a shock, I
discovered that
I couldn’t. I was frozen again, just as I had been earlier that evening. But this time I knew it wouldn’t be just coffee that wound up getting spilled. It would be my blood.