Free Fade To Midnight by Shannon McKenna Page B

window. That didn’t strike him as particularly spiritual.
    He shied away from analyzing the angel, though. She had saved his life and sanity. Whenever he slid into that paralyzed black hole in his head, he hung on to her, and she led him safely out. She’d led him out of the first coma, the one he’d been in when Tony first found him. She’d guided him back into speech again. Maybe a psychiatrist could explain her psychological function, but no thanks. He still needed her too badly to risk spoiling her magic with clinical explanations.
    The first memory that had come to him after the waterfall had been of trying to convince some guy to help him, to believe him, but for the life of him, he couldn’t remember what it was that he wanted the guy to believe. He remembered the man’s disapproving face perfectly. Long nose, thin mouth, curled lip. But not his name.
    It was maddening. Total amnesia had been more peaceful.
    He remembered Osterman gloating over him. He remembered a blond, leering man with a thick red face, too. An open flame, coming toward his face. The sizzle of contact. And pain. So much pain.
    There were gentler memories. A bearded man with a seamed, unsmiling face. Boys. A weathered house in the woods. A rough table, a kerosene lamp, like a scene from another century. Maybe he was remembering a past life. Pioneer days. Hah. This life alone was enough for him to wonder about. Spare him the red tape of past lives, too.
    He needed more. Frames of reference. Names, dates. Hard data.
    Concentrate, goddamnit. He’d lost the thread. He stared down at the cards. They were floating, shifting. Double vision, glowing with a halo. His ears were ringing, tinny and sharp. He couldn’t screen out the soaps and deodorants of the men around the table. The detergents their clothes had been washed in made his nose burn. The earthier smells of their bodies, their sweat, their breath. Chiliker’s chronic lung infection, the alcohol emanating from the pores of the dealer to his left. Cigarette smoke, peeling paint, dust. Mildewy water damage.
    The fetid stink made his head throb like a rotting tooth.
    And everyone was waiting for him to snap out of his vague dream, get off his ass, and bet. Chilikers had checked, so had Laker.
    Kev stared at the backs of his two aces. He couldn’t take this tonight. He’d play like a hothead rookie, end it fast. “Seven thousand.”
    Stevens blinked. “All-in, nine thousand five hundred.”
    Chilikers eyes darted to Stevens. He hadn’t expected that. “All-in, seventeen five,” he said, but his voice sounded nervous.
    Laker folded, shaking his head.
    Kev shrugged inwardly. What the hell. “I call. I’m all-in.”
    They all stared at him for a long moment. 5.5:1 pot odds didn’t technically justify his drawing odds, but he wanted it to be over, and he was feeling reckless. Angry. Twitchy. Acting out, like a bad little kid.
    â€œTwo players, all-in. Turn over your hands,” the dealer directed.
    Kev turned his aces, and looked to his left. Stevens had flopped a set of queens. Chilikers had turned the flush.
    â€œPair the board,” Kev said.
    The dealer burned the top card, and turned over a jack of hearts.
    Full house. Aces full of jacks. He’d won fifty thousand bucks. Son of a bitch.
    He flicked a few fifty dollar chips to the dealer as a tip, and walked out the door with fifty-eight thousand and change. Plus the title and keys to Chilikers’ 2007 Volvo, which bit his ass, but whatever. More than usual. He usually averaged ten thou a night, and that was playing more carefully and consciously than he had tonight.
    He limped out into the predawn chill. Chilikers was there, staring morosely at his Volvo, smoking a cigarette. The final blow for his infected lungs, no doubt. Kev crossed the street toward him. “Hey.”
    Chilikers did not turn. “Two fuckin’ outs,” he said, teeth