Free Stepping Stones by Steve Gannon Page A

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.
    Straining with every ounce of will I possessed, I struggled to raise the gun.
    I couldn’t move my hand . . . not even a millimeter.
    Without as much as