The curfew had been lifted
And the gambling wheel shut down
Anyone with any sense had already left town
He was standing in the doorway
Looking like the Jack of Hearts.

-Bob Dylan

Let me put you in the picture
Let me show you what I mean
The Messiah is my sister
Ain't no king, but she’s my Queen.

-The Stone Roses

He moved with the stealth of a trained killing machine. The victim was an unfaithful housewife; the client a wealthy, take-no-prisoners businessman who felt he been made a fool of. "A fool and his money are soon parted, and it makes me a happy man," he thought.

She was working out at the local gym. He eyed her through the front window. "Nice body," he thought. "A shame, a damn shame. But a contract is a contract." As these thoughts raced through his brain, she got off the motion machine and headed for the locker room.

Dashing down the alley, he found the back parking lot where her Mercedes sat, sparkling fresh and clean from the car wash. He'd watched her wash the car, and followed her to the gym. Feeling inside his coat pocket, he made sure the silencer was solidly in place. For the few minutes as she was showering and preparing to leave, he smoked a cigarette and mindlessly felt at the scar on his stomach, a 30-year-old scar, and he remembered.

She exited the backdoor to the gym, and proceeded to her car at a brisk pace. Her blonde, gray-at-the-edges hair bounced happily as her breasts pushed and pulled in her tight red sweater. She was dressed very nicely. A handbag bounced at her side.

"Excuse me, ma'am," he asked her, stepping up politely, "but do you happen to have the time?"

As she looked at her watch, the bullet sailed smoothly through her heart, exited her back, and lodged in a nearby tree. He grabbed her handbag as instructed, and was gone like a thief in the night.

CHAPTER 1--PSYCHO BOY

June 1997

S

hit, it was crossing the Colorado, from Bullhead City, Arizona, into Laughlin, Nevada, on our way to Vegas that I fucked up and fucked up good. Not that I did something stupid, mind you. OK, so maybe it was stupid. I mean, I just was in the wrong place at the wrong time. And had to play the hero part, and that pretty much sealed our fate, or some shit like that.

Actually, it wasn't crossing the river, but crossing the river, then turning left into Laughlin via Casino Drive when I should have just taken us straight up U.S. 95 to Las Vegas. Yeah, I said why not to a couple of hands of blackjack- that's all Queen, I swear. I was just going to play a couple hands. Louie talked me into it. He had a bucket of quarters that he'd carted all the way from Atlantic City, and wanted to hit the slots. Of course, Louie always had a bucket of quarters. And Ginny was crashed out in the back of the van, so we figured we'd let her sleep, with the car running for the air conditioning, and we wouldn't be long, maybe hit the road for Vegas in about a half-an-hour or so.

There I was, sitting inside the Edgewater Casino, and Louie was off doing his slot thing. And, well I'm lucky I'm able to write this because it was way fucked up. Some guy call him Psycho Boy showed up at the table looking all depressed. His dark baggy clothes appeared as though he had slept in them. He was about 39.

Brown hair real short.

He stood around and watched the action for a while. I played a green chip, and got dealt a goddamned ten and four. Dealer, a tight-faced, unpleasant white woman with blonde, pulled-back hair had a king showing. Damn. I took a hit. Busted.

That's why they call it gambling.

Psycho Boy watched with a grim look in his face, nervously looking around the room as well. There wasn't another vacant seat in sight, Queen, I swear. Finally, the table seemed to pull him in, reel him in like a fish.

He reached into a pocket and produced four crisp, ATM-fresh $100 bills and threw them down on the smooth, green felt. Meanwhile, a young red-headed lady with heavy, winking cleavage poured into a tight blue top looked at me from the other side of the table, smiled pleasantly, and then looked back down at her cards. Psycho Boy took a deep breath and sat down. Guy gave me the creeps. I wanted to leave, but busting bosoms in blue kept smiling, so I kept sitting. Guy ordered a beer. Started to not look so psycho. Or maybe it was ol' blue top working her magic.

He sat there looking at his chips.

She looked at me.

I got a hard on.

Impulsively, he pushed two black chips to the circle and sighed heavily. I swear, think I could hear him praying.

"Black action 200," the dealer barked.

The pit boss nodded. He was a small, balding man of about 50 with splotches of red all over his skin.

Dealer dealt blue top blackjack, the weird guy a five and a six, and me a ten and a three, and she another five.

Blue top let out a smug "oh yeah" and sat with a sheepish grin on her face. Weird guy managed a weak, nervous smile. He looked at me. A bead of sweat begged to form on his brow. The dealer looked at him impatiently. Slowly, he moved his two hundred bucks in green chips to the circle. Dealer swiftly threw down a nine and the guy relaxed. A 20 is a pretty strong hand against a dealer's five.

After busting my hand with a ten, she threw over her hole card. A king of diamonds. The guy started to grin widely. I was happy for him too when the next card she turned over happened to be the Ace of Diamonds, giving her hand 16. She had to hit and the only thing that could ruin his day would be a five and there were already two of them showing. Any expert would tell you, odds were she'd flip over a ten card, bust her hand, or else anything six and above, like two, three, and she loses, and four he'll get a push, which sure as hell beats losing. I'd put my money on Psycho Boy walking out with $400 bucks.

Wrong. Dead wrong.

Through twist of fate, or dishonest dealing, the next card was a five, giving her 21, and the casino Psycho Boy's hard earned cash.

Or maybe it was stolen. Who knows?

That's when all hell broke loose.

Out it came. Black mean-looking metal. Looked like a Heckler & Koch 9mm sub. He jumped up on the table screaming!

"FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU ALL!"

Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom.

Screaming like you wouldn't fucking believe.

"That was all my MONEY, ASSHOLES, and now I can't go home because I can't look my pregnant wife in the face. Now, I can't do anything right. I can't even double down right. AND WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU CARE!?!"

First thing I saw was the dealer flying backwards, her white blouse erupting in pools of dark blood. Much to the horror of players sitting at a table across the pit, her head got blown from her body, flew across the pit and landed in their faces. I could see her eyes, horrified as she was in flight, like her brain was still alive for a split second as it journeyed through the air.

More bullets shattered into a million shards of dark glass one of the domes that conceal the video cameras up above. Glass splattered everywhere. A jagged piece cut into my arm. All of this, mind you, happened in the split second it took for me to get my mother-fucking ass on the floor. As my knees hit the rug, a waitress fell on top of me, digging her knees into my back, as her tray of drinks scattered in every direction, sending coke, whiskey, hot coffee, and coins all over the garish casino rug.

"I don't want to die today," she prayed in my ear. "Oh God, please!"

"You're talking to the wrong guy, lady!"

Warm blood splashed in my face.

Where the fuck are the security guards? Why doesn't somebody shoot this psychopath?

Realizing that somebody was going to be me, I reached for my Glock. Time to do something about this violence-prone party pooper. As my hand grasped its familiar shape, I counted to one ... two ... all of sudden a piece of flesh flew on the rug about three inches from my face-skin and flesh with red splotches-three! I sprang up and turned so that my gun was pointed straight at his crotch. He looked down at me with desperate eyes.

All he had to do was drop the gun about a foot and shoot, and I'd be dead too. He wasn't fast enough. Boom!

More warm blood splashed in my face.

Wiping the blood from my eyes, I looked at the guy lying on the table, moaning and screaming, grabbing his crotch. Blood was bubbling out and gushing all over the floor. Everywhere else, I could hear screaming and crying. He looked up at me and for one brief second; I swear it looked like he was begging me to kill him, to put him out of his misery right there. His hand still held the piece. His finger squeezed down. I fired again and nailed him right between the eyes.

There was more crying and screaming.

And applause.

"Oh, thank you, thank you, and thank you! God! Oh my God, thank you! God bless you!"

Shit. A crowd was forming around me. While a few of the domed camera eyes shattered in the wake of Psycho Boy's wrath, not all had, like the one I was staring directly into at that point.

Oh shit! Oh fucking shit!

Got the hell out of there. Don't ask me how. Had to dodge security guards, who had arrived finally, and assorted medics, cops, and others, as they descended upon the scene. Pushed my way past the onlookers and briefly witnessed the carnage. A machine whirled and whizzed while lights, bells, and whistles went off and the thing spit out quarters and boasted three different colored sevens, which smiled rather sardonically at their dead owner, an elderly man, his face pressed against the glass and a trail of blood illustrating how far his head had sunk after hitting the glass.

Ran upstairs to the second floor; somehow managed to ditch a crowd of security guards. But for how long? One of them shouted, "Hey you!"

I ducked down another hall and ditched him. Needed to get out and get out fast, so I took a shot and kicked in a door. Luckily, there was no one inside. Washed my face in the restroom. I could hear voices in the corridor.

"You see anybody?"

"I heard a loud sound."

"Where?"

"Over there!"

Moving to the front of the room, I noticed the window was open. I looked out and down and thank fucking God, but what did I see but the side of the white Dodge van, and Louie standing by the door.

I had to take the chance.

I jumped.

"Man, what was that about, amigo?" Louie asked.

"Shut up and get in the car."

CHAPTER 2--SUGAR-SPUN SISTER AND THE ONE-ARMED SMALL CHANGE BANDIT

January 1997

All your dreams are made when you’re chained to your mirror and your razor blade.

-Oasis

F

unny thing about Louie, Queen, was that he used to love the sluts. Along with the slots. Liked 'em in that combination. Used to get off feeding them things without the box for the longest time, 'til he was almost out of quarters, and then he would reach in his pocket and wham! Jackpot. Then, he'd see a cute honey sitting there, and not long after that he'd start feeding the machine for her, and before you'd know it, she'd hit the jackpot too, and before long he'd be feeding her his dick back in the van or in a hotel room upstairs. Anyway, all that changed after we picked up the sugar-spun sister.

Her real name was Ginny Seton, but every now and then we called her our sugar-spun sister. It was after one wild night early on in our adventure, in Roswell, New Mexico, when I christened her with this handle. We had stayed up much of the night after she scored some cocaine from a guy she knew in San Antonio. Man, this chick could put away the shit. Sometimes, I would think that she'd snort so much coke she'd explode. Louie and I were putting away beers as well, and both of us must have passed out several hours before dawn. Remember waking up to find Ginny sprawled out naked on the floor, licking the glass table that we had used to cut the coke.

Looked at the clock. It was 10 a.m.

She looked up at me, with these huge round black eyes, and said "Hey, finally. Now that you guys are up, can I crank the music?"

"Louie's still asleep," I said. "Why don't you put some clothes on? I'm 46-years old. Do you want me to have a heart attack?"

"Not asleep," Louie mumbled from the under the covers. "Jack, quit smoking, that way you won't have a heart attack."

While he was lecturing me from under the covers, I knew then he most likely heard my comment about her being bare ass naked, and was angling under the covers to get a good look without being obvious. She quickly threw on a T-shirt and an old pair of sweats.

She hit the play button on the ghetto blaster and a song by the Stone Roses, a British band who first became big back around 1990, started playing. It was called "Song for My Sugar-Spun Sister."

The room filled with smoke. Then she started dancing. And by this time Louie had gotten out from under the covers, wearing his long blue sweats that he always wore and he started dancing with her. And if either one of them started taking their clothes off, I figured I'd shoot the tape player first and ask questions later. And so the words kicked in. And it was like I hadn't really listened to the words before:

Her hair

Soft drifted snow

Death white

I'd like to know

Why she hates all that she does

But she gives it all that she's got

Until the sky turns green

The grass is several shades of blue

Every member of Parliament trips on glue

It takes all these things, and all our time

Till my sugar spun sister's happy

With this love of mine

It will take all these things and oh much more ...

And there was Ginny, strikingly beautiful in an unusual way, with brown hair bleached blonde and cut short. An ample bosom. Real skinny. Temperamental as hell. I mean one moment she was all sweetness and light, and then she'd turn around and be the bitch from hell. To hear her tell it, her mom was a Bible-thumping back-stabber, who's on her case constantly for doing drugs (she lied and said she didn't do them) and the clothes, or lack thereof, that she wears in the summer when Austin buckles under oppressive heat and humidity. And her dad is sick. She never told us what he had or anything. Just that he was real sick.

As I watched the two of them dance, their two thin torsos snaking around each other in weird ways, I realized there was something about the words that reminded me of her. Maybe it was the fact that she was spun on sugar, that being the cocaine, and she was sort of our sister. Or her hair, death white, like the coke, blowing cold.

Or her outspoken assertion that she wanted to marry rich, to find a sugar daddy.

The song ended, and I said to them, 'Hey, Ginny, I have a handle for you. A code name."

She hit the button on the tape deck, turning it off.

"Yeah, what is it?" she asked, sounding suspicious.

"Sugar-spun sister," I replied.

"What do you mean by that?" she demanded.

Louie jumped in: "Look, if I have to be the one-armed small change bandit, you can live with it. It’s either that or 'gift shop girl.'"

"I think it's stupid. Why do you do that, Jack?" Ginny asked.

"What? Make up code names? It's fun," I answered her. "Besides, it's a game I learned from my friend Rooster."

As for Louie and how he got his moniker, I remember the moment clearly when he first told me. He was sitting in a casino his one hand clutching a cup full of quarters. The boy enthralled with the one-armed bandit was a one-armed bandit, or burglar, himself.

I mean, it's pretty bizarre and all, the story about how he lost his right arm.

"Yeah, I used to rob houses, you know, nothing big though I used to break into houses all over our neighborhood, just to snag the small change off people's dressers, counters, and stuff, you know. I got the idea when I was at my friend's house, and his mom's got this ash tray on the book shelf and about three bucks in quarters and dimes just sitting there. And so I grabbed them when no one was looking, right."

Louie said that when his little sister, Maria, needed a bone marrow transplant, his parents were desperate for money because they wanted to launch a nationwide search for a compatible donor.

"So, I started breaking into homes all over the hood to raise money to help them but then, damn, I broke into the wrong house, man," he said. The mistake cost him half his arm, while an infection forced the amputation of the rest.

"And this NRA-like dude was there with a big old shot gun, and bam, I'm looking at half my arm flying across the room. And the dude's like looking at me, suddenly realizing I'm just a 12-year-old Mexican punk kid, and he's saying, 'Oh, my fucking God!’"

CHAPTER 3--RETURNING TO THE SCENE OF THE CRIME

June 1997

W

e booked out of there, fast as we fuckin' could fly, Queen. Hit the road in the ol' Dodge and headed north on U.S. 95 straight for Vegas. Just when I was about to breathe a sigh of relief, Louie noticed.

"We gotta turn back."

"Why? Wait. Don't tell me."

The back of the Dodge was empty. No shrill voice yelling at us, "Where the fuck are we going now?"

The sister. Must have gotten out while we were in the casino to go to the head, because she sure as hell wasn’t in the back of the Dodge.

"Well, isn't that too bad?"

Louie was all over my ass in no time.

"Louie, you don't understand man, I can't go back there. Everybody's going to be looking for me, even if it's just to question me. They know what I look like. And I can't fucking afford to play hero. I've told you that."

"Look I didn't tell you to shoot that guy. Besides, you don't understand, man, I fucking love her. I fucking love her, and if we don't go back I'll fucking kill myself."

"Louie, chill, this is just too fucking..."

The little twerp opened the door to the car and started climbing out.

"What the fuck are you doing? Get back in the car!"

"Turn it around," he screamed.

"Turn the car around. And I'll go find her. You just wait in the car. Park far away. I'm begging you. She's only 17. We can't just leave her there."

"She's a resourceful kid, Louie."

"Jack! Jack of HEARTS!"

Goddamn fucking kids these days.

Really, I guess I would have turned back eventually. It's just that a horrible scenario kept playing through my mind. Getting dragged into custody. A hearing.

A court martial. Media attention.

Having to relive that nightmare of thirty-years passed.

Ah, what are the chances?

Hung a U-turn.

"Why do you love her so much?" I asked. “She's such a bitch to you. Treats you like shit."

"I don't know. I can't explain it. No one has ever made me feel the way she does," he said without hesitation.

Well, this little girl sometimes was more trouble than she was worth, I swear, but Louie really dug her, even though she would have nothing to do with him romantically, that is. But if it weren't for Louie I was inclined to leave her sorry ass behind in Laughlin. I mean, Queen, she was only 17. Very unpredictable. A moving target. This wasn't the first time shit like this happened. And yet there we were, hurtling back to the scene of the crime to find our sugar-spun sister.

Of course, the media was out in full force. Like L.A. had its Camp O.J. outside the Downtown Criminal Courts building, here was Camp Psycho Boy. And the police were everywhere. I wasn't taking any chances. Got my Raider's Cap on. Got my sunglasses on. Hair pulled up inside in the pony tail inside the hat. Still, I wasn't leaving the fucking car. Louie had to do all the leg work. We tried to get back to where we had parked before, but it was all blocked off. Ended up we parked in between another van and a Nissan Pathfinder two casinos down, and I felt fairly safe waiting there. "OK, go find her and get her and let's get the fuck out of here," I ordered the one-armed bandit. "Pronto! Rapido!"

Louie vanished. Sitting there waiting, I decide to puff a Camel. Cracked the window down just a bit so I could blow the smoke out. Liked my tobacco, but when Louie was in the car he could be one fucking pain in the ass. The guy hated cigarettes. He'd smoke reefer now and then, but not cigarettes. Mostly because shortly after his little sister died, so did his father, from a massive heart attack. He had been a two-pack-a-day smoker.

And his mother couldn't handle losing the two of them so close together, and thus being stuck with an unpredictable juvenile one-armed-bandit son, she slipped away one night in the garage of their soon-to-be-foreclosed upon home, by shutting all the doors and starting up the Chevy. And so that's how Luis Carlos Mejia AKA Louie, the one-armed small-change bandit, at 13, became an orphan.

He went to live with his uncle in a mobile home in Henderson, Nevada. Said uncle was a real asshole. An alcoholic, he used Louie as a punching bag often. Poor kid. Took another drag and blew the smoke through the cracked window.

Where in the hell was the kid?

CHAPTER 4--ROYAL FREAKING FLUSH

R

emember when I first met Louie, years back before our world began to unravel with the gunning down of a psychopathic blackjack spoilsport. He was sitting at one of the modern sit-down slots-you know the ones that are flat and take dollars, and you can set your drinks in trays. And he was playing the slots, and just kept losing, and every time he lost, he let out a boisterous laugh.

I dug a quarter out of my pocket, and slipped it into the groove. Pressed the button. Bonk. Damn quartermania machine. Lets out a loud, annoying horn whistle even if you triple a lousy quarter. Makes you think you hit the jackpot. Louie looked over at me and smiled.

"God's smiling on you today, amigo."

"Not much of a smile," I mumbled to myself.

I got up and walked a few feet to a video poker machine-Deuces Wild Double Down. At least with them poker games, I can at least have a strategy. I plunked in a few quarters.

I hit the deal button.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

A deuce. A jack of hearts, A nine of hearts. And two red fives.

The machine chirped the song that I had won. Three of a kind,

Oh wow, like stop the presses.

Time to celebrate. Yeah, right. Nine coins. $2.25. It asked "Double Down?" "Yeah, why not," I asked. 18 coins are better than nine. Of course, Queen, you know how this double down thing works on these games. Computer picks a card, and you pick one and if yours is higher you double your money. I picked an eight. Computer picked a queen. All of a sudden Louie came up behind me.

"How's your luck today, amigo?" he asked.

"Oh, it’s not so hot, today. Oh, my luck sucks, to tell you the honest truth," I said.

All of a sudden, Louie, with his one good arm, reached over and fed five quarters into the machine. "Press the button, amigo," he said to me. "Let's watch God's will in action."

"What do you mean, God's will?"

"What I mean is that when I was growing up and going to Catholic Mass with my parents, I remember getting this message that like, God has a will for me, and I have my will, and I have to figure out what his will is and align mine with his. But then I think it's like he made me, and everything around me. He's making it happen. And it dawns on me; I don't have to figure it out. God's will is what happens. Even found a thing in the Bible where it says that God creates good and evil. Trippy man. Think about it, like, God makes everything happen. Life, it’s a gift."

"You think too much kid."

"Push the button, and accept whatever happens as what is supposed to happen."

I pushed the button.

Now you know me, Queen: I never expect to win on these things, except of course when I've got the magic box. And then I know it's not going to be more than what the thing will spit out. These guys remember who they shell out the green to. And then there's that tax problem. Win more than $1200 and you got the IRS and authorities getting notified. So I really didn't know how to handle what was about to happen.

The machine spit out 4/5ths of a Royal Flush. All I needed was an Ace of Clubs to win $1300 bucks. Without really thinking I held my four cards, ditched the 2 of Spades and watched as the machine obligingly dished out an Ace of Clubs.

Ring a ling a ling. Ding. Ding. Ding. Spinning lights. Sirens. Bells. Whistles.

"Oh, my my," Louie said, his mouth agape. "This is the first time this has ever happened to me. God loves surprises."

"You and me both," I said under my breath.

Heads began to turn in our direction. Naturally, I panicked. Telling Louie that I in no time to explain, I grabbed him-for the first time really noticing that he only had one arm-and sat him down on my stool. He did not resist, but mounted a verbal protest. "Amigo, it is you who…"

"Do me a big favor, the biggest favor in the fucking world, and just sit here and act like you won."

Instinctively, Louie seemed to understand. The guys showed up and people crowded around. I stood back and mixed in as the guys counted out 13 crisp $100 bills for a grateful Louie, whose warm, innocent smile betrayed the ungodly nature of the casino.

Like a lamb amongst the wolves.

CHAPTER 5--DDT

June 1997

I

spotted them, Queen, about three smokes later, about a hundred cars out, walking between rows of cars, holding hands, with Louie leading the way.

"Good work, my little friend," I muttered. Out of nowhere, a little Asian man appeared and started getting into the car I was facing. Didn't really it give much thought, Queen, at the time. And I wouldn't realize how fortuitous an event it would turn out to be until a few minutes later.

Louie and Ginny were now just 30 cars away, and picking up the pace, but not so fast as to make anything seem suspicious. And then, right then, was when I happened to notice something in my rear view mirror. Something black. An automobile. A certain kind of automobile. A BMW. A 328i to be exact. Late model. With dark, tinted windows. Blocking the way.

Something in my gut began to churn.

Hurry the fuck up, you two!

The back side door to van popped open and I heard Ginny declare, "Oh my God, did you guys see what happened in there? This guy started shoot..."

I cut her off. "We know what happened."

Louie opened the passenger door and took shotgun.

"How come Louie always gets to ride shotgun? And what happened? Were you there? I was taking a piss. And all of a sudden I heard gunshots and people screaming and ..."

"Ginny, shut up."

She cast me an evil eye through the rear view mirror.

"OK, can I have a cigarette? Please!"

"No, I only have one left. Can you move your head to side a little bit to the left?"

I couldn't see what was happening with the BMW.

"What are you looking at?" she said turning around. "That car?"

"None of your business."

"You know you guys are a couple of assholes, you know that? Here you drag me half way 'cross the country to Las Vegas, where I've never been, and to a casino, where I've never been as well. And you fucking leave me sleeping in the van."

"If I give you a cigarette, my last fucking one, will you shut up?"

"Deal."

As she smoked, I watched through the rear view mirror.

"Jack was the guy that killed the murderer in there," Louie explained to Ginny.

"Yeah, right," she said.

At that point in time I was on her side.

"Yeah, right."

"No, seriously, man, he did."

"Like he has a gun," she said flatly.

Behind the reflection of her bored face, it was still there, ominously blocking our way. I looked at the little Asian man. He was seated in his car, a green Hyundai, but he seemed to be fidgeting with his seat belt, or something. Anyway, he was taking freaking, fucking forever.

It occurred to me that I should honk, but then that would just draw attention to us. I mean, Queen, what could I really think at that point? The guy in the black Beamer was probably just waiting for a parking space to open up. Maybe ours. I eyed the car again. The dark window of the driver's side revealed no secrets.

And then ever so slowly, it did.

The dark glass descended smoothly, unmasking the mystery behind the tinted blackness. A cloud of smoke erupted from the mouth of the car's occupant and exited the vehicle, and as that smoke cleared, and I could see the person's face, I just about died. I'd recognize that profile anywhere. It was him. I could not fucking believe it.

It was Tony. Tony Domenico. DDT. Holy shit. No, make that holy fucking shit. I mean, of all the lousy fucking casinos in the world where I ended up having to play good guy and blow some psycho-suicidal maniac to kingdom come, how did it come to pass that my deadliest enemy was there at the same time, a man I hadn't seen in three decades, alive and breathing?

After all these fucking years.

And he was just sitting there. Smoking a long thin smoke. Staring straight ahead. It really seemed like he didn't know we were there. I didn't want to give him the chance to find out. Kept my head fixed straight. But then would he recognize me after all the years? For sure, I'd gone from being GI Joe to a long-haired freaked, and I'd aged.

Not only are these cats the worst drivers, Queen, BUT THEY TAKE FUCKING FOREVER! Now I honked. And honked again. The Asian man smiled politely and started up the Hyundai. He had trouble starting it. Eyed Tony via the rear view mirror again, and saw that he was still smoking his long thin cigarette. Just sitting there and smoking.

Thought maybe if I threw the thing in reverse and bashed him as he sat inside his Beamer, my DDT problem would be over. Then again that just might have been the beginning of a whole new set of problems. I'd already killed one man that day, and really didn't want to make it two. And maybe it wasn't him, I kidded myself. Maybe, I was hallucinating, Not really giving it much thought, I pulled the Glock out.

"Oh, my God, you do have a gun!” Ginny exclaimed.

She said it so loud I thought DDT must have heard. Then the Hyundai started.

"Throw that cheap Japanese tin can into gear and get going," I whispered under my breath. Of course, Louie and Ginny are looking at me like, "What the fuck is your problem old man? Chill, man, chill. Don't make a scene."

"Louie, that's Tony in that black BMW," I informed him.

"Who?"

"Tony, the guy I told you about. You know."

"No shit!"

Louie started to turn his head.

"Are you sure?"

"No," I said. I lied.

"Don't act like you're looking at him."

Of course, Ginny had to turn and look. And just as she did, the BMW lurched forward and vanished with a screech of tires.

Ginny: "What was that all about?"

She didn't understand how much the man in that black car hated me, hated yours truly. For years, when it wasn't the Army that I was hiding from-who still hadn't closed the AWOL file on me completely-it was Double Down Tony and his pledge to get me back for what I did to him back in Vietnam.

Finally, fucking finally, my little friend from the East had backed out enough to almost allow me a window of opportunity. Want you to know, Queen, I had always hoped that if I was to ever come face to face with Tony, that it'd be me and him alone. His abrupt reappearance in my life made me scared for my young friends. Real scared. Felt irresponsible at that point just having friends.

God, it'd been so many years since I last heard of his whereabouts, I'd just forgotten about him. Oh, I heard stories five years back that he was doing solider-of-fortune, mercenary type work, or had done enough contract hits to pay for a kind retirement in South America or the Caribbean. All the war did for him was turn him into a fine killing machine. And I had hoped that he had-that was fine with me, as long as he'd forgotten about yours truly.

Yeah, right, Queen, like you can ever forget someone who shot you and left you for dead.

And something about how he just appeared out of nowhere made me nervous. And it occurred to me as well, as we jumped out onto the highway that, shit, this '88 Dodge 250 Ram was a good van. In fact, with the four-wheel drive conversion it came with, it was actually a very practical ride, but it was no match for a BMW on a smooth highway. How did he find us there?

It was time to be aware, very aware.

Finally, on the road north to Vegas, things calmed down. Well, I was still rattled. Mean I knew he lived in that region, but it was a big region.

"So, you did you really shoot that guy in there?" Ginny asked.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Can I hold it?"

"What?"

"The gun."

"No."

"I never get to have any fun."

"Handing you a loaded gun is not my idea of fun."

"Is it the gun you used to kill that guy?" she asked.

"I think I'm going to plead the Fifth."

"What kind is it?"

"It's a Glock 27."

"Is that good, I mean, is that, like, expensive?"

"Guns as good as this one cost thousands of dollars."

"Thousands?" Her mouth dropped.

Louie laughed.

"I don't like guns," she said, as though she just then decided.

"I don't either," Louie chipped in.

"Why?" I directed back at Gin.

"They're too expensive, and they kill people."

"Shit, they're too cheap, that’s the problem. Like the Saturday Night Special," Louie added.

"So you really don't like guns, Louie?" Ginny asked.

"I'd be a happy amigo today if the guy whose house I broke into chose instead to just kick my ass the old-fashioned way. Guns are for cowards."

"OK, Jack, it's two-to-one. We ditch the gun," Ginny said.

"You don't understand, this isn't a democracy. This is a dictatorship, and I'm the dictator, and so there."

"It's this guy, DDT, isn’t it?" Louie asked.

"Yeah, pretty much and that ever since 'Nam my gun is something I make sure I have with me always-just like your wallet, your keys, your smokes, your lighter. It's like I don't feel totally prepared unless I have everything on that checklist. And my gun is on that checklist."

"But, see, you used it to kill that guy."

"What the hell was I supposed to do? Die?"

"You could have just kicked him. You were right next to him."

"Louie, not everyone can kick like you."

Suddenly, in my rear view, I noticed it, a black car, approaching us. My stomach started to turn again. Between the fading light of sunset and the dirt I couldn't tell the make until it was almost on top of us. It turned out to be a Corvette. And as that black Corvette exercised its option to pass us, like any other lost tourist on the road to sin city, like we were nothing, I let out a laugh.

A nervous laugh.

"Hey Jack," Ginny blurted out, “maybe you should sell your gun and buy a faster car."

CHAPTER 6--GIFT SHOP GIRL

November, 1996

And before too long, I fell in love with her!

-Lennon, McCartney

I

n the beginning she wasn't the sugar-spun sister, as I said, she was the gift shop girl. It was in late November when Louie met her at a hospital gift shop.

It was back when I wanted to do some deer hunting in the Hill Country. Unfortunately, so did some other guys, who put me in a hospital for a month when they mistook my ass for the rear of a Whitetail buck. Paramedics kindly hauled said sorry ass to the nearest emergency room, which in this case happened to be at the Austin Diagnostic Medical Center in North Austin.

It was almost brand spanking new. Swear to God, Queen, it looked more like a hotel than a hospital. Huge atriums. Glass elevators. Open spaces. One day early on, I was sitting in bed all drugged up, and Louie mentioned that he met this cool chick in the gift shop downstairs. Didn't really think much about it. Next day, he told me he asked her out, and that they were going to go to a movie that night. That wasn't anything out of the ordinary.

When Louie related to me the next day what went on, he seemed different. Like he had changed. Overnight. He was giddy, Queen, like you and I were when we first met. He was in love, the little shit.

"So was she good?"

"What do you mean?"

"What do you think I mean?"

"That I fucked her, amigo. No, and that's weird thing. I wanted to but then I didn't, but then I tried anyway, and she pretty much made it clear that she's not interested. She just wants to be friends."

"Are you OK with that? I used to hate hearing that."

"Yeah. I think so. I don't know. For now, anyway."

Shit, what was happening? Louie not getting laid? For all his strangeness, and his single arm, Louie still was drop-dead handsome. And when he was working with the magic box, the girls just loved it. And he'd blow his money and they'd turn around and blow his mind and his dick, and he was happy. Or so he seemed. Of course, we were stuck in Central Texas, hundreds of miles from the nearest casinos. Two days later, I was feeling somewhat better, less drugged out, as it were, and was sitting up watching CNN. Suddenly, there was a very light knock on the door. The curtain was drawn so I couldn't see who it was.

"Hey it's open, and nobody else bothers to knock. You must not work here," I said.

"Truth be told," came the reply, that of a female.

She appeared from behind the curtain and I knew who she was immediately.

"Ah," I said. "You must be Ginny, the gift shop girl."

"Yes, me, the poor gift shop girl. It's Ginny. Ginny Seton."

She extended her hand. Reciprocated.

Assuming her name was spelled "Jenny," I quickly found out it was Ginny.

"Your name is Jenny, as in Jennifer, right?"

"No. No. No. No. No. It's GIN as in gin rummy, or gin and tonic, and E as in ecstasy. Not Ginny, like Guinea Pig."

"So that's you birth name?" I asked.

She paused.

"OK, my real name is Gennifer, but it's with a G, like Gennifer Flowers. I was only twelve at the time, but I knew enough to know that the people who kept asking me how Bill was were making fun of me. So I started going by Ginny. My mom hates it, but, hey, it's my life, right?"

"So, what brings you up to the fourth floor?"

"I don't know. Louie has told me so much about you. He really likes you, you know. Says you have been there for him where no one else has, not even his parents. Well, I mean, it's tragic what happened. But along you came, like a real father."

Shit, I must admit, she was a cutie. Louie sure knew how to pick 'em. Of course, at the time I had no idea how much trouble she was going to be. Now, Louie hadn't bothered to say how old she was. All he had said was that she was young. Eyeing her up and down I figured her age to be somewhere around 21 or 22.

It's like no matter how old I got, and there I was pushing 50, I still could always relate to the younger generation. And gift shop girl and I got along pretty well that day.

Almost too well.

Before I knew it, she leaned in real close, practically sitting on the bed. Now, the doctors had said I would be released in a day or so, and sure, I was feeling a whole lot better since they took that lead out of my ass.

But was I feeling THAT recovered?

Besides, this was Louie's girl, I kept reminding myself. Of course, my dick was saying yes. Must admit, Queen, in that moment I really wanted her. There was something about her energy, her manner. I had almost made up my mind that hell, Louie gets plenty of pussy, and here I am, a lonely middle-aged man. But then she started showing me everything in her wallet: pictures of pets, old boyfriends. When she showed me her driver's license picture, I thought she looked kind of pretty with the long hair she wore in her picture, and asked her, "Hey, so why'd you cut your hair?"

And she got this real sour look on her face and said "Why can't I meet one guy, one fucking guy, who doesn't ask me, 'Why'd you cut your hair?'"

"Sorry," was about all I could say.

It was looking at that picture when I finally noticed the date of birth on her driver's license.

She was born on March 1, 1980. By my calculations she was on the verge of 17. On the verge! Sweet 16. Imagine my reaction, confronted with this new information, when she leaned real close to me, laughing, touching my face and beard with her hand.

"I like men with salt and pepper beards."

"Does Louie know you're only 16?" I asked, now consciously to discourage her.

"To me age really doesn't matter."

She tried to kiss me.

"To me it does," I said and pushed her back. "What if someone walks in?"

"So?"

"So, look, I'm old enough to be your grandfather, and, well, does the word jailbait mean anything you?"

Now, usually hell hath no fury like a woman scorned but in the sister's case, she just blew it off like it happens it all the time. It was like she just moved on past looking for Mr. Next.

Moving towards the door to leave, she turned around and looked at me, and and asked: "Hey," she said. "Would you sleep with me if I were legal?"

"There's a slight possibility that if you were legal five minutes ago, yeah maybe.”

She moved back, closer to the bed.

"Really?"

“Really.”

Her eyes lit up.

"Give it a few months. In Texas the age of consent is 17."

"I don't believe you."

"Don't. So I hear you smoke too much?"

I decided not to push the consent issue.

“Hey, what happened to leaving."

"In a sec," she said looking at her watch. I noticed she wore lots of sterling silver jewelry.

"I paged my friend Brittany. She should be downstairs in about ten minutes. Yeah, I smoke too. Louie doesn't like it. Like that's what I need, another mother. Rags on me to no end."

"Yeah, he gets on my case, as well, but what can I tell you. I started so long ago, back in the sixties while I was in Vietnam, that it's become a part of me."

"You were in the Army? That figures.”

“What do you mean?”

"All the guys I ever met are either married or in the military," she informed me. Shit, you know what I'm thinking: She's not even old enough to vote yet and could say a thing like that, that every guy she meets is either in the military or married. Kids grow up just too damn fast these days.

"Louie was never in the military, and he's not married" I noted.

"Yeah, well Louie's OK I guess, just not my type."

I took for my pal. "Why not? You have a problem with the fact that he only has one arm? That he's Latino?”

"No, that doesn't really bug me. I could get used to something like that. And I've dated Mexicans before. Blacks. Race means nothing to me. It's just that he, well, he doesn't have any ambition. I want to marry a guy who makes lots and lots of money."

I didn't like where this conversation was headed.

"Well, since I was in the Army, was married once, and am not rolling in dough, guess I'm not your guy either."

Her mouth drew to an irresistibly sexy smile.

"Tell me about Mr. Rooster and the magic box."

You know, I'm definitely going to have to have a talk with that kid.

CHAPTER 6--THE MAGIC BOX

December 1991

R

emember the first time I turned Louie on to the magic box. He was beside himself, Queen. And I swear to you, this cat was so full of contradictions and double standards. Like how he could be so high-minded and talk God and stuff, and then gleefully rip off the casinos with me as we rambled from town to town.

Hey man, it's like Robin Hood, ya know.

It was raining. When I started to head for the Impala, I left him at a bus stop. It occurred to me to ask him if he needed a ride. Being a lifelong fugitive doesn't afford one the opportunity to develop the right social graces. Maybe it was the fact that he was standing underneath a bus stop shelter looking like a sad puppy dog. I doubled back.

"Hey my little friend, need a ride?"

As we drove home we learned a little more about each other.

"I'm depressed, Mister," he said.

"The name's Jack. Actually, John Daniel Morrison. But it's Jack. Sometimes my friend Rooster calls me the Jack of Hearts."

"Well, I'm bummed out, Mr. Hearts."

"Just call me Jack."

"I'm sad, Jack."

"Why?"

"I blew all my money in the dollar slots. And now I'm going home to my uncle's mobile home. You'd be bummed too."

$500, bucks, Queen. We're talking $500. The money we'd won playing video poker. That's when I began to realize the guy was probably manic depressive and a compulsive gambler to boot. But of course, courtesy of the Rooster, I knew I had the cure for compulsive gambling: the magic box.

"What's the story with your uncle?"

"He doesn't like me," was Louie’s reply.

Well, wasn't sure what I could do about his uncle at that point, but at the next huge sign of glaring neon, I pulled the van into the parking lot and said to him, "Do you believe in magic, Louie?"

"I sure do," he said.

"Well, get a load of this."

I handed the box to Louie. He grabbed hold with his one hand. Dumbfounded, he pressed me for more information.

"What is it, amigo?"

"Magic," I replied as esoterically as I could. Louie fingered the flat, small black metallic box with the one red button in the middle.

"What does it do?" he asked with a puzzled look.

I took it back and said, "Let's go."

We got out of the Impala, and headed for the casino.

Approached the first quarter machine that I saw. Felt the box in my front pocket with my left hand. My right hand fished for a quarter in my other pocket. Found a silver nugget and dropped it into the slot. Pressed the button, and just as I pressed the button on the slot machine, my other finger depressed the red button on the magic box.

Three sevens. Clang. Clang. Clang. Clang. Clang. Quarters filled the catch basin and assorted casino patrons gazed enviously in our direction. Scooped up the loot and headed for the cash booth, with Louie in tow.

"Wow," he managed. The coin totaled about $80. Later, I opted to treat my new friend to a righteous meal of prime rib, and a few beers.

"How does it work, amigo?" Louie pressed with an astonished look on his face.

"Hell if I know."