by Thom Clink

                                                                                                                                          and Chris Krawciw
 
 
 

I played him until my money was gone.

And then I played him until I was gone.
 

-suicide note, circa 1910, from the historical collection of the Madison Lenox Hotel, Detroit
 

Paul Edwards leaned back in his chair, one of his personal additions to Street Cloud Investigations. The seven o'clock hour had crept upon the city and now long shadows were throwing themselves across the office. Outside, the mid-winter wind coursed through the alley, occasionally buffeting against their single pane. This was the company's fourth year, and their fourth winter. Their business was relatively successful, but it always slowed down when the cold season came.

Paul's partner Scott Cloud sat across from him. No one had passed through their door that day, not one prospective client, not one current employer. The latter was no surprise considering they had no cases pending. Their desks were positioned on either side of the window, and as they sat in silence, Paul watched his friend's face dancing in embering light. For two men with a shared history, there wasn't a whole lot he knew about the man, but most of what he did know, he liked. Scott was serious and quiet, and at times he showed enough signs of caring to maintain his humanity. Paul was anticipating a slow day and brought in a case of Corona that morning to keep them company.

Scott had long since grown accustomed to Paul's indulgent love of alcohol, but Paul rarely drank beer, usually opting for the harsher embrace of liquor, but it was good for a change. The Corona had been chilling in a small, waist high refrigerator which Paul had invested in. At six p.m., after he locked the door, off popped Paul's tie and the first bottlecap of the evening.

Paul drank it smoothly, allowing the unfamiliar taste to wrap around his tongue. Sensing Scott's uneasiness he quickly finished it and opened another. Cloud stood up and peered out the window, his palms on the sill.

"Want a beer?" Paul broke the silence.

Scott shuffled around, a twisted, tired smile on his face. 

"Yeah," Scott whispered, "I'll take one."

Paul tossed him a chilled long neck, the glass already enveloped in mist. Scott looked at the bottle for a moment. He broke the seal and snapped off the cap on the window sill. A wisp of cool air escaped the bottle, along with some froth, transfixing them both for a moment.

"You ever heard of a guy named Christopher Jackson?" Scott asked.

"Didn't he play for the Angels?" Paul said as he took another drink. He found Corona had a peculiar snap to it as he drank. Hours slipped by. They sat and talked about the academy and their cases. To Paul's memory, it was the first time he'd ever seen Scott even slightly intoxicated. 

"You know," Scott said. "You're supposed to drink this with limes."

Paul wondered if this were one of those rare occasions he could lure Scott out of his self-imposed exile. On the few occasions Scott had joined him at the bar, Cloud's deep brooding had never been enough to overcome his GQ looks. Unfortunately cliche, he was tall, dark, and handsome, and there was no shortage of women who were willing to help soothe his aching soul. The saintly barflys in their personal quests for redemption, were quick to affix themselves to Scott's woes, hoping to transform the hard-hearted slug into husband material. Paul was more than happy to share in the extra female attention Scott's company could bring. Either way, he was ready to move onto the bar, with or without his partner.

"Yeah, I heard that, but limes just seemed a little too fruity to me. If you want, we could continue this at Miller's," Paul said.

"No," Scott said, his voice drifting. "I'm not going to be driving anytime soon, besides, I've got some stuff to take care of."

Paul knew perfectly well his friend wasn't going to be doing shit tonight, except maybe finish the rest of the beer. 

"It's getting pretty early," Scott continued. "I might just stay here the night."

"Well, don't let me stop ya," Paul mumbled, reaching for his jacket. I'm outta here."

Cloud said goodbye and watched his partner shut the door, leaving only silence behind. With the day long since dead, and the next even further from dawning again, the only light came from his desk lamp. He turned back to the window and watched Paul get into his car, then drive away. 

Scott was disappointed he couldn't join Paul tonight, somewhat put out at his partner's abrupt departure. The man was everyone's friend at the bar but never seemed to get many phone calls outside of it. It didn't help that his years of bar hopping had given him the physical appearance of someone who could be so much more if he only controlled himself. All in all, he was a good man, just not the right one for any woman unwilling to look beyond his vices.

Why in the name of God had Paul chosen Corona of all drinks? Corona with a twist of lime.

Jesus, had it been eighteen years already? Eighteen years since the bar.

Scott slipped from the window, grabbed another Corona sans lime, and crashed into his desk chair...

Scott Cloud was nine years old when he drank his first real beer. 

It was Thursday night and Scott had assembled his TV watching paraphernalia. He was curled into his mother's sitting chair, positioned in front of the NBC Nightly News which would soon give way to the evening game shows. As was his ritual, he had his glass of iced Coke sitting on the coffee table within easy reach. There were precisely ten Saltine crackers set next to the glass, Scott's traditional after school snack. All he needed now was Rascal, his dog, and he was good to go.

The news had just ended when Scott's father, Gary, came stumbling in, bringing the fall wind with him. As the door slammed behind his father, the man swayed from side to side like a drunken metronome.

Trying to ignore his father's condition, and what he knew was surely coming, or at least how it would surely end, Scott was rewarded with the opening salvo of "Jeopardy!" Scott anxiously awaited the categories, hoping for his forte, history. It was about then that his father tripped over the television cord, abruptly ending the screen's life. 

"Where's your mother?" the senior Cloud stammered. When he finished, he struggled to his knees, then grabbed the end of the couch to force himself erect. 

"Getting some groceries," Scott said. It was not the first time his father had returned home a little under the weather, nor was it the only time Scott wished his castle walls were stone and not the cushions of his mother's favorite chair.

"What the fuck!?" Gary Cloud shouted. You're only nine fucking years old! You're not supposed to be left alone! We live in Detroit, not Mayberry! The rest of Gary's speech wafted away as he rambled past Scott, heading for the kitchen. "This is Detroit!" smashing through the room, his tirade stabbing at Scott's ears. 

"She said she'd only be a few minutes," Scott said, immediately regretting he had reminded his father that he was there. The "Jeopardy!" theme was playing, but Scott didn't hear it; he had pressed himself into the cushions of his chair, hiding from the crazed man who looked like his father. It was as if strong fingers laden with icicles were gripping his throat attempting to smother him.

Something in the kitchen shattered. "Jesus Christ!" Scott heard. "Every fucking day I watch kids younger than you get scraped up off the streets!" 

The cushions weren't working. "Rascal?" Scott called. "Rascal come here." Rascal scampered up the basement steps and skirted across the kitchen floor, his paws scraping the tiles with neat little clicks. Rascal had been a gift from his parents, saved from the pound as a puppy. He was a mutt, somewhere between a collie and a black lab, or so his father had said.

"Fucking Kid," his father bellowed. "Who do ya love? I work all fucking day long, bring home the fucking money, keep you with clothes, and those goddam video games. And who do you love? A fucking dog!"

Gary whipped back his patrol boot and kicked the dog squarely in the head, sending the animal spinning off into a corner. Scott screamed and he watched in horror as Rascal tried to gain his feet again. Rascal whimpered, his face a mesh of fur and blood. As he reared his head, Scott saw that Rascals's eyes were out of alignment. 

His father had fallen deftly silent, as if all of his hateful energy had been spent in the one blow.

There was something new building inside of Scott. It was darker than anger, darker than anything he remembered feeling up to that point in his life. As Rascal attempted to get to his feet, Scott knew his friend was going to die. The animal had begun to spin itself on the floor, its back legs kicking spastically, driving it in circles, its dying whines fueling the young boy's hate.

"Scott...." his father began.

He didn't wait around for the rest. Scott bolted for the door. His father was in no condition to follow, and for the first time in his life, Scott just wanted to walk. Walk and get away.

By the time Scott broke through hazy thoughts, he found himself staring down a deserted street. Night had fallen long ago and it seemed that there were no stars above him, only street lights set evenly apart, running for forever, some lit, most not. 

He didn't know how he'd arrived there, didn't know how long he'd walked. Images of Rascal's twitching on the floor and his father's murderous snarl had prodded him forward. 

Rascal wasn't really dead, was he? Dad didn't really kill him. I'm just lost, that's all. I went with Mom to the store and wandered away. 

Rascal.

He moved forward again. He let himself drift, the tears on his cheeks cooling as he followed the pavement.

The sign read Fort Street. Well, at least he knew where he was, wherever Fort Street was. The incessant tone of the "Jeopardy!" theme clicked on in his mind and continued to play.

Amongst the confusion of the new world about him, the dim lights and disharmonious noises, a great, green neon sign announced that "Troy's" was still entertaining patrons. The bar appeared to be the only true point of life on the street. The buildings about him appeared broken, as if they were petitioning the city for death. 

Troy's seemed simple enough; more than a little run down with bits of old brick bleeding away from its foundations, the red dust gathering in pools upon the heaving sidewalk. Within, Alex Trebek announced the Final Jeopardy category, "The 19^th Century." Laughter followed the beginning of the next commercial and mixed with the equally intriguing sounds of the bar. Scott headed for the door. 

Troy's was a wonderland, a forbidden world come to life, a world where adults played. The place smelled like his father when he came home from "work." The smoke was almost too much for him. At first it took his eyes a few moments to adjust to the dim light. The sound of light jazz came to his ears. Off to his right was a row of six pool tables, the bright lights above them suspended from chains and encased in stained glass shells. A few of them were occupied, but for the most part, the bar was empty. On his left was the bar itself, a tall oak wall. There were stools in front, those of the four-legged variety, with a round, flat red vinyl seat. On one of these sat a aged black man. He appeared to be the oldest human being Scott had ever seen. Dressed in a worn brown over coat and black-grey beard, he ran a finger around the rim of his glass, talking to the bartender. Both men were large, black, and very intimidating. They both turned to face the new customer.

The bartender said something to Scott, and he looked up at the man.

"I said, "What are you doin' in here, boy?""

Scott tried to mouth something, but there were no words.

"Leave 'em alone, Troy," the ancient man said. "Can't ya see he's shitless?"

"All I need is to have my liquor license revoked, Lukas. You ain't even got hair on his balls, do ya boy?"

"Rascal's dead," Scott said.

"What's that?" the man called Lukas asked.

"Rascal's dead," Scott repeated, this time much louder. "My dad kicked him and now he's dead."

"What's wrong with that, unless your name's Rascal?"

"He was my dog," Scott said.

Troy picked up a glass and began wiping it clean, all the time keeping his eyes fixed on the boy. 

"So you say, but now you got to go," the bartender said.

Scott retreated a step, then hesitated. He wouldn't know how to get home even if he could pull himself through the bar's smoky haze.

"I said get! Get on home!"

Scott turned for the door, but Lukas's wrinkled hand stopped him, touching him lightly yet firmly on his shoulder. The wrinkled hand moved from his shoulder to cup the side of the boy's face, much as his father had done when tucking him into bed.

"Hold on, boy," the old man said, gently turning Scott back around. "You're lookin' fine for your age, boy. Just fine! How old are you, boy?"

Scott blinked at him, finding his lost speech. "Nine."

Lukas nodded and let his arm loosely fall away from Scott.

"I remember when I was nine. Hell, yes! By then my daddy had gotten me drunk at least twice. My daddy was a good man I tell ya, workin' all day an' almost all night. Good man." 

The old man's dark, round eyes suddenly sobered. "I can't go 'round all night callin' you boy, not when you're about to become a man. Nope, can't do that. What's your name, Son?"

Scott glided toward him a bit more, held by the man's somber, deep tone.

"Scott," he said.

Lukas nodded softly and turned back to Troy. "We've got ourselves a new man in here, Troy! Get the man a beer. Make it a good one too or I'll never throw your momma another bone."

Troy tossed his towel onto the bar, but would not have the luxury of talking.

"Consider it a boon," Lukas said, "a boon to a tired old man. I'll take care of it. Besides, you know the cops ain't coming around tonight." He gestured to his chest with an open palm. "Now get the man a beer." He looked down at Scott, his smile wry and crooked. 

"Come on up here, Scott," he said, patting the stool next to him. 

Scott awkwardly managed his way to the top of the high stool, climbing the chrome frame like a ladder. Once there, the bartender shot him a razing glance, but having Lukas at his side was reassuring enough to weather his fears. Troy turned his back to the boy to prepare the drinks.

"Maybe those city boys won't come in here, Lukas, but if something goes wrong, I'm gonna own your sorry black ass."

"Stop your mouth, Troy. And get away from that on tap shit, this boy, I mean Scott here is ready for a bottle, can't you see that?" Lukas looked down at Scott, and the young Cloud peered into those ancient eyes. There was something sad in there. Defeat, maybe or fear, the same kind of thing he'd seen in his father's eyes of late. The old man turned away from the boy's querying look. "Hey, Troy, why don't you make that two Coronas, with limes."

"Wonderful," the bartender grumbled. "I hope you have the money for this."

"I got all the money in the world, my friend. All the money I'm ever gonna need." Lukas looked down at Scott. "You ever taste beer?"

Scott nodded. His father had allowed him to grab sips of whatever he was drinking when there was a Lions game on.

"How about Corona?" the man grinned, showing a mouthful of broken teeth.

Scott didn't remember anything like that, and he shook his head appropriately. A crack sounded behind them and Scott whirled around.

Lukas's eyes followed Scott's.

"You like pool, Scott?" His voice had suddenly smoothed. "I have loved pool." 

"I've never got to play, but Grandpa used to have one in his basement. He and Dad sometimes played a game when we visited."

"The game has been my life," the old man said. "My daddy never had a problem with drinkin', but when it came to gambling..." Lukas shook his head. "There wasn't no way he'd accept me doing that. No way. He'd always quote straight from the Bible. I'd tell you what'd he say, it was a lot of fancy, beautiful words, but I didn't remember them then, and I don't remember them now."

Scott's eyes remained questioning, intrigued by the old man.

"It's alright," Lukas chimed, "You got a question, go ahead and ask it--I'll answer. My father'd never let me near a pool table, but my Uncle Russell, he would. That old man took me in a place just like this and started me off, showing me how to put a little English on the balls and make them dance. It's a great feeling watching those balls sink, one after another. There's a joy to making your first bank shot, Scott. You should have seen me."

A sharp crack announced the sinking of the first ball.

Scott peered at the tables, watching as two black men stooped over the felt. With a crack, another ball streaked in.

"I wonder where our beers are. Better not be gettin' warm. Hey Troy! How 'bout them Corona's!"

Troy came and set two Corona long necks before them, accompanied by two lime slices, cool and beaded with fresh juice. 

"Hurry and drink them up, Lukas. I'm giving you ten minutes," Troy said. He spun away from them and took up another wet glass.

The old man's wrinkled hand passed one of the long necks and a slice of lime to Scott, who took it, confused. He looked at Lukas. There was laughter in the old man's eyes.

"It's magic, Scott," Lukas whispered to him, as if no one else should hear. "The best kind of magic. It's kind of like pool, you do thing's right, and the lady, she'll treat you fine."

Scott watched as the old man squeezed the lime slice into his bottle and then sealed his greasy thumb over the lip. Lukas quickly turned the beer upsidedown, counting to ten. He then flipped it back over and raised the bottle's lips to his own. When he put the empty bottle back down, he smiled at Scott, the lime clenched between his teeth.

"Never swallow the peel, Scott," Lukas said. "It's bad luck, and if there's one thing a pool player doesn't need, it's bad luck. Go ahead now, drink up."

Scott smiled. Here was a challenge, and he wanted to show this man that he was up to the task. He grasped the bottle as he'd seen Lukas do it, then he popped the lime inside, little swells of juice erupting beneath his fingers. The Corona fizzled a little. He had to stick his thumb into the drink up to the first joint to cap it, but then he triumphantly turned it over, watching the lime bubble away within the bottle as he counted to ten.

That done, Scott flipped it over, and took a swig that would do any pre-teen boy proud, though not quite the bottle-emptying chug that Lukas had accomplished. When he'd finished, he put the half empty bottle down, and began to discover this new taste. It was different than the stuff his father had let him sip. It was lighter, and there was a tang to it. 

Lukas slapped him on the shoulder, almost hard enough to jolt him from his perch.

"How do you feel?" the old man asked, his grin wider and warmer than before.

"Different," Scott said, blinking his eyes hard, trying to get the shifting images to focus.

"Figured as much," Lukas said. "Don't stop at only half, Scott. I paid a good three dollars for that. I want you to finish every drop, it's worth it."

"I feel..." Scott's voice floated away.

"Feel like your head's come off of your shoulders and you're tossin' it around? Don't worry, it's gets better with each sip. There's a lot of solace in a bottle, Scott."

Scott tipped the Corona and lime to his lips and emptied a little bit more into his mouth. It went down cold and he could feel it wound about his stomach, allowing the pain of the night to be washed away. 

"I remember," Lukas said. "I remember a man I met just before I went in the Army who could play the meanest... Did I say meanest? I meant the best game of pool I ever saw. The man was unbelievable. Pool has been magical to me through my whole life, but it was the first time I ever saw a true magician."

Scott watched the pool game being played across the bar, his mind drifting along with Lukas's monologue. The balls rolled around the table, sometimes falling into the pockets, sometimes drifting about haphazardly. Maybe there was magic there, he couldn't tell. Scott took another sip of the Corona. There was just a bit left in the bottom now.

"It was back around '38, his name was Christopher Jackson. He looked about my age, something like twenty-five. He took me for fifty bucks that night, Scott. Shitload of money back then. People used to say all kinds of things about him, all kinds of weird things. You know?"

Scott shook his head. No, he didn't know. The last of the Corona was gone now and he was starting to get tired.

"Well, I didn't believe none of it. Not until the other day. After the war I stopped hearin' about the guy. Things were happening so fast back then, who had time to keep track of people. He just disappeared. Didn't even give the guy a thought for fifty years until I ran into him the other day."

Scott had laid his head on his hands, resting on the bar's sticky surface, but his eyes were still open, his consciousness being held by the sound of Lucas''s voice.

"You know what, Scott?" the old man asked, never waiting for an answer. "He didn't look a day over thirty. I didn't even think it was him right away, I thought it was his grandson. But the mother looks at me, and he smiles. I walk up to him and he remembers me like it was yesterday. Starts talking with me about pool and shit. Asks me if I still played. I told him sure as Hell. So he tells me to meet him here tonight, see if I improved with the years and all that. It ain't right. The only thing I can think of is what people used to say about him, well... maybe some of it was true. You know what I mean?"

Scott didn't. He was so overcome by the alcohol by then, he'd almost fallen asleep.

The bartender, Troy, came over again.

"What the hell you telling that kid about Christopher for? Trying to give him nightmares or something? What are you gonna play him for anyway? You ain't got shit left for money, everybody knows that."

Through the groggy haze of the smokey bar and his own frazzled mind, Scott heard Lukas reply.

"That's not true, Troy." He thumped his fist on the table, in it was six dollars. The bartender scooped it up. "Now I ain't got shit left for money. But I won't be needing it tonight. Some things you play for are worth more than money, son. Some things are worth a lot more."

Crack! The cold snap whiplashed through Scott Cloud's young, alcoholic dreams, driving him toward consciousness, although the rest was wanted and needed. A ball glided along the felt of the pool table and deftly fell into a pocket. 

Crack! Another pop, the ball finding its mark. Sound and sensation began to return to Scott, although his eyelids were shut and stubborn.

"Hey Kid," called a voice. Suddenly there was a great hand upon him, violently jarring him awake, and sending the last shadow of the Corona away. "Hey Kid," Troy said, shaking him more gently now, although it seemed urgent enough. "It's almost closing time. You had better get home now. Your folks have probably already called the cops and every morgue in town."

"What?" Scott lifted his head, wiping away at the stickiness his face had collected while he lay sleeping with his head on the bar. His ear and hair were pasty on one side.

A throb appeared at the top of his head and began working it's way forward until it lay over him.

He looked around the bar. Everyone had left except a solitary man playing pool, Troy, and himself.

"Where's Lukas?" Scott asked.

Troy moved behind the bar, his back to the boy, stacking the last of the clean glasses before the multicolored fifths of whiskeys, gins, and liqueurs, some nearly empty, others barely touched.

"He's gone. Went home."

"But," Scott said, an sharp snap interrupted him. Another ball found its mark. 

"We close in fifteen minutes, Boy. You had better be on your way."

Scott was standing now, his confusion having returned with renewed vigor. 

"I was just talking to him. He said he was going to play pool with someone."

Two glasses clinked together as Troy stacked another soldier in line.

Scott shuffled away from the bar, his thoughts reeling, head pounding. How long had he been asleep? He turned to the pool tables, remembering Lukas's story. Near the back, the lone man concentrated on a shot, running the cue precisely back and forth between his thumb and forefinger, looking for the angle Back and forth--precisely. Click. The eight ball spun away, softly caressing the bottom of the side pocket.

Scott moved toward the last top-lit sea of green left wondering if the man knew where Lukas was. The other tables now lay dark and silent, covered like corpses on a battlefield. After his successful shot, the man rose to his full height and looked at Scott.

"May I help you, Young Master?" the man spoke eloquently. His voice was cultured, with just a bit of what Scott's father called a `twang' to it. Scott stood about a foot taller than the bar table, and he could see that it's surface was empty except for the cue ball. The man himself was a giant towering above Scott like the guys who played basketball in the park. This man, however, dressed like a dandy with grey slacks, a pair of black wing tips, and a high collared, white dress shirt, complete with cufflinks. The cue stick in his hands was a black as his skin. His face was delicately featured, framed by his hair which was braided in a sea of tails that ran down his back. Scott couldn't help but think of him as a gentleman.

"A game of pool, perhaps?" the man asked his words running with incredible fluidity.

"I don't know how to play," a simple answer, and the truth. The pounding had abated for the time being, and Scott was held fast.

"Don't know how to play? Sacrilege! I will make you a deal. What is your name, anyway?" Before he could answer, the man held up his hand. "Scott, it's Scott. Well, Scott, I will make you a deal, you rack the balls, and I will put them back in their leathers.

The opportunity to watch him play was certainly appealing. He nodded.

"Fine then," the man said happily, taking a red handkerchief from his pocket, and dabbing at the sides of his mouth.

Scott picked up the rack and began to shovel the balls into it from their cradle under the table. He lined them up the way he'd seen his Grandpa do it so many times. Once he was done, the man positioned the cue, and sent the balls scattering with one graceful motion. Scott sat quietly, watching the man work. The balls flitter into the pockets. There was a rhythm to it, this was the magic Lukas had spoken of. The thought of the old man reminded Scott of why he was there to begin with. Fifteen shots passed, fifteen balls fell, magic.

"Mister..." Scott began.

"Yes, Scott?" the gentleman answered.

"Do you know where Lukas went?" The stranger's eyes grew larger at the mention of the old man's name. 

"You knew Lukas?" he asked.

"Yes, Sir," Scott nodded.

"Don't call me "Sir", Scott. We're all men here. You can call me Chris. Christoper Jackson."

Scott recognized the name immediately. This was the magician, the man who didn't age, and the man that...

"Lukas was supposed to play you tonight?" Scott said.

"And so we did, My Boy," the man named Jackson replied with a little flair. "He played quite valiantly, and quite well. He was an artist. I wish we had played for money. By the by, I'm sorry about you dog."

"Hey Jackson!" Troy called out from behind the bar. "I'm closing, you better start packing it up."

Jackson laughed a little, and began to break down his pool stick and store it away in an elaborate, velvet lined case.

"I love Troy, he can be so funny at times. I remember when he was a kid and his father owned this place."

Scott wasn't a very good judge of age yet, but he figured Troy looked at least fifty.

"But, Lukas..."

"Don't worry about Lukas, Scott," the man said, sliding his overcoat on. "He can take care of his own. Pool is a gamble, Scott. You either play by yourself, or you play for something. Most people play for money, very few play for fun."

"What do you play for?" Scott wished he'd never asked the question. He wanted to snatch it out of the air and take it back, but it was far too late.

Jackson finished putting on his gloves, and turned to Scott. And then he smiled again, this time wider. With terror, Scott realized there was something wrong with his teeth, something horribly wrong.

Jackson reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a crisp hundred dollar note. He handed it to Scott who took it with shaking hands.

"Go home now, Scott. And make sure the cab driver gives you all your change. Money is an important thing, people will get it any way they can. But the worst thing of all, is having money, and still going hungry." Jackson began to walk for the door. "Learn, Scott. Learn to play pool, come back in a few years, and maybe we can break a few racks."

Scott stood there a while before he realized that Jackson had left his handkerchief on the pool table. He stuffed the hundred dollar bill in his pocket and went to retrieve the cloth.

When he picked it up, he could feel the dampness of it. When he looked at his hand, there were red stains smeared across his palm. Somewhere deep inside he began to scream.

Troy had called a cab for him. Upon reaching his house, Scott made sure to get the proper change from the driver. He then snuck upstairs to his bedroom, there would be hell to pay in the morning.

An adult Scott Cloud tipped the last of the Corona long necks to his lips and drank deeply leaving only foam at the bottom of the bottle. He belched and put the empty bottle aside with the others. He was drunk now. His limbs felt leaden, and he was finding it difficult to focus thought into action.

Staggering to his feet, Scott fought his way into his overcoat. He left the Corona bottles where they were.

He forsook his car in favor of walking. He definitely needed a walk.

Scott pocketed his unneeded car keys, opened the door, and switched off the light. Immediately the light from the alley claimed its place in the room.

The street was wet with a fine mist which had risen from the melting snow. Scott set out for home by way of Fort Street.

He had only been walking for a few minutes when he stopped, just as he always did, to look up at the bright, green neon sign announced that "Troy's" was open for business. Scott wondered, through his drunken mind, whatever happened to the rest of that one hundred dollars.

From within "Troy's" there sounded a sharp crack.