Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 103, No. 3 & 4. Whole No. 625 & 626, March 1994

A Fool and His Money by William Bankier

© 1994 by William Bankier

William Bankier has held a variety of part time jobs since retiring from a career in advertising to devote more time to writing fiction. His previous occupations provided seeds for several earlier EQMM stories; in this new L.A. story, he writes of something very close to him indeed, for Mr. Bankier and his wife are currently managers of an L.A. apartment complex...

It began with pain between the eyes, sharp as a knife going in. Ken Rose could taste the red wine he had been drinking, but everything else was agony. He closed his eyes and waited for the misery to stop. When it did, he said, “That was a doozie.”

“What was?” Zora was working the crossword puzzle from the Sunday Times.

“Felt like I was stabbed in the head.”

“Has it stopped?”

“Thank the Lord.”

“It’s residual pain. You were severely injured when your head went through that windshield.”

There was a splash of wine left. Ken drank it and put the empty glass out of reach. He felt hungry; he should have eaten an hour ago.

Now a strange thing happened. Zora was suddenly at the front door of the apartment. She opened it and took one step outside. Then she came back in and closed the door, saying, “The weatherman is crazy. It isn’t going to rain.”

Ken blinked. Zora was where she had been, tucked up on the sofa with her knees beneath her, printing letters in empty squares. But a few moments later, his wife broke her concentration. She got up and went to the door, opened it, and took one step outside. Then she came back in and closed the door. “The weatherman is crazy,” she said. “It isn’t going to rain.”

Ken said, “That’s incredible. A minute ago, I saw you do exactly that.”

“What?”

“While you were still sitting on the sofa. I saw you at the door, saying what you just said about rain. Then you got up and did it.”

“It happens.”

“I saw the future.”

“You had an episode of déjà vu. It’s not unusual. Like a crossed wire in your brain. What you’re seeing or hearing gets fed through a memory circuit, so it feels like a memory.”

“This was different,” Ken insisted. “I saw it happen. Then there was a pause. Then it happened.”

Zora observed her husband’s once-handsome face. It was not that the accident had left him looking horrible. But his eyelids now hung heavy. And one comer of his mouth drooped. The face that had caught her attention six years ago across the mall now looked stupid. Ken Rose still had all his marbles. But he looked as if he needed his address pinned to his jacket.

“Are you cracking up?” Zora asked.

“I’m all right.”

“That would be all I need. For you to go batty on me.”

Weeks went by before there was another episode. This time, Ken was alone. Zora was around the corner at the Alpha Beta market, working a shift at the checkout aisles. Her job five days a week brought in all the money. Before the accident, Ken earned his share driving a taxi for Beverly Hills Cab. He could no longer drive, his reflexes were slow. He had been speeding on wet pavement when he hit a light pole.

The Roses were now managing an apartment building. They paid zero rent, and the duties keeping the area tidy and handling minor maintenance jobs were within Ken’s capabilities.

Zora knew the owner, Al McGee, from the market. He lived in a big new building halfway up the Hollywood Hills. McGee always checked out at Zora’s machine. They had a low-key flirtation going. When his previous building manager quit, he offered the job to the sharp young cashier with the calculating eyes. He accepted the husband sight unseen.

“Give it a chance,” Zora had said when Ken was expressing negative feelings on first hearing about the apartment job. Then she added, “What else can you do?”

He had no choice. The taxi career was over. On interviews for minimum-wage jobs, his damaged face made a poor impression. Zora’s advice to him was, “Thank your lucky stars for Al McGee. I don’t know where we’d be without Al.”

There was one other source of money in an emergency. Ken could go and see his parents in Arcadia. But he hated to do that. His mother annoyed him by tucking a folded twenty-dollar bill into his shirt pocket even when he didn’t ask for anything. His father was retired from his job behind a betting window at Santa Anita racetrack.

Unlike many other track employees, Ken’s father never gambled. He referred to the people lined up at his window as “the fools and their money.”

Ken had no real quarrel with his parents. They were harmless, though boring. He could not admit to Zora what he really wanted. This was for the old folks to pass on so that he could inherit the property. Then he would be secure.

It was a Tuesday morning, the sky was clear. Ken spent a couple of hours sweeping leaves, picking up papers, policing the property. He liked this part of the job. You could see the results of your work.

At noon, he stowed rake and broom in the closet at the end of the garage beneath the building. Then he went inside, showered, and changed into fresh clothes. There was an individual chicken pie in the freezer. He popped it into the oven, then poured a tumbler of red wine and sat down to read the morning paper. He was hungry. It was nice to sip wine and smell the pie getting hot.

The pain between the eyes came rolling in. He waited for the spasm to pass. It did, and he experienced a focusing of his awareness. He opened his eyes and saw through the front window a cat emerging from beneath shrubbery by the steps. It launched itself into the air, going for a sparrow that had been pecking seeds.

The bird was gone in a flutter, leaving the cat to strut off its anger. Ken recognized the cat as an orange cowboy who lived in a house across the street. It sometimes came around and moaned in the night.

But now the animal was gone, the pavement clear. Ken’s heart began to pound. He peered at the shrubbery and saw the tips of the cat’s paws, in hiding. A sparrow fluttered down onto the pavement and began to peck. The cat crept forward, then pounced. The bird took off, the cat lashed its tail and walked away.

Zora came in at the end of her shift. Ken described the episode with cat and bird. Then he said, “This is not déjà vu. I am observing an event a short while before it happens. Time is like a river. Everything that happens is bound to happen. We aren’t able to see upstream before things get to us. But now I can. I have this glimpse of the river a minute or so before it arrives here. It’s the future, Zora! Then it comes by me a second time, as the present.”

“Well good for you, Ken.” She kicked off her work shoes and fell onto the couch. “It’s the immediate past that has me beat. I could use a beer.”

He went to the kitchen and brought back bottle and glass. She waited as he poured the beer, then took it from him. He knelt on the carpet beside her. “I’ve figured out how to use this,” Ken said. “Suppose we were in Vegas, watching a roulette wheel. I’d see the wheel spin and the ball drop into the winning number. Then we’re back to the present. I place a big bet on that number. The wheel spins, the number comes up, we take it to the bank!”

The beer tasted good. Her husband, for a change, was not boring. Zora smoothed his hair across his forehead so it covered most of the scar. He would never again look like the guy who approached her as she was leaving the candy shop at the mall. Her friend Nellie saw what was happening that day and tactfully withdrew. What would Nellie say now if she saw Ken? “Who’s that sleepy guy?”

“Even if you can do this,” Zora conceded, “how can you control it? It only happens once in a while, right? And you can’t predict when.”

“Yes I can. Both times I’ve been drinking red wine on an empty stomach. A few minutes later, it happens.” He drew her closer for a kiss. She turned her head and took it on the cheek. “Let’s go to Vegas. I know I can make this work.”

“Okay, let’s take a couple of days off.” Zora reached for the telephone. “I’ll call and clear it with Al.”

Al McGee drove them to the airport so they could leave Zora’s car at the building and not pay for parking at LAX. “Not many owners would do this for their manager,” he teased as they took their bags from the trunk.

“Not many owners have managers as nice as we are,” Zora said.

“You don’t have to walk us to our flight.” Ken took hold of both bags.

Al McGee was a tall, rangy, suntanned millionaire with pale eyes and shiny teeth. He hugged Zora and swung her in a circle, as if the action would justify their touching bodies. When they tottered to a standstill, the landlord said, “Why don’t you dump this loser and come live with me?” Then he put on an expression of mock-disappointment and let her slip from his grasp. This went to show that it was all a game.

But all three of them knew the old man had a serious craving for Zora Rose. And if ever the future were to reveal itself fully, Ken would hate the sight of certain events that were coming down the river.

The flight to Nevada took only an hour. There it was below, an island of fun and games surrounded by deadly sand. The plane landed, the passengers rode the shuttle to the bright lights. Ken and Zora took a taxi to Fremont Street. They found a room at the Union Plaza, stowed their stuff, and then hurried down to the main floor. Here were the machines, the dealers, the free drinks, and a girl singing country on a tiny stage.

“I’m starving,” Zora said. She spotted the entrance to a dining room advertising roast beef dinners.

“You eat,” Ken told her. “To make it work, I need red wine on an empty stomach.”

Zora studied her husband. He had not looked her full in the face for quite a while. He was not depressed. But there was a hardness in his expression that she had not seen before.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m getting ready to win. So you won’t be married to a loser.”

“Is that what this is? Al was kidding.”

“Hey, Al can kid all he likes. I’m about to get serious.”

Zora went into the restaurant and Ken peeled off to a bar. He paid for a large glass of dry red. He took a sip, then drifted over to the wheel.

Not many people were playing at this hour. It made no difference to Ken. He gave a hundred dollars to the girl and took ten chips. He chucked them in one hand and sipped wine, watching the croupier spin the wheel. A lady was playing black and even. She won. Then she lost. She lost again. She bought more chips.

The wine on Ken’s empty stomach was having an effect. He felt in control. He was like an actor with an award-winning part to play, facing a new audience. He drank more wine.

This time, he felt the flash coming. His heartbeat increased and his mouth went dry. He braced himself and stared at the wheel. The croupier was waiting for players to place their bets. He endured the familiar pain, the stabbing thrust between the eyes. Then he saw the wheel spinning, slowing to a stop, the tiny ball bouncing, catching, bouncing loose again, then resting and riding to a stop in number thirty-seven.

The flash ended. “Here we go,” the croupier said. He spun the wheel and put the ball in play. “Place your bets, ladies and gents.”

Ken reached forward and set all ten chips on number thirty-seven. He had never in his life bet a hundred dollars at one time.

The spin looked familiar. Every carom of the ball was as he recalled it from moments ago. The ball was bouncing, catching, bouncing loose again, then resting and riding to a stop on... number thirty-seven!

The payoff was thirty-five-to-one! Ken collected chips worth three thousand five hundred dollars. He stuffed them into his pockets and moved to the bar.

Zora joined him when he was on his second beer, having finished with the wine. “What’s with you? Lose your nerve?”

He took a fistful of chips from his pocket and set them on the bar. He opened another pocket to show her more. “Let’s hear it for Super Ken,” he said.

“It worked?”

“One spin. Three grand plus.”

She leaned back to frown at him, her eyes narrowed. Then she got off the stool and said, “Come on. Let’s hit ’em while you’re hot.”

“You still don’t understand. I had the flash. I saw the spin before it happened.”

“You got lucky, Ken. But have it your way. Let’s do it again.”

“It won’t work that way.” He stood up, pushing money to the bartender. “I’m hungry now. I think I’ll try the roast beef.”

It would not work on the following afternoon. Ken had not slept well. He dreamed he was trying to cash a winning ticket at his father’s window at Santa Anita. The old man tore the ticket to confetti. “You’re a fool, son,” he said. Then he grabbed the parimutuel machine by both hands and swung it around until its feet left the floor. “We’re going to the chapel, honey,” he sang, “And we’re gonna get married!”

The wine tasted sour. Ken’s empty stomach rebelled. He had to eat something. Afterwards, he bought a couple of rolls of quarters and fed the slots.

Zora came downstairs from sleeping late. She found her husband wandering around with a plastic tub of coins in his hand and a weary expression on his face.

“What happened?”

“It won’t work today.”

“You look like you just got the test results back.” When he did not respond, she said, “Cheer the hell up. Going on vacation with you is like having a root canal.”

That evening, he decided to try another casino. Zora came back from a bank of telephones. She said, “I spoke to Al.”

“You called him?”

“I had to tell him when we’d be flying in so he can meet the plane. He doesn’t have your psychic powers.”

They postponed eating so that Ken could get hungry. They walked up one side of Fremont and down the other. The doors were open at Binion’s. They could hear the clatter of a wheel. They went inside and Ken ordered his glass of red wine and a whisky sour for his wife. They moved to the roulette table where Ken stood and stared, sipping wine.

“How do you feel?” she asked.

“More like it.”

The flash came quickly. She was carrying the money. “Buy a hundred dollars,” he told her. Not much was happening at the table. But Ken saw the wheel spinning, saw the ball bouncing, saw it catch and skip free and catch again and hold. Then it was riding firmly in number twenty-eight until the wheel stopped.

“Here we go,” the croupier intoned.

“Put the hundred on number twenty-eight,” Ken murmured.

Zora placed the chips and the wheel began to turn. Ken watched her face as his glimpse of the future was played again in present time. Number twenty-eight came up. They were ahead another $3,500!

Turning in the chips at a cashier’s counter, she shook her head. “I still think it’s luck. You could do it again, but you won’t.”

“You just don’t know what’s going on.”

“Who does?” she said.

When they got home, Zora put the money in the bank. Ken wanted her to buy herself something but she said, “I worry about my future. I don’t want to end up old and poor.”

A new tenant was moving into the building. Al McGee came over to sign the lease and accept the certified check for first month’s rent and security deposit. Everybody crowded around the table in the Roses’ apartment, drinking coffee and being neighborly.

The formalities were concluded, the tenant had to be on his way. But he expressed a desire to see where his parking slot would be in the garage beneath the building. Ken volunteered to show him, and the two men left the apartment.

It took awhile because the newcomer’s space was between the wall and a wide-bodied car. He asked whether he might switch with the occupant of a more convenient space. Ken said people tended to be jealous of their parking space so he could not promise anything.

When the tenant drove away, Ken hurried back to the apartment. He heard Zora’s voice as he approached the door, which he had left slightly ajar. He hesitated, listening.

“Don’t, Al,” she murmured. “He’ll notice if I’m mussed up.”

“You are one sweet woman. Come back to my place.”

“I can’t.”

“Tell him you got called in to work.”

“He might walk around to the store.”

“So he finds out. You’re too good for that jerk. Leave him, Zora. Come with me. You’ll never have to worry about a thing.”

Ken jiggled the knob before opening the door. His wife and his boss were a few feet apart on the sofa. She was tucking in her blouse. “He wants to switch spaces.”

“Forget it,” Zora said. “He gets the space on the chart.”

“I told him.”

Al got to his feet. “Do you have to work today?” he said to Zora.

“Half a shift,” she said. “I go in from four to eight.”

“I think we have a good tenant there. Nice work, you guys.”

When the landlord was gone, Ken said, “What’s going on?”

“What do you mean?”

“I heard you outside. You’re going to his place.”

Zora went into the bathroom and began brushing her teeth. Ken followed her, stood behind her as she bent over the sink. She rinsed her mouth and turned to face him. He took a step backwards in the small room. “You have to wake up, Ken,” she said. “We need Al McGee. You and I can’t pay rent. Can you work at a normal job?”

“Was he doing something to you?”

“What does it matter? You don’t do anything.”

Ken stormed out of the apartment. He reached Santa Monica Boulevard and headed east. There was a bar around the comer on La Brea. He went inside and perched on a stool in the scented dark.

He ordered a glass of the house red. The bartender served it in a goblet. Then he went back to talking with a woman two stools away. She was a neat young person with cropped mahogany hair framing a plump face. She must have been in her twenties.

Ken had almost finished his wine when he realized he had left home without having any supper. Would it happen here, with no money to be won? Like a crack opening in his skull, the pain came and flashed and went. He rocked back on the stool, gripping the rim of the bar with both hands.

A man came in and stood surveying the room. There was something in his right hand, pressed against the side of his trousers. It was a gun. The man was the outdoor type, weathered face, Marine haircut. The sleeves had been cut from his denim shirt to reveal thickly muscled arms and shoulders.

The man focused on the girl talking to the bartender. He walked purposefully in their direction. When he arrived behind her, he did not hesitate. He raised the gun, held the muzzle inches from the back of her head, and pulled the trigger. She was knocked forward across the bar. The bartender lunged backwards, his shirt spattered with blood.

The intruder, moving at the same steady pace, walked from the bar. Ken rubbed his eyes. He saw the girl laughing at something the bartender had said. The atmosphere was serene.

“Can I talk to you?” he said to her. “This is important. There isn’t much time.” The bartender moved away. “You are in danger. There’s a guy coming in here. Looks like a soldier. He has a gun.”

She took him seriously. “You know Dalton? When did you see him?”

“Come with me.” He led her to a door with an Exit sign above it at the back of the room. They hurried out into an alleyway leading to the parking lot.

“Who are you?”

“My name is Ken Rose. I can explain but there’s no time. This guy is going to shoot you in the head.”

“Are you a friend of his?”

“Listen!” Voices were raised inside the building. A man was demanding to know where Rachel had gone. The bartender was saying things to calm him down. Ken said, “I suggest you get out of here. Have you got a car?”

“It’s in the lot.” She concentrated on him for the first time. “You saved my life. I’m Rachel Hagerty.”

“I’d like to see you again.”

“How about here, same time next Monday night.” When he looked dubious, she said, “Dalton Lee is not a fool. He’ll be in hiding now for a while.”

Ken saw her to her car. When she had driven away, he went back inside. The bartender said, “I’m glad you got her out of here.”

“What happened?”

“This crazy guy used to work for her father. He got fired. And Rachel stopped seeing him. He’s been stalking her. She got a restraining order, but those things don’t always work.”

Two days later, after an intense conversation with Al McGee, Zora made up her mind. Things were never going to get any better with Ken. He was a pathetic case, but she had her own future to consider. Al might decide to dump her sometime down the road. But her chances of controlling him were good. He was old and she looked young, so she could use that to keep him in line. Above all, he was rich. Whatever took place, she should walk away with a nest egg.

It only remained to break the news to Ken. They agreed to do that as a team, over dinner at Al’s place. Late that afternoon, when she walked back to the apartment from the market, she found Ken watching yet another news program on the box. He would switch from channel to channel, soaking up the same headlines over and over, told by different talking heads. She wanted to throw her shoulderbag through the screen.

“We’ve been invited out for dinner!” she said.

“Where?” He was suspicious of her delight.

“Al’s place.”

“That’s weird.”

“Don’t you want to dine on a penthouse patio under the stars?”

“He wants you, not me.” Ken’s mind was adrift, nudging thought after thought of Rachel Hagerty.

Zora was encouraged. Her husband’s mellow response boded well for the announcement to take place later. They both dressed up for the first time in months. Before leaving, Zora ate some chocolate cookies and drank a large glass of milk. “You want some?”

“No, I want to be hungry. Who knows what slop I’ll have to pretend to enjoy.”

A taxi drove them to Al McGee’s building, a seven-story structure of recent design. It was a black slab, gated and barred, with door buzzers and a uniformed guard packing heat.

Al greeted his guests in black slacks, an open-necked black shirt, and a white silk ascot tie. A giant Irish setter was sitting beside him, waiting for the word. The dog looked old and it was overweight. “This is Argo. Say hello to Ken and Zora, Argo.”

The dog pranced forward, reared up, balanced a paw on either shoulder, and tried to lick Ken’s face. Ken liked animals in their place. Argo took the hint and turned his affections on Zora.

“That’s enough,” McGee said. “Come here, you mutt.” Argo ran to her master and rose like a heavyweight at the count of nine. McGee took hold of the front paws and they danced together, man and animal pirouetting through a doorway onto the penthouse patio.

“This is gorgeous,” Zora said, admiring the table elegantly set for three. Some day soon, she would live here.

“How about a drink,” Al said, dismissing Argo with a whack on the flank.

Zora took bourbon on the rocks because that’s what her host was drinking. Ken asked for a glass of red wine. It was smoother and drier than what they served in bars.

McGee said, “Let’s get business out of the way and then we can eat. Did you break it to him?”

“He has the idea.”

“This is me you’re talking about?” Ken said.

“You must have noticed how things are. Between me and Zora. She tells me you guys are not as close as you once were. There are no children to worry about. Listen, you can stay on in the apartment as long as you want, rent-free. Zora would be up here, of course.”

The arrival of the pain between the eyes was subtle this time. Gradually, it intensified. Ken pressed fingertips into both sockets. The other two took this to be his reaction to the news. They waited for him to collect himself.

Ken opened his eyes. He saw Al McGee on his feet. Argo rose to lean on him, and they began dancing again. But this time, Al’s foot struck Zora’s shoulderbag where she had left it on the floor near the parapet. The strap encircled his ankle and he tripped, twisting to regain his balance, falling against the waist-high wall. The weight of the dog pushed him farther and, before anyone could move, he was over the edge. His scream as he fell lasted only a couple of seconds.

Ken blinked. The scene was as before. Al said to Zora, “Your glass is empty.” He took it and got to his feet. Whimsically, he danced a ballroom turn away from the table. Argo saw his master’s movement and came at a run. The dog rose up and put his paws on Al’s shoulders. Laughing, Al continued the dance. Ken saw the shoulderbag on the floor, but said nothing. He watched as his host’s shiny patent-leather loafer hooked the strap. In moments it was over — the stumble, the lurch, the slide across the parapet, the fall to the pavement seven floors below.

Zora was stunned. She seemed to be in shock. Ken got up and looked over the edge. The dog whimpered beside him. Ken went to the telephone and dialed 911. Waiting for the operator, he said, “I could have prevented that.”

“What?”

“The red wine? The empty stomach? I had a flash. I saw the whole thing happen before it happened.”

Zora looked at him with major hatred. “I can’t go on living with you, Ken. You are crazy beyond belief.”

For the next couple of days, Ken kept wondering if he was guilty of something. The police had logged McGee’s death as an accident. Was there a crime known as accessory before the fact of accidental death? There was a risk now that their apartment-manager job might vanish. Whoever inherited Al’s estate could decide to move in and manage the building.

Ken and Zora spent an afternoon in Arcadia visiting his parents. He told them the story of the landlord’s fall. He mentioned the dance with Argo, but not his premonition. His father, who was losing it fast, said, “A man’s best friend is his dog.”

As they left the house that evening, his mother slipped a folded twenty into Ken’s shirt pocket. “Buy yourself something,” she whispered, glaring at Zora.

Driving home through Glendale, Zora said, “Spending time with your parents helps me understand why you’re so weird.”

“I love you too.”

“Count your blessings.”

“What for?”

“If I thought you could have spoken up and saved Al’s life, I’d throw you out onto the road and back over your broken body.”

Ken was doing some serious thinking. It was odd to consider his wife a bereaved woman, but it was the truth. To abandon her in the state she was in might seem cruel. But it could also be the best thing for everybody. She talked about protecting her future. He could only do the same for himself.

“I’m going out for a walk,” he said when they were home.

“There are dangerous people out there,” she told him. “Take your time.”

It was Monday evening. He had been thinking of Rachel Hagerty all day. He remembered her promise to see him at the place on La Brea. When he got there, she was on her accustomed seat at the bar. The mahogany hair shone, and a strand of pearls enhanced the cleft of the sheer black nylon blouse she wore.

“You made it,” she said, turning to him with a magnificent smile.

“Couldn’t wait.” He slipped onto the next stool and then, risking it, kissed her on the cheek. “What happened to Dalton Lee?”

“He’s vanished. The bar reported his coming in last week. I don’t think we’ll see him for a while.”

She was a good listener. For the next hour, as he drank beer, Ken told her everything about himself. He described his ageing parents, his estrangement from his wife, the taxi accident that changed his face and did something to his brain so that he could occasionally see the immediate future. He ran through the vision of Lee invading the bar to commit murder.

“You’ve got this incredible talent,” she said, accepting it without question. “And you saved my life with it.”

When he told her about his big wins at the roulette table, her response was immediate. “Why don’t we go to Vegas! Switch you on and make our fortune!”

“Let’s do that.”

“I mean right now. My car is out back. The tank is full.” Her eyes sized him up. “Ever drive through the desert at night?”

Zora was not home. Ken left a message on the answering machine saying he was heading for Vegas with a friend. He joined Rachel in the parking lot where she was warming the engine of a white BMW. He climbed in beside her and belted up.

“Great wheels.”

“It’s one of my father’s cars. Dad owns Hagerty Security. That’s where Dalton Lee came from. He did watchdog assignments until he started pursuing me. Then he got suspended for taking bribes and now he’s in real trouble.”

“I hope I can pass inspection.”

“I told my father how you saved me. He thinks you’re sensational.”

They made a coffee stop near Victorville. Getting back on the road, neither of them noticed the black sedan that followed at a distance. It was the same car that had crept out of a lane way onto La Brea when they began the journey.

Later, Rachel said, “Are you hungry?”

“Getting there.”

“When we arrive, let’s feed you some red wine. Then we can hit a roulette wheel before we go to bed.”

A silent mile went by with painted lines flashing beneath the car. Then Ken said, “You don’t owe me anything.”

“Who said I do?”

“I didn’t always look like this.”

“Will you cut it out?”

“When we get to the hotel, I want to stop at an automatic teller machine.”

“The hotel is on me. My credit card bills go to Dad.”

“I want to get five hundred out anyway.”

“Men are so funny.” She took a hand off the steering wheel and found his fists clenched in his lap. “Will you relax? It’s not how you look or what you have. It’s who you are.”

Ken said, “I know that.” Then he sat there in her father’s car, knowing he looked bad and he didn’t have enough.

The new Excalibur was the first hotel off the freeway. Lit up at night, its turrets resembled the closing titles on a Disney movie. The parking lot was not busy in the wee small hours of this Tuesday morning. Rachel wheeled the car into a slot close to the main entrance. The black sedan parked fifty feet away. Its lights went out.

“I need that ATM,” Ken said. They were out of the car, approaching the main doors.

Somebody was coming from the parking lot, walking fast. It was Dalton Lee. He held the gun pointing straight up, inches from his cheek. Thin face, narrow eyes, oiled hair — the man looked like some piece of lethal equipment.

“Caught you this time,” he said. He leveled the gun and took aim at Rachel.

Ken ran forward without thinking. He heard Rachel scream, “Don’t!” as he closed with Dalton Lee. Lee was frighteningly strong; it was like grabbing a bronze statue. All he could do was use both hands to force the gun off line. But with a forearm under Ken’s jaw, Lee moved the weapon slowly back towards his assailant.

Behind the glass doors, a security guard in the lobby saw the struggle. Drawing his nightstick, he came outside on the double. The gun went off and the unarmed man went limp. He fell to his knees and sagged prone as the guard arrived behind Dalton Lee. The nightstick came around sharply, making contact above the ear. Lee sprawled face down, the gun skidded away.

Rachel was bending over her companion. Ken was bleeding from a wound on his forehead. The guard dragged Lee’s arms behind his back and snapped on handcuffs. Then he used his radio to call for backup and an ambulance.

“You’re good at your job,” Rachel said.

“What about him?” the guard said. “I came up from behind. Your guy ran right at the gun.”

The management of the hotel took note of the security guard’s report. They were impressed. No casino wants the media coverage that accompanies a murder on their front steps. This customer prevented that from happening.

The clincher was when the security chief interviewed Rachel Hagerty. He had heard of Hagerty Security in Los Angeles. Her father’s business made her one of the family. The chief told her to forget about hospital bills. All expenses for Ken Rose’s treatment would be sent to the hotel.

Doctors performed plastic surgery to erase the scar where the bullet grazed his forehead. Then, knowing they had carte blanche, they corrected the drooping eyelids and the sagging mouth. Some time later, when the bandages came off, Ken looked in a mirror and saw his old handsome self.

Rachel was impressed. She was driving him from the hospital back to their free room at the Excalibur. “If your wife sees you, she’s going to want you back.”

“When you called and told her I’d been wounded,” Ken reminded her, “did she rush to see me?”

“No. She said you’d done enough to wreck her life. She has other fish to fry, was the way she put it.”

For two days, Ken and Rachel had all their meals delivered to the room. On the third day, he said it was time. The roulette wheel had been allowed to run free long enough. So Ken skipped breakfast and lunch and went to the bar alone in the early afternoon to drink red wine. In order not to be a distraction, Rachel went for a drive.

They met an hour later. “Nothing happens,” he said. “I had three glasses of wine. Usually it works with one. I don’t feel the same.”

“Dalton’s bullet must have done something to your head. I’m sorry, Ken. Because of me, you’ve lost the magic.”

“Because of you,” he said, “I no longer have to see the future. Here and now suits me fine.”

Zora was dozing in the living room. She had consumed two beers on an empty stomach. A completed crossword lay beside her on the sofa. She should have gone to Vegas to see Ken in the hospital. How did he manage to land a rich woman? She herself was in limbo. She had her rent-free apartment, but there was no Al McGee to lift her out of her low-pay job.

A key turned in the lock. The door opened and Ken came into the room. He was accompanied by a pert young woman with mahogany hair. His face looked different; the dopey expression was gone.

“Did we wake you up? I came to get a few things. This is Rachel.”

“Take what you like. As long as I didn’t pay for it.”

“I see what you mean,” Rachel murmured as Ken went into the bedroom.

Zora got up. She approached Rachel. “I suppose he’s been telling you I’m the villain.”

“We have more important things than you to talk about.” Rachel turned away.

Zora picked up the lead slab they used as a doorstop. She drew it back, taking aim at the girl’s head. Suddenly, Ken was behind her, seizing her arm, swinging her so she was flying back onto the sofa. Her head struck the wooden arm, stunning her for a moment.

She opened her eyes. The apartment was empty. A key turned in the lock and Ken entered the room. He was accompanied by a pert young woman with mahogany hair. “Did we wake you up? I came to get a few things. This is Rachel.”

Zora did not question what was happening. It was useful to be given a preview of events so you could alter your behavior. In this case, all she had to do was pick up the lead weight a little sooner, and swing it a bit harder.