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WARNING

The following horror story is intended for mature audiences.

Hot Hand

Michael R. Gist

"I raise."

Across the worn green felt of the card table, Jack Shaeffer's brow furrowed in a loser's pucker. A fresh runnel of sweat slid down his cheek as he tossed in his last two chips. "I call."

I slugged down my watery bourbon. This was like taking candy away from a baby. My right hand was on fire tonight -- my lucky right.

I laid down three queens.

"Son of a bitch!" Jack shouted. He threw down his cards. His eyes studied my face. "I never seen playing like that. I gotta know how you do it."

I held out my right hand like I was gonna shake. When Jack reached for it, I pulled my fingers back. They were on fire, throbbing with power. I smoothed my slicked-down hair. He would never know how close he'd come to the answer. "No trade secrets."

"Bastard," he snarled. He kicked back his chair and strode away.

"Loser," I muttered at his backside.

For the next couple of hours, I contented myself with cleaning out Jack's pals. Deal after deal, my trusty right hand moved with a will all its own, as it had ever since the day three months ago when I'd got down on my knees and prayed my guts out not to bust again.

That night had been my first visit to the back room of Blackie Malone's Roadhouse, where I threw in the chip destined to change my whole world. My right hand had ignited like fire as I dealt the cards and everything it touched had turned to gold.

For weeks after, I kept downing bourbons, while using ice to cool my hand. And every night I walked away with my pockets bulging, pats on the back, looks of envy, and the women -- oh, the women -- they were as hot as my hand.

I was on top of the world. I thought my luck would never end. Then, on the Saturday night after I cleaned out Jack, I strolled into Blackie's Roadhouse wearing my new polyester suit and an ego the size of a turnip truck.

The nightclub was closed and serious gambling had begun in the back room where only the elite gained entry. The door was thrown open for me and I took a big whiff of my favorite perfume -- whiskey and tobacco.

And as a redhead with a knockout figure guided me to my seat, I could smell a really big payoff coming.

A half-hour later, I was raking in a pile of chips that would make a buffalo proud and feeling no pain, when the local crime boss, Blackie Malone, came waltzing in. He was tall and handsome for a man in his fifties, except for tired, baggy eyes. He was accompanied by a burly bodyguard that clung to him like a second skin. And when we looked at each other, I knew right away this was the score I'd been waiting for.

I'd never met the man, but word on the street was that Blackie once fancied himself a pretty good poker player. But I'd also heard that his best days were behind him. To bring him down would be a feather in my cap.

I couldn't resist.