The Long Way Down by Craig Schaefer

Artie and Shades froze him out by silent consent after that, leaving him to dangle even as he kept signaling his hands, telling me exactly what he was holding.
    Off balance and out of the loop, Twitch went into a nosedive. We whittled him down, dividing up his stake until he barely had any chips to his name. I kept my victories small, occasionally tossing a hand to Artie or Shades on purpose, wanting them to stay confident.
    The shoe came around the table and it was my turn to deal. “I don’t know about you guys,” I said, “but I’m starting to feel lucky.”

Thirteen

    L uck comes naturally when you make it yourself. I palmed a couple of cards from the shoe as I dealt out the next hand, slipping them up my sleeve and wedging them against the band of my wristwatch for safekeeping. Then I took the kid gloves off and started winning.
    Twitch dropped first. Cleaned out and withering under his buddies’ glares, he mumbled something about needing to get back home and skulked out the door. Shades was next on the chopping block. I cut into him again and again, my stack of chips growing. He winced at each loss like I’d leaned across the table and gut-punched him. He suddenly remembered it was getting late and he had to be at work in the morning, offering limp apologies as he chugged down the last of his beer.
    “There you go,” Artie said from across the table, forcing an enthusiasm into his words that his eyes didn’t match. “Like I said, you could make some money tonight.”
    “Night’s still young.”
    He slapped a roll of bills onto the table. “Any objections?”
    “None.”
    He paid into the bank and gave himself a fresh stack of chips, mirroring mine. Meanwhile, Carl watched Caitlin like a cat eyeing a mouse in a cage. He suddenly slapped his palm against the table, making the chips jump, and stood up.
    “Have to make a phone call,” he snarled and stomped out of the room. Artie and I shrugged at each other and got down to business.
    With the signals from his partners gone, so was my biggest advantage. We went back and forth for a few hands while I looked for a way into his head.
    “Sorry about your loss, by the way,” I said as I laid down a winning hand.
    His cheek twitched. “What loss?”
    “That girl, what was her name, Stacie Velour? Heard she drowned. Damn shame. You must have been broken up over it.”
    “Barely knew the bitch,” he said, staring hard at his hand. “We just worked together once or twice.”
    I tossed some chips into the pot, raising the stakes, keeping my tone conversational. “Weird rumor on the Internet. Somebody said there’s a version of her autopsy report floating around, claiming she drowned two days before the rainstorm. Strange, huh?”
    He nearly bent his cards in half.
    “Internet’s bullshit,” he said, a faint stammer in his voice. “Bunch of pencil-neck geeks sitting in their mommas’ basements, making shit up.”
    “Yeah.” I nodded slowly. “That’s what I said too. Still, I heard they’re going to assign more cops to the case, give it another review. Just to be safe.”
    That was all it took. Flustered and nervous with his thoughts a mile away from the table, Artie made mistake after mistake, and I punished him for each and every one. I cut into his stacks of chips like a surgeon with a scalpel fetish, the clock ticking just shy of midnight by the time I finished cleaning house. I didn’t know exactly how much was in my pile, but it was a hell of a lot more than Artie had planned on losing.
    “Sure you can still afford the video?” I asked, taunting him a little. It wasn’t bravado; I needed him angry and reckless for what I had in mind.
    “I’m good for the money,” he growled.
    “I’m sure you’re good for it, but do you have it? In cash? I don’t take checks.”
    Carl came back to the table, thrusting his phone at Artie. “It’s your brother.”
    He took the phone. I couldn’t make out the words on the other end, but I could hear