It was 2 am. He was still holding the 38 revolver like a handful of popcorn when she shut the door. The lock snapped like jaws closing. From the bar, he could hear Dave Smith's gypsy guitar and Fred Levine's locomotive string bass swinging hard, then the heartfelt ache of the violin. Now he was drenched in the distilled honey of Shelley Higgins’ voice, soothing his ragged nerves like the first bourbon after a stretch in Folsom. Cold black metal clanged to the floor. "Until you will, how still my heart, how high the moon." He turned toward the door and a long night of poker. Maybe he could still get lucky.
