Pouliot doesn’t know exactly where he is, and he doesn’t care. The dark, noisy bar seems to crowd around him, and the smoke clings to his body like a wool sweater. He looks up from the empty glass in front of him and signals the bartender for another. His bloodshot eyes burn relentlessly, and the muscles in his legs ache. He has lived somewhere between sleeping and waking for so long that he thinks about only one thing—dying. He can’t remember a time when he ever wanted anything else. “Six-fifty.” The bartender’s hoarse voice cuts through the thick air. Pouliot hands him the money, then pulls out the deck from his back pocket. The worn cards feel soft between his fingers as he shuffles. “Do you know any tricks?” Next to him, a petite woman with curly brown hair and green eyes watches his hands. She takes a sip from her martini and smiles. “No, I’m not good with tricks.” Pouliot looks at her body. A tight black skirt clings to her tan thighs, and several thin silver bracelets cover each wrist.
