by Steve Gannon
So promptly at ten-fifteen that morning I shuffled into the office of Jenkins, Gilbert, and O’Brien. Following a short wait, a nurse ushered me into an examining room. Moments later Dr. O’Brien entered, flipping through my chart on the way in. Dr. O’Brien was short, stout, and missing most of his hair. I had met him several times at office parties I’d attended with Sarah.
“Hello, John,” he said. “Your wife tells me you’re having trouble sleeping.”
“That’s putting it mildly,” I grumbled. “Truth is, I haven’t been sleeping at all.”
“Oh, I seriously doubt that,” he said with a knowing smile. “The human body can’t go without sleep for more than a few days.”
As near as I could tell, I hadn’t slept in a week . . . not counting those blank periods at work.
“You’ve probably been catching catnaps here and there that you don’t remember,” he continued pleasantly. “Had any stress lately?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure,” I snapped. Dr. O’Brien’s cheery attitude was beginning to bug me.
“Okay, John,” he said, settling his considerable bulk on the edge of the examining table. “Insomnia’s a fairly common occurrence. Most people experience it at one time or another, and it’s usually temporary.” His reassuring voice had taken on a pedantic, singsong tone, and I had to struggle to appear properly attentive.
“Some people can get by on a few hours a night,” he droned on. “Others need as many as ten. There’s a big range, you see, but the main cause of insomnia is usually anxiety and stress. I’m going to prescribe a drug that should help you relax and get you back on track. Take two before bedtime,” he added, handing me a hastily scribbled prescription.
“What is it?” I asked suspiciously, trying to decipher his writing.
“It’s a drug that relieves anxiety and promotes sleep.”
“What if it doesn’t?”
“Oh, I suppose we could try another drug. At that point we would probably also consider doing a complete workup—blood, EEG, CAT scan—to rule out any organic etiology. Maybe get a neurologic consult as well, perhaps a psychiatric evaluation.” Smiling, Dr. O’Brien rose from the table. “But I don’t think that will be necessary. Make an appointment for next week. We’ll see how you’re doing then.”
I got the drift: Get better, John . . . or else.
I set up an appointment for the following Thursday, but I never kept it. By then I didn’t care.
By then the visions had started.
On the way home from Dr. O’Brien’s, I made several stops—one to fill my prescription, another to pick up food at the market. We had invited Holden over for dinner that night, and although I didn’t feel like company, it was too late to cancel. As I shopped, I abruptly realized that people were staring at me. Though I never caught them, I could feel their accusing eyes following me as I passed shoppers in the aisles. I got out of there as quickly as I could. All the way home I kept wondering the same thing: What was happening to me?
That night Holden knocked on our door at around seven. “Hi, guys,” he said, strolling in and punching me lightly on the shoulder, then giving Sarah a kiss. I’d met Holden in college; we had played football together at the University of Arizona and been friends ever since. Holden was big, even bigger than I am, and solidly built. He had kept himself in shape, although lately I’d detected what looked like the beginnings of a paunch.
“I want you to meet somebody,” Holden continued, proudly placing an arm around his date—a willowy young thing named Sandee who was short on brains and long on looks. Definitely Holden’s type. Sandee cocktailed the late shift at the MGM Grand and had to be at work at eleven, so we got right down to drinks.
Since my problem began, I hadn’t been able to drink. Not much, anyway. One or two cocktails hit me hard, and I would spend the rest of the evening trying not to slur. I nursed a beer until we sat down to dinner.
Sarah outdid herself that night: Caesar salad, seafood pasta with shrimp, scallops, and clams in a spicy red sauce, hot garlic bread, and tiramisù for dessert. I think she was unconsciously trying to get our lives back on track with that meal. I wasn’t hungry. Nonetheless, the evening went well until Holden started expounding his gambling theory. Sarah and I had heard it before; his performance was obviously for Sandee’s benefit. Mumbling something about helping to clear the table, I excused myself, grabbed some dishes, and followed Sarah into the kitchen. As I began rinsing plates, I found myself listening to Holden’s explanation in the next room, begrudgingly admitting that despite his didactic tone, my friend did have a few things to say about gaming. Holden was a professional gambler.
“Why does the average Joe leave the tables a loser?” Holden began, talking around a mouthful of tiramisù. Then, answering his own question, “Simple. It’s because he plays till he loses. The house has the resources to hang in while he’s winning, so if the guy keeps playing—and they all do—sooner or later he’s gonna lose. And when that happens and he’s lost the farm and then some, he’s forced to quit. The house just has to wait him out.”
“So how do you do it?” wide-eyed Sandee asked as Sarah and I returned for more dishes.
“Simple. I quit when I’m ahead,” Holden replied. “I only play craps, which is as close to even odds as you can get, and every day, rain or shine, I place a five-hundred-dollar bet on the pass line. If I win, I walk away a winner.”
“And if you lose?”
“Then I double the wager. If I lose again, I double the bet once more, and so on. I have enough to double-up ten times, but I’ve never had to go that far. And as soon as I win, I quit—ahead five hundred bucks every day I play. Tax free, too,” he added slyly.
“Of course, it’s not quite that simple,” he went on after a moment, clearly pleased with Sandee’s reaction. “If I pass the fifth repetition, I exceed the single-bet limit of ten thousand dollars. But I have a way around that as well, and I’ve only had to go to the seventh roll once. It’s foolproof. Know the chances of losing ten times straight?”
Sandee didn’t have a clue.
I did. I had worked it out; it was about one in a thousand. I also knew where Holden got his backing. He’d taken out a $250,000 home-equity credit line years ago, and to my knowledge he had dipped into it deeply more than once. In my book, Holden was heading for a fall. I was coming back from the kitchen carrying a carafe of decaf when I suddenly tired of the subject.
“Enough about gambling,” I said. “Why don’t we talk about something—”
All at once I froze. I couldn’t move. As if in a dream, I heard the coffee hit the floor.
“Honey, what’s wrong?” Sarah cried. I heard her run in from the kitchen and felt her hands steadying me. I tried to speak, but couldn’t.
Seconds ticked by. At last, the paralytic fist that had gripped me eased. Sarah helped me to a chair. I slipped into it gratefully, cradling my head in my hands.
“What the hell was that?” said Holden.
“John’s been having trouble sleeping lately,” Sarah answered, rubbing my neck. “Feeling better, hon?”
“No,” I answered. God, I was tired.
“Hey, we’ve gotta be goin’ anyway,” said Holden, taking that as his cue to leave. “Sandee’s shift starts in twenty minutes. Time I got to work, too. Thanks for dinner, Sarah.” He kissed her, then gave me a thump on the back. “Take care of yourself, pal. Get some sleep.”
Get some sleep. Sounded fine to me. If only it were that easy.
After they left I stumbled to the bathroom, grabbed my prescription vial, and shook out several of Dr. O’Brien’s miracle pills. I inspected them doubtfully. Were these small pills to be my salvation? I wondered. I took two, as directed. Then I took two more for good measure.
That night Sarah and I made love. Afterward I stared at the insides of my eyelids until I heard her breathing turn soft and regular. Then I eased out of bed, made my way to the den, and turned on the TV
. Not bothering to search for a station, I just sat gazing blankly at the TV snow. After a while I noticed something peculiar. Leaning closer, I peered at the screen. A chill ran through me. Reflected in the glass I could see myself in a smaller screen, where I was sitting before a yet smaller screen, and another, and another, and another . . .
The weird thing was—I was looking at my back.
I got Sarah’s hand mirror. Holding it to one side, I checked the screen. The figure there was holding a mirror too, but now I could see his face in each smaller mirror.
It was me.
I rubbed my eyes, then peered again at my images. And as I watched, they changed. I saw my multiple selves in one of the casinos. I couldn’t tell which casino it was, but knew I would recognize it if I saw it again. I was playing blackjack. And winning. Winning big.
Each blackjack hand was crystal clear, etched in my memory as if I had seen it many times before. I could make out the dealer, along with several other players. And there was someone else—a shadowy figure standing behind me. Although I tried, I couldn’t see his face.
Once more the scene shifted and I was in a dark room surrounded by looming, unfamiliar objects. The shadowy figure from the casino crept up behind me. He raised something over his head. It looked like a knife. I wanted to scream a warning, but horror held me silent. I saw myself stagger and crumple to the floor, my hands trying to ward off the attacker’s blows.
And God, oh, God, the blood.
I turned off the set and sat in the darkness until my heart stopped racing and my breathing returned to normal. What had I seen? Had I glimpsed the future? Or had it simply been a waking nightmare, a result of my insomnia?
I had to find out.
Without making a sound, I returned to the bedroom and dressed. Sarah was still tucked under the covers, curled comfortably around her dreams. How I envied her. On the way out I paused in the doorway, then reentered the room. From the top shelf of the closet I pulled down a small box. I opened it and took out a revolver that I had bought years earlier after my office was burglarized. It was a Smith & Wesson .38 Special with a four-inch barrel. It felt like a snake in my hand.
I inserted five copper-clad shells, leaving the first cylinder empty. I shoved the pistol into my belt at the small of my back. My coat covered it just fine. If what I’d seen hadn’t been a hallucination, I planned on being prepared.
The green numerals on the dashboard of my car read three-thirty as I wheeled out of the driveway and headed downtown. The desert air was still sizzling and I opened all the windows, letting the hot drafts bathe my face. After passing McCarran Airport, I hung a right on Las Vegas Boulevard, wondering where to begin my search. Deciding one place was as good as the next, I pulled into the Dunes, left my car in the lot, and entered the casino. Right away I knew it was wrong. I left the Dunes and worked my way along the Strip, stopping at the Sands, the Desert Inn, the Stardust, Circus Circus, Bellagio, and the Riviera. No luck at any of those, either. I kept going. At around 5:00 AM, I arrived at the Hilton. When I pushed through the Hilton’s heavy glass doors, I knew I had found it. It just felt . . . right.
Even that late, the casino was still busy—alarms announcing slots winners, keno girls hustling bets, players huddled around the tables, and everywhere the smell of alcohol, stale cigarettes, and sweat. I entered the casino, afraid that I was heading for trouble but unable to stop. I had to find out.
I slid onto a stool at a deserted hundred-dollar blackjack table. With a chill, I recognized the dealer. No doubt about it—he was the one I had seen in my vision. He gave me a bored look, then scooped up a fan of cards laid out on the felt and began a six-deck shuffle. I opened my wallet and placed four hundred dollars on the table.
Upon finishing his shuffle, the dealer offered me a stiff red card. After I cut, he dropped the decks into a shoe, converted my bills to a small stack of chips, and gazed over expectantly. “Place your bet, sir.”
I hesitated, wanting to be wrong about what I’d seen in my den. But deep down, I knew I wasn’t. I knew what cards would be coming up. I hadn’t memorized them—I just knew.
With a feeling of dread, I pushed my whole stack onto the bet line. I hit on twelve and held on eighteen. The dealer stayed on seventeen. I let it ride, recalling that my next hand was going to be a natural—an ace and a queen.
It was.
I played on, placing minimum wagers on hands I knew I was going to lose, betting my whole stack on the winners. Before long I was playing the table limit. Twenty minutes later, when I realized I no longer knew what cards would be coming up, I quit. By then a small crowd had gathered behind me.
I counted my chips. Forty-two thousand dollars. “May I deposit this in a hotel account?” I asked, starting to sweat as I recalled the second part of my vision. Even though I could feel the reassuring weight of the pistol pressing into my back, I didn’t want to leave with all that money, even in the form of a check.
“Yes, sir,” the pit boss answered. He stepped forward from behind the dealer, where I had noticed him watching as soon as my bets hit the limit. “I’ll have someone assist you,” he added, signaling a security guard.
“Thanks.” I slipped the dealer a thousand-dollar chip. “For the boys.”
“Thank you, sir!” the dealer replied with a smile, tapping it on the table twice before dropping it into his shirt pocket.
It was still dark outside when I started for my car. On the way I suddenly had the feeling I was being followed. I heard footsteps behind me. I stopped. They stopped. I whirled.
Nothing.
I walked faster, certain I was approaching some horrible fate I couldn’t avoid. Soon I was running. I could still hear him running behind me, getting closer. My breath coming in ragged gasps, I turned a corner and raced into the parking garage. Ahead I saw my car. Fighting an impulse to jump in and speed away, I ducked behind a concrete column.
I had to know.
Heart pounding, hands slippery with sweat, I pulled out the pistol. Whatever the cost, I decided to end things there and then. Holding the revolver at my side, I pulled the trigger once, hearing the hammer click on an empty cylinder. The next one held a live shell.
I intended to use it.
I held my breath as the footsteps approached, the gun heavy in my hand. I could smell my own sweat, sour and rancid. A figure appeared. I tried to raise the gun. With a shock, I discovered that I couldn’t. I was frozen again, just as I had been earlier that evening. But this time I knew it wouldn’t be just coffee that wound up getting spilled. It would be my blood.
Straining with every ounce of will I possessed, I struggled to raise the gun.
I couldn’t move my hand . . . not even a millimeter.
Without as much as a glance in my direction, the shadowy figure moved on.
After he’d gone, I remained behind the concrete column, trembling uncontrollably. Why had he spared me? I asked myself. Was he toying with me, tormenting me?
Then another thought occurred. Had I nearly made a mistake? What if he had simply been an innocent passerby—a hotel employee, a garage attendant, a gambler leaving from a late-night stint at the tables?
No. I couldn’t accept that. My vision in the TV screen had been no hallucination. The cards at the blackjack table had proved it.
* * *
“How’d you sleep last night, hon?” Sarah asked at breakfast later that morning. “The pills help?”
“Yeah,” I lied. I couldn’t tell her what I had seen in our TV, or what had happened at the Hilton. It was too much to grasp, even for me. And I had been there.
“Going to work today?”
“No. I think I’ll stay home,” I answered, my mind racing. Why did she want to know?
“Good. You still look tired.” Finishing the last of her coffee, she checked the clock over the stove. “Jeez, I’ve gotta run. I’ll call from the office during lunch and see how you’re doing.” Then, bending to kiss my cheek, “I’m worried, John. You going to be o
kay?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“I love you.”
“Love you back,” I mumbled.
That night I doubled Dr. O’Brien’s dosage again, taking eight of the little pills. Nonetheless, as usual, I found myself wide-awake after Sarah had fallen asleep. Around midnight I got up and made my way to the den, going straight to a snowy channel on the TV. Once more I saw my multiple selves reflected in the surface of the television screen, just as I had the night before.
Time passed. My reflections started to move. Again, I saw myself at the blackjack table. As before, I knew each hand as if I had played it a hundred times. The shadowy figure was there too, close enough to touch. I still couldn’t see his face. Knowing what was coming next, I was afraid to watch, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the images in the screen.
Death at the hands of my loathsome nemesis came suddenly this time—violent, hideous, and bloody.
I had to go back to the Hilton.
What happened next is mostly a haze. I recall getting dressed, shoving the gun into my belt, slipping into my car. Of the trip downtown I remember nothing. My first clear recollection is of crossing the Hilton casino floor and approaching a five-hundred-dollar blackjack table. As I sat, the pit boss from the night before spotted me.
“Evening, Mr. Starling,” he said, stepping behind the dealer.
I nodded, noting the nameplate on his coat. Frank. I wasn’t surprised that he knew me; it was his job to recognize the players. And after last night, I was a player. “I have money on deposit,” I said. “I’d like it all in large chips, please.”
“Certainly.” Frank made a call on the pit phone, returning with a marker for me to sign. Then the dealer assembled several stacks of chips before me—red-and-black hundreds, blue-and-gray thousands.
I began by betting the ten-thousand-dollar limit on hands I knew were winners, pulling back to five hundred on the losers. When my stacks got unwieldy I switched to the five-thousand-dollar chips. At that point the dealer closed the table to other players and security moved in to contain a crowd that had assembled behind me. Soon I was playing all five positions. On one single hand, when I knew the dealer was going to bust, I raked in fifty thousand dollars.