"You're talking about the woman I love."
There was a strained moment of silence, and then they all laughed. She'dbeen a sight, all right.
Simonetti came back alive with that one. His husky voice cut in on thelaughter. "Where does that bag fit?" he demanded.
"No idea," I said truthfully. "A random factor. I don't think she fits."
"_Something_ has to fit!" he yelled in his oversized whisper. "How aboutthe way our losses follow Curley Smythe around from table to table?"
This was something. "The table you watch is the one that gets hit?" Iasked Smythe.
He blushed, clear to the top of his bald head. "A subtle, nastyoperator," he said gruffly. "And he's had the gall to stick it in mepretty badly, Wally. What Sime says is true."
Well, this we wouldn't stand for. I didn't give a care if every gamblinghouse in Nevada went broke. But Smythe was in the Lodge. And it finallymade sense that the Lodge had sent me to bail him out. I gave oldMaragon my mental apology. The Grand Master wouldn't stand still for_anybody's_ making a fool out of the Lodge. Still: "Nobody that good isout of captivity," I snapped. "I don't believe it. It's not TK that'srobbing you."
"Oh, ridiculous," Rose said, showing his teeth. "Gambling is ourbusiness, Lefty. Don't you think we could spot any of the ordinary kindsof cross-roading? This is TK, and it has real voltage. We can't spot it.We've got to have Psi power do it for us."
"Maybe," I agreed. "But no TK can do it if Smythe can't. Have you trieda PC?"
Simonetti grabbed a piece of the heavens in rage. "No!" he yelled in hisloud whisper. "None of your crystal-ball witches in here!"
I knew how he felt. PC's give me the colly-wobbles, too.
"What's the matter with precognition?" I asked him. "If this crook hasgot you stuck, Rose is right. Only Psi force will get you out of thisjam. If you know in advance where this operator is going to hit you, youcan nail him. There's a dozen techniques."
Peno Rose looked at me from under lowered brows. "Are _you_ a PC,Lefty?" he asked me.
"No," I said shortly. The Lodge had proved that several times, in spiteof my strong feelings that I had flashes of precognition. Why should Iresent not having PC? How many Psi personalities have more than onepower? Not many. And as for precognition, as Simonetti said, more thantheir fair share is possessed by wild-looking women. Like Sniffles, Ithought suddenly.
"Well," Rose said, turning back to his partner. "Let Sime and me talk itover. Maybe we should get a PC."
"Nuts," Simonetti told him.
"I'll think it over, too," I said. "See you tomorrow." I turned to go.Simonetti and Smythe followed me out, each for his own reasons, I guess,leaving Rose behind in the cube of glass on the roof, looking like hewas going to turn belly-up and take a bite out of the PBX on his desk.
* * * * *
I wasn't exactly shadowed, but I knew somebody had his eye on me as Iwandered about the crowded casino, looking for Sniffles. As far as Icould make out, she had vamoosed without trying to hustle anothersucker. Her percentage of my winnings had certainly been adisappointment to her.
At last I went down the ersatz wooden steps into the neon-gashed nightand started across the nearly deserted main drag toward the motel whereI had registered. A powerful turbine howled as a car pulled away fromthe curb, perhaps a hundred yards up the way. His lights came on andsnapped up to bright. I had a perfect flash of PC--I _do_ have momentsof it, no matter what the Lodge thinks. The car was going to take a diveinto the fountain pool in front of my motel. But it sure didn't act likeit. I froze in the middle of the road, hearing rubber scream as thedriver floored the throttle and hurled the automobile right at me. Hemight as well have been on tracks. There was no place to go--I was inthe middle of a six-lane boulevard, and could never make either curbbefore he ran me down.
This is when it pays to be a perceptive. I've talked to many TK's abouthow they visualize their lifts. We all conceive of it differently. Withme a real strain is like shining a bright beam of light on the spotyou're lifting.
Be glad, Wally Bupp, I had time to tell myself. Be glad for a mechanicalmind. Where do you lift four thousand pounds of car aimed right at you?Well, there is a small valve, can't weigh half an ounce, lightlyspring-loaded, that is in the power-steering mechanism. I seared a liftat it. You know what happened.
The feedback of the power-steering wrenched the wheel from the driver'shand--it was ten times as strong as he was, dragging its power as it didfrom a four-hundred horsepower shaft turning 30,000 rpm. The carcareened and skidded across the curb. It took out a small marble railaround the fountain pool and dived in, still screaming rubber. Thefountain went over with a crash and then the racket dwindled off in theshriek of twisted buckets. The turbine had gotten what for in thecollision.
I didn't hang around to see what had happened to the driver. He was justsome heavy who had the job of rubbing me out. But I did seek anotherhaven. If they knew me that well, I'd never be safe where I had stashedmy suitcase.
There was a 'copter squatting at the Sky Hi's ramp. I jumped for it andhad him drop me toward the outskirts of the town of Lake Tahoe, and thenwalked a few blocks, mostly in circles to see if I were being followed,before darting into a fairly seedy motel a couple blocks off the maindrag.
My room was on the third floor of the flea-bag. Part of the place wasonly two stories high. The door at the end of my corridor opened outonto the roof. When I had calmed down, I stepped through the door intothe cool of the desert night.
* * * * *
The gravel on the built-up roof crunched in the darkness under my feetas I walked cautiously to the parapet and looked over its edge to thehunk of desert that stretched away toward Reno, out behind the motel.The third story, behind me, cut off the neon glare from the Strip andleft the place in inky darkness. There was silence and invisibility outbehind the motel.
Feeling a little creaky about falling a couple stories to the ground, Ilay down on my back on the narrow parapet, with my hands behind my headto soften the concrete a little, and looked straight up into the nightsky. A dawdling August Perseid scratched a thin mark of light across theblackness. I heard a coyote howl. This was desert. This was peace. Thedice and chuck-a-luck seemed ten thousand miles away.
I heard a sound. Gravel crunched dimly under another foot. Somebody hadstepped invisibly onto the roof. It scared the daylights out of me, moreso because I was flat on my back. Cautiously I turned my head toward thedoor I had come through. I could see the fuzzy redness of a cigarette inthe dark. It brightened as the smoker took a drag. Then I heard thesniffle, and knew who it was.
She stood there, apparently leaning against the wall behind her,silently, invisible but for the glow of her cigarette, and not movingher feet. "Hello," I said at last.
"Wasn't sure you wanted to talk," she said out of the dark. It shook meup. She certainly couldn't _see_ me.
"How'd you know I was here?" I asked her.
"I don't know how. But I knew you would be." That wasn't what I hadasked, exactly. She sniffled, and I could almost see the back of herhand swipe at the bead of moisture that kept forming at the tip of herskinny nose. Made me think. Psi powers crop up more often than theyshould in folks who are marked with a debility. It's the oldcompensation story. Look at my weak right arm. What she had said about_expecting_ to find me on the roof sounded like precognition. And shesniffled and sniffled. Maybe it was one more of those tied-in hystericalPsi weaknesses.
"What are you doing out here?" I asked her.
"Resting," she said wearily. "I just hit town today."
"And tired already?"
"I was broke," she said. "Worked in a hotel laundry till dinner time toget eatin' money. Hot work. But I swiped a nice dress to wear when Iwent looking for you, Billy Joe."
"Yeah," I said, hiding my snicker over the dress. "Say, I wanted tothank you for handling my chips. I'd have lost my shirt if I hadn't letyou show me how. I wanted to slip you a cut, but you bugged out ofthe
re."
"I figured you should handle our money, Billy Joe," she said. "Anyway,can't take money for my gift."
She had me shaking with excitement. "You have a gift?" I said, trying tokeep my voice calm.
"Just some nights. Since I broke my vow, I've lost most of my prophecy.My real gift is healing. Lost _all_ of that," she concluded, notbitterly. "God is punishing me."
Gravel crunched as she came slowly across the roof toward me. The fagend of her cigarette made a spinning arc in the night as she snapped itover the side of the roof. Now there was
Vigorish Page 5