We fight our way back up the same hill I justdescended, and with each slipping, sliding step I wish we’d agreedto meet at my place. After a lot of heavy breathing and near falls,we reach the path to the Red District. It’s not really the kind ofplace most people would want to go at night, but we know our wayaround better than most.

As we pass a two-storied wooden structure onour left, a dark-eyed, silky-haired head pops out of a doorway,spilling soft reddish-orange light on the snow. “Hi, boys,” alustrous voice drawls.

“Evenin’, Lola,” Buff says. “It’s a cold ’un.Better keep that door shut to keep the warmth in.”

With a full-lipped smile that says she livesfor contradicting people, Lola takes two strutting steps outsideinto the snow. Her feet are bare and she’s wearing a sheer, lacydress that lets through more than its fair share of light.Underneath she wears only the barest of essentials, something lacyup top and down below, leaving little to imagination. She’s got tobe freaking freezing her perfectly sculpted buttocks off, but ifshe is, she doesn’t show it.

“Sure you won’t reconsider my previousoffers?” she says in a seductive, lilting tone, swaying her hipsside to side, in a way that’s completely different to howLooza was earlier when she was mixing the stew.

“Uh, well, I think, we have to…” Buff is atangle of words.

“Sorry, Lola. Not tonight,” I say. Not ever.When I find the right girl and the time is right, I certainly won’tbe looking to pay for it.

“Another time, perhaps,” she says with awink.

“Uh, yah, you too,” Buff says nonsensicallyas we walk away. He looks back several times.

“By the Heart of the Mountain, you’repathetic sometimes,” I say.

“Says the King of Bad Breakups,” he retorts,magically finding order to his words again.

“At least I’m the king of something.”

“Hopefully we’re both the kings of boulderstonight,” he says. “Did you get the silver?”

I screw up my mouth. “Yah, but it’s onlytwenny.”

“Iceballs! It turned out I only had ten.”

“Son of a no-good, snow blowin’…” I spout offa few more choice words. With only thirty sickles we’ll be lucky ifthey even let us in the Chance Hole.

“Sorry. Darce had to use the rest of it tofix a hole in the wall.”

That brings me back to reality pretty quick.“Buff, I’m sorry. This is my fault. I never shoulda startedsomething with Coker.”

“Icin’ right it’s your fault,” he says, buthe’s grinning. “But he did have it coming to him. And it was kindafun, at least until that freezin’ stoner dropped that stool on ourheads.

I grin back. “It was fun, wasn’t it?”

Buff claps me on the back. “Like you said,Dazzo, we’ll fix things, just like we always do.”

~~~

We know we’ve reached our destination whenthe pipe smoke starts curling around our heads.

Against the stark white of the winterscenery, the gray smoke almost seems to take on a life of its own,with fingers that grab and clutch without ever actually touchingyou. The smoke wafts out from a stone staircase that descendscellar-like beneath a two story building that, based on the sign onthe door, claims to specialize in Custom Doors. Other thanin the White District, there’s not much demand for that sort ofthing these days—most of us are just happy to have any type ofdoor—so I suspect it’s just a front for the gambling operation.

Heavy voices rumble from below like distantthunder from some fire country storm. Moments later, a short manemerges from the cellar, looking distraught, glancing behind himwith wary eyes, as if he’s likely to get knifed in the back. Which,coming out of a place like that, he just might.

He’s heading right for us, but not lookingwhere he’s going. We just stand there, watching him, waiting forhim to notice, but he keeps on coming. When he finally looks up,he’s so close he barely stops before running smack into my chest.“Oh,” he exclaims, twitching so hard that his knitted cap flops offhis head and into the snow, revealing a head as bald as the day hewas born. Buff reaches down and picks it up.

“Uh, sorry…and thanks…and, uh, sorry,” theman says, taking the cap and sort of bowing with his hands claspedtogether around the edges. He’s jerking every which way and can’tseem to keep his eyes focused on us for more than a few seconds.Each time they dart away, it’s toward the cellar steps.

“Are you waiting for someone?” I ask, noddingtoward the steps.

“Oh, nay…nay, nay, nay, nay, nay! Mostdefinitely not. But I really don’t know how I’ll…never mind, it’snot your concern.” The odd little man scurries off, his feetsinking into the snow up to his knees. “Not enough sickles in theworld…ever pay them back?...What’ll Marta say?” he mumbles tohimself as he plods away, trying to replace the hat on his head.But his hands are so jittery he can’t get it right, and eventuallygives up, settling for cold ears until he gets to wherever hisdestination is.

“He lost big time,” Buff says. I nod, wishingit wasn’t true. Although perhaps if other patrons of the ChanceHole are losing, that means there’s plenny of room for us towin.

I hang onto that thought as we descend thesteps. There’s no smoke or voices now, as the thick door at thebottom is closed again. A man as big as a boulder with legs liketree trunks stands in front of the door, thick arms crossed overhis chest.

“I ain’t seen you two before,” he says in avoice that suggests his father is a bear. Given the thickness ofhis beard, his mother might be a bear too.

Buff lets me do the talking after hisunfortunate tongue tie up when he spoke to Lola. “You haven’t.Usually we play small time, but we’re looking to up the antetonight.” Yah, with the all of thirty sickles we have to playwith.

He looks me up and down with a crooked smile,as if he doesn’t believe for a second that we’ve got the stones toplay with the high rollers. My nerve falters under his gaze, but Idon’t let it show on my face. When his heavy brown eyes return tomine, he says, “Buy-in’s twenny sickles, five-sickle ante per hand,betting starts immediately.”

When he opens the door the smoke and noisehit us like a morning fog.

Chapter Four

Inside is full ofsnakes. Not the slivery brown rattlers you’ll find in the woodssometimes in the heart of summer, but the greasy, venom-eyed,hustling kind who work the Red District underground. There are adozen tables and all appear to be full. The slap of cards, jingleof coins, and groans of loss or shouts of victory muddle into onestream of sound that represents one thing and one thing alone:greed.

Here is where fortunes are made and biggerfortunes are lost. Just by stepping through this door we’ve provedthat we belong, certainly more than the bald-headed man with theunsteady hands who left earlier.

Through the pipe smog, I scan the crowd,laughing when a chubby guy with a lopsided smile scrapes a pile ofcoins from the center of a table while a hooded man slams his cardsdown. For every winner there’s a loser.

“Advance?” a nasally voice says from besideus.

A pointy-nosed woman sits at a desk, stacksof coins in front of her.

“Excuse me?” I say, being as polite aspossible.

She lifts a hand to her curly red hair,shakes her head, rolls her eyes. Maybe we don’t belong here afterall. Even she knows we’re new to this scene. Slowing her pace, shesays, “Would. You. Like. An. Advance?” She motions to thecoins.

Forget trying to act the part. This womanappears to be offering us money—which we desperately need—so I needto understand. Keeping my voice low, I say, “Look, you know as wellas us that we’re new to…all of this.” I wave my hand across theroom. “We’ve played cards plenny of times, but never in a jointlike this—for high stakes. So can you please explain how it works.The advance, I mean.”