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light of the game’s intensity. Lamb now seemed bent on showing Leo up. He argued and snarled insults when the cards weren’t to his liking and sat back in smug satisfaction when things went his way. However, when another losing streak seemed to hit, Lamb began to cheat. At least Marco thought he was. The beer clouded his mind, but it seemed from time to time the man played some sortof sleight of hand. Even so, Marco couldn’t be sure enough to challenge him.
    The other players eventually cleared out, leaving Leo, Lamb, and Marco to their game. Alfredo ambled in after a time, and Marco could see that he had grown bored with the place.
    â€œI’m headin’ home,” he told Marco.
    Without warning, Leo jumped to his feet and pointed at the table. “You shouldn’t have laid that ace on the table, Lamb. I don’t hold with cheating around here.”
    Before Marco realized what was happening, Lamb had drawn his revolver. With drunken hands he waved the pistol at Leo. The barkeep seemed undaunted.
    â€œAlfredo, on your way out I’d appreciate it if you’d get the marshal in here. He needs to arrest this dirty rotten cheat.”
    â€œNobody’s . . . ’restin’ me.” Lamb’s words were hopelessly slurred. He pointed the gun at Marco for a moment, then seemed to realize Leo was the one he wanted to shoot.
    Alfredo hurried from the room, leaving only Marco, Leo, and Lamb in the Snake Room. Marco edged away from the table while Leo shook his head in disgust. “You can’t always get your way with a gun.”
    Marco wasn’t so sure. He took another step back and realized he’d hit the wall. There was nowhere else to go.
    â€œYou’re the cheat,” Lamb began again. “You . . . you . . . robbed me. I’m a better player than that.”
    â€œYou’re a stupid drunk,” Leo said, and to Marco’s surprise he charged at the man. In one sleek, catlike move, Leo grabbed the weapon and pressed the barrel of the gun under Lamb’s neck. When the pistol fired, Marco’s hands flew to his chest as if he’d been shot.
    â€œThat’s that,” Leo said, stepping away from Lamb as his body crumpled to the floor.
    Marco didn’t know what to say. His head was spinning from the liquor, and his ears were ringing from the close proximity of the gunshot. Leo glanced at the table a moment, then gathered the remains of Lamb’s winnings for himself.
    When Alfredo and the marshal entered the room moments later, Marco was still staring dumbly at Lamb’s motionless body.
    â€œWhat happened here?” the lawman asked.
    â€œCaught him cheating. Guess he couldn’t bear the shame,” Leo said, gathering his chips and cards. “Killed himself.”
    The marshal looked to Marco, then knelt down to check the body. “That right, Panetta?”
    Marco blinked several times, hoping it might clear his head. It didn’t. “What?” he asked, stalling for time. He looked to Leo, who only gave a slight nod.
    â€œI asked if that was right,” the marshal replied, looking up.
    Nodding, Marco affirmed his friend’s statement. Maybe it wasn’t like it seemed. Maybe the liquor had clouded his understanding. After all, Lamb had been cheating—even Marco was sure of that. Blood pooled on the floor, and the sight of it turned Marco’s stomach.
    He clutched his belly. “Alfredo, I need to get outta here.”
    They’d no sooner hit the street than Marco lost the contents of his stomach. In the dim glow of light from the street and buildings, Marco imagined it was blood. He shuddered and heaved again.
    When the nausea passed he straightened. “Get me home.”
    Alfredo took hold of his arm. “So what happened in there? Lamb really kill himself?”
    Marco grunted but gave no other reply. Alfredo continued. “Marshal says there’s been a lot of