Tyrone counted the roll of bills a second time behind the casino's back dumpster and came up eight hundred short. The rich kid in sunglasses had stiffed him. A quarter ounce of fairy dust, gone up the kid's nose two nights running, and now the tab was smoke. Tyrone needed that cash by morning. He'd promised the bar owner a down payment on studio time — the first real brick in the record label he was building out of dime bags and favors. No money meant no session. No session meant Beatrice stayed a house piano player forever, and Tyrone stayed a dealer. He pulled his beanie low and cut through the parking lot toward the saloon doors. Bambi caught him halfway, barefoot on the hot asphalt, pink bikini strings dragging. She was his best customer and his worst news, all pigtails and pupils. "Ty. Ty, baby. You holding?" She grabbed his sleeve like it owed her rent. "Not for credit." "I got something better than credit." She leaned in. "Brad's inside. Blackjack table. He's up big and he's sloppy." Brad. The rich kid. The stiff. Tyrone's jaw tightened under the beanie. "He owes me eight hundred." "He owes everybody. But he's bragging about his daddy's helicopter and buying rounds for the whole rail." Bambi's smile went crooked. "Cut me a bump and I'll get him to the bar. You do the rest." Tyrone thought about walking away. He thought about the studio clock ticking. He tapped a pinch into her palm and pushed through the saloon doors. Inside, the piano was going. Beatrice sat at the upright in her flowered dress, shoulders hunched like she was trying to disappear into the keys. She played beautifully and looked at no one. Tyrone caught her eye and tipped his chin. She missed a note, then found it again. Bambi delivered. Brad staggered to the bar rail, sunglasses still on indoors, a fan of chips in one fist. Tyrone slid onto the stool beside him. "We got a problem, my man." "Do we?" Brad grinned without turning. "Eight hundred. Plus a hundred late fee." Brad laughed and pushed a short stack of chips across the bar without looking. "There. Now go away, string bean." Tyrone counted the chips under the bar lip. Twelve hundred. He pocketed them, kept his face flat, and walked to the cage before Brad could sober up and remember. The cashier counted out bills. Twelve crisp hundreds. Tyrone folded them into his sock. On the way out he stopped at the piano. Beatrice kept playing, eyes down. "Studio. Tuesday. Ten a.m. I'm paying." Her hands stopped. "Me?" "You. Don't be late." He pushed through the doors into the desert dark with the money against his ankle. He had the down payment. He also had Brad Campbell inside, and Brad Campbell had a father whose name opened doors Tyrone couldn't afford to have closed on him.