He told her he learned to count cards in Atlantic City. He didn't drink. Just coffee. Stayed clear-headed while all the weekenders from the city got shit-faced as the hours passed. His uncle ran games out of the basement of his grandfather's restaurant on the boardwalk. She sat in the window seat, holding a deck of tarot cards, about to lay out a three-card spread on her lap. Having left the boyfriend behind to head home to the funeral of the boyfriend before him. She was looking for answers. She told him about the big-haired Baltimore ladies at the Palmer House down on Eutaw. How they read your cards from a Bicycle deck. Long glued-on nails shuffling and fanning the cards before turning them over in front of you. She loved the sound of the cards fluttering through their fingertips. He told her how he was escorted out of the Flamingo in Vegas on two separate occasions. So now he stuck with the smaller places. He said when he really needed cash in a pinch, he would set up downtown on lower Broadway and perform card tricks. He was talented at making things disappear. Before he got off in Greenville, he leaned in and pulled a card from his shirt pocket. You might need this, he said, and gave her her Queen of Wands.

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