CpengctJOHN FULMER Matamoros At five A.n., with the temperature at four degrees above zero, the sky looked frozen, like black marble, and Roy Glackin, parked beside a Chevy Cavalier with a Hefty bag taped across its missing rear window, waited for a fare outside the Trail Mix, an all-night club near the Biloxi VA hospital. The cold air clamped down on the world, made it still, and things that might have fluttered in the least amount of wind, like a plastic garbage bag on a car window, lay motionless. Roy wore an army field jacket with the collar tured up and had a belt draped around his neck. He hoped it looked like a snake. Roy wanted to frighten people—just for a second—when they ‘climbed in his cab. Then he’d hit the dome light, tun around, and start his spiel: “Wanna buy a belt?” he'd say in a loud, bluff voice, lifting the belt to chin-level for a better view. “I'll let you have it for fifty bucks. That's genuine Mexican leather. And look at that ‘buckle. Thats real silver.” Roy knew his sales technique was foolish, the scare tactic a ‘small retribution for his shame, but the idea was that his fare might bbe drunk enough or so flushed from a gambling victory that he'd ‘snap up the intricately tooled belt in a second, overlooking the znames “Roy & Ginny” embossed along the back. Ginny was Roy’s wife, and he'd bought the belt on an impromptu trip to Matamoros taken during better days. She'd bought a matching one. Roy honked his horn, honked it twice, then licked his chapped lips and,blew into his bare hands. As he got older—forty last December—cold weather left tiny, aching cuts near his fingernails. ‘Thé heater rattled, forcing out lukewarm air, and Roy thought about putting on gloves but didn’t. In a minute they'd be too ‘warm, He stared out the windshield. One headlight, whacked out of adjustment, shot straight up and oily smoke seeped from under the hood. The old Chevy V-8 leaked in a dozen places, and the valves ticked like dry bones. He honked again. No way he was going into that dive, not in this cold. At five Aas. the Trail Mix would have a half-dozen old 127CONNECTICUT REVIEW ‘men inside, most of them asleep at the bar. Most of them curfew violators who'd sneaked out of the VA domiciliary, a home for «drunks and headcase vets. Roy contemplated his bad luck. He was broke, and, of course, there'd been no takers for the belt. He'd been driving a cab for two ‘weeks—one of a series of jobs he'd tried since separating from Ginny—then lost his first paycheck in a half hour at the Grand Casino's blackjack tables. Roy knew gambling was for idiots, but he'd only wanted to double his money, get back on his feet. He'd been desperate since moving in with Sandra a month ago. He barely knew her. But it was just another stupid move in a life full of stupid moves. Before shacking up with her, he'd been even ‘more down-and-out: unemployed and living in a pay-by-the-week ‘motel, a place full of men so beat they made Roy feel superior. ‘Temporarily, at least. He was just one more loser there—a fact he'd found harder and harder to deny. So he took up with Sandra, ‘who turned out to be a drunk with confusing rhythms. To top it off, the recent cold snap froze and broke most of the pipes under Sandra’s house. Half of Biloxi had no water, and Roy hadn't bathed in two days. Yet he was momentarily at peace. Roy looked at the sky again. ‘The once-solid black marble was filigreed with pale gold light, and it reminded him of the sinks in the Grand’s men’s room. Just before the dispatcher’s call he'd stopped there. Years ago he'd read fa cheesy Mario Puzo novel about Las Vegas, in which Puzo claimed that the casinos pumped oxygen on the floor to keep gamblers awake. It was a bullshit myth, but Roy loved the idea and hhad faith in it, And there was something about a casino’s ‘atmosphere. The air tasted super-conductive, muscled-up, and Roy believed himself hot-wired, his whole body a static charge as he rubbed across the carpeted aisles. Ozone tanged inside his mouth as he brushed past gamblers knotted at craps tables and crept behind loners rabbit-punching the slots. Here, Roy could shake hands with the whole world without touching one soul. Back in the ‘cab, he felt both juiced and relaxed as though his blood were gently carbonated, and, for that brief moment, his aura glowed like a sunset Then a bickering old couple—Roy could tell the argument stretched over years—pushed through the bar's front door. woman wore a canvas work coat that fell to mid-thigh and a blue 128.