More of the same.
The little girl stood shivering. "Please mister, buy a chance?"
Fred paused. "What's it for?"
"I gotta sell them. By midnight. All of them."
"I mean, what's it a chance on?" The neon light in the bar's window buzzed and flashed on and off.
"Only a buck, mister. Only a buck."
A dollar wasn't much. "How many do you have to sell, sweetie?"
"My name's Lorelei. Not 'sweetie.' Lorelei. I gotta sell two. Just two chances. I sold one already. Now I gotta sell the other one." She looked down. "I gotta sell it by midnight."
He took out his fob watch and flipped it open. Eleven fifty-seven.
He handed her a silver dollar.
She took the coin eagerly, and slipped a grubby piece of paper into his hand. The flickering light reflected in her tear-filled eyes, but she was smiling. The smile alone was worth a whole mess of dollars.
Fred strode into the bar and ordered a sarsaparilla.
"Sorry sir," the bartender said through greasy whiskers, "we're clear outa sars'parilla."
"Give me a whiskey, so," Fred growled.
Two hours later, they threw him out of the bar. He picked himself up, dusted the dirt from his chaps, and turned his throbbing head towards home.
After two blocks he came across the little girl again, shivering in a doorway.
"Please Mister, buy a chance?"