She lies sprawled at my feet, naked, blood pooling around her blond hair on the white tile floor. I still hear that terrible thunk as her head struck the bathtub. I didn't mean to hurt her. All I wanted was that diamond ring. I can't tell if she is breathing or not. My own breathing is shallow and shaky. I'm trembling all over. Suddenly, I have to know. I reach for her wrist, feel for a pulse.

"Come on," I cry aloud. "Breathe. I'll call 911, I swear." Nothing. No pulse. Oh, God, she really is dead. Bile rises in my gorge. I taste it. For a moment I think I am going to puke. What do I do now? Should I call 911 anyway and say there has been an accident...that she'd fallen and struck her head? She'd been drinking, after all. But I had hit her with my fist. Hard. Wouldn't the examiners be able to tell? They would say I caused her death. I'd be arrested for murder! I have to get out of here.

I look through the door into the other room, a dingy hotel room much like mine in another seedy, downtown Vegas hotel. But this one is hers, smelling of stale smoke and recent sex. I have to get out fast. I'm petrified someone will find me here - with her. All because of that goddamned ring. I look down again. It glistens there in the puddle of blood next to her hand. A family heirloom, she had said earlier, noticing me staring at it. Her great grandmother's ring handed down from daughter to daughter until it was hers. If it isn't a fake, the money it would bring could give me a fresh start, a new stake. I could get out of this town alive! I shake my head. How can I even think that way with her lying there. And yet - I pick up the ring, careful not to get any blood on me, rinse it off at the bathroom sink, wipe it with a towel and slip it into my pocket. I do it quickly before I lose my nerve.

Then I panic. My finger prints! They could connect me to her. I run to the other room, take my glass and hers and wipe them with a towel. What else? Think! Her car keys on the dressing table. I had touched them. And the dressing table. Frantically, I wipe every surface. What else? Her car, the jack and spare tire! I must wipe them clean, too, on my way out. I'm surprised at how clearly I am thinking now.

I take her car keys, then check my pockets. Everything is there, nothing on the floor. No cigarette butts to worry about. I hadn't touched the room door knob. She had. She'd poured the drinks, too. All I really had touched was...her. And after - damn, the toilet handle! I'd flushed the prophylactic away. And the sink handles. I grab another towel and rub all the bathroom surfaces I can see.

I look down at her once more. "I'm sorry," I choke out even though I know she can't hear me.

I scan the bedroom once more from the door, then listen for anyone in the corridor. With tissue from the bathroom, I open the door a crack and peer up and down the hall. No one. I ease out of the room, give the knob another rub and walk down two flights to the lobby, my legs unsteady, my heartbeat racing. The clerk is busy with a couple checking in. I move as quietly as I can across the small, dimly lit lobby out into the Vegas night.

I stay in the darkness - easy in that part of town - no bright lights, no lines of cars, no people on the street. I reach her car and carefully wipe everything -- the tire, the jack, the door handle, the seat, even the spare tire I had put on, and leave the keys in the ignition. No one in sight. Had anyone seen me with her earlier? I try to think back.

We had met by chance on a different, dark, side street. I was walking to my hotel from the Golden Nugget when I saw her standing next to a car with an obvious flat tire. She was nice looking, but I was so damned depressed that the last thing on my mind was a woman. Lady Luck, tease that she was, had finally dumped me for good at the Nugget. I'd been playing blackjack with the last of my pin money desperately trying to raise cash to pay off some markers I had signed. Not casino markers. Much worse. I'd been in a high stakes poker game with guys who have absolutely no tolerance for welshers. In all my years of gambling - and there were quite a few for a 38-year old hustler from L.A. - I'd never been so broke nor so afraid that I might be maimed - or worse.

I asked her if she needed help, and she pointed to the tire, smiled and shrugged. She looked to be around my age, a little past prime but holding up well. Blond hair, green dress, not flashy. I took her keys, got the spare and jack from the trunk and changed the tire.

"I really thank you for helping me," she said. “I don’t know what I'd have done if you hadn’t come by." She came closer to retrieve the keys I held out. That's when I spotted the ring for the first time. It was unusual, a long oval that covered most of the ring part of her finger. It was on her right hand, and the diamonds in the ring -- or zircons -- flashed, reflecting and magnifying the light from the nearby street lamp.

"No problem," I said. "Always ready to help a lady in distress." I started to turn away and resume my walk.

"Can I give you a lift?" she asked. "Or better yet, buy you a drink as a reward?"

What the hell, I thought, no money, no other place to go except my dreary hotel room. Why not?

I sat next to her in the front seat. I could smell her perfume, nice but tinged with the faint aroma of booze. "Let's go to my hotel," she said and looked at me with a quick side glance.

"Look," I said, making a natural Vegas assumption. "I'd like to, but I'm broke, can't pay, not even a dime."

"I'm not a hooker," she answered. I thought she was offended, but she laughed. "That's kind of a left-handed compliment. What I meant was, I've got a bottle in my room, and since I'm not exactly rolling in green myself, we could have our drink there. I'm Natalie."

"Nice to meet you, Natalie. I'm Tim."

We went up to her room, passing no one in the lobby, not even the clerk. One drink led to three for me, even more for her. She was here from Phoenix. Divorced four years. Liked to gamble. I told her very little about me except that gambling was my thing as well. That seemed to be enough in common between us, and we ended up in bed. Afterwards, when I returned from the bathroom and saw her zonked out, the idea came to me. That ring. Maybe I could get a bundle for it. All I had to do was slip it off her finger and leave. She didn't know my last name, where my hotel was, nothing. I dressed quickly. She was breathing heavily, a little snort every now and then. Probably won't wake up until morning. I'd be long gone. I eased down on her side of the bed and gently slipped the ring off her finger. I walked into the bathroom where the light was brighter to get a better look.

"You goddamn thief!" I turned, startled. She rushed at me and snatched the ring from my hand. "I'm calling the cops!"

I gripped her wrist. "Wait, I wasn't going to steal it. I just wanted to look at it,” I lied. She spat at me and began struggling to get away.

"You bastard. I'm calling the cops!" she yelled louder and twisted wildly. I lost my grip on her wrist and then punched her with my fist. It was pure reflex. She fell back…

Poor Natalie. I hadn't meant to hurt her.

In my mind, I see, once again, her naked body on the white tile floor, blond hair tinged with blood. That damned ring. I pat my pocket. It's there, alright, but what to do with it? A pawn shop! I remember one a block from my hotel with a sign that read 'Open 24 hours.' The pawn shop operator looks at the ring through one of those black eye-pieces. Then he stares at me. The look makes me very uncomfortable.

"Nice ring. Unusual."

"My wife's," I offer.

"She know you're pawning it?"

"Yeah. We need the dough. It's worth about five grand. I bought it for her."

"$300."

"I told you, it's an expensive ring."

"Okay, $450, and that's it. Take it or leave it."

I take it, sign with a fictitious name and address, and show him the fake L.A. driver's license I always carry. In the hustling game you just never know when it might come in handy. He gives me another long look when I leave the shop. You'll never see me again, mister. I think, as I put the bundle in my pocket.