'Mother of a Hand' by Scott MacLeod

“I’ll call.”

Phil clicked off the phone. Jesus, what a time for his brother to remind him tomorrow was Mother’s Day. 

Or was it tomorrow already?

Phil watched through the cigar smoke as the dealer flipped over the Ace, face up.

It would pair nicely with the pair of bullets Phil was carrying.

He was counting the money in his head already.

The other guy pushed a pile of ceramic towards the table’s center. Manifesting, the kids would call it.

The dealer nodded at Phil, who could barely wait his turn.

There’d be no ramen this week.

“I’ll call.”