Disclaimer: I don't own Psych or any of its related characters. This is just for my own enjoyment and the potential enjoyment of other Psych-Os like me, and no monetary gain was expected or received.

Rating: T

Spoilers: Through current episodes, particularly strong from Heeeeere's Lassie.

A/N: Sorry for the glut: I would blame it on the weekend and lack of access, but actually I wrote the last four chapters just on Saturday.

Chapter Eleven: Go Down Gambling

Lassiter was sitting at the kitchen table with his head in his hands when he heard the broken, unplugged, recordless hi fi start playing.

"Felt this way yesterday, and today I'm still hurting, yeah, hurting. Time goes by, right on by, and I, I keep hurting, yeah, hurting." Lassiter got up and walked into the living room with the head-cocked incredulous posture he often adopted when approaching something ludicrous and unbelievable, usually perpetrated by Shawn Spencer. Plug? In the socket. Roy Orbison record? On the turntable. Needle arm? Intact.

I wonder how quickly the Ghost Hunters people can get here, he thought, unaware that at that very moment Chief Vick was telling Detective O'Hara that he was free to call in The Atlantic Paranormal Society if he wanted to.

"What? Are you sympathizing or are you expecting an apology? All right, then, all right. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I…ripped your arm off," he said, feeling only a little bit silly at this point. "But don't you think you were being just a little bit…pushy? Not to mention completely off base. I mean, honestly, 'The Liberty Bell March?' I'll be honest with you, on any other day if O'Hara had told me she'd broken up with Spencer I'd have been turning cartwheels, but 'The Liberty Bell March?' It's a bit much."

He blinked - no more than that - and in the half second his eyes were closed the record changed. "Well excuuuuuuuse me," Steve Martin said from the recording of a comedy album.

"Just…you know, back off, okay? I don't know who or what you are but I really don't…mind…the fact that you're here, but don't start messing around with my personal life, all right? I don't know if you were reading something off of me or what, but it's just that Althea was trying to get me to start something I didn't want. I don't even think about O'Hara that way."

He turned away to punctuate that this was his final word on the subject, and the harsh music of his one and only metal album rang out. "You're a liar, filthy liar. You're a liar. You…you…you…you fucking liar."

"Hey! Don't make me call for an exorcist. I know one who'd be here in twenty minutes, tops."

The music stopped. A moment or two later Ben E. King started to sing. "When the night has come, and the land is dark, and the moon is the only light we'll see, no I won't be afraid, oh I won't be afraid just as long as you stand, stand by me."

Lassiter sat down on the couch and looked over the back of it at the hi fi cabinet. "All right, no exorcists. Provided you give me a little peace. What are you, anyway? Or am I addressing a who?"

Nothing. "Can't tell me? Is that because I don't have any music that fits, or is it because you can't change the record when I'm looking? I'll look away." He turned his head obediently. In the half of a second Steve Miller began to sing.

"Some people call me the space cowboy, yeah, some call me the gangster of love. Some people call me Maurice, 'cause I speak of the pompatus of love. People talkin' 'bout me, baby, say I'm doing you wrong, doing you wrong. Well, don't you worry, baby, don't worry, 'cause I'm right here, right here, right here, right here at home. 'Cause I'm a picker, I'm a grinner, I'm a lover, and I'm a sinner. I play my music in the sun. I'm a joker, I'm a smoker, I'm a midnight toker…I sure don't want to hurt no one. I'm a picker, I'm a grinner, I'm a lover, and I'm a sinner. I play my music in the sun. I'm a joker, I'm a smoker, I'm a midnight toker…I get my lovin' on the run."

"Ah. Informative," Lassiter said, with a sage nod. "So what do I call you, then? The Joker? The Space Cowboy? Maurice?"

"Whenever you call me, I'll be there. Whenever you wahnt me, I'll be there. Whenever you need me, I'll be there. I'll be around."

"I'll take that to mean 'Knock yourself out.'" He lay his head back against the cushions and stretched his long legs out. "Maurice it is, then, until you tell me otherwise. Now if you don't mind, I think I'll take a nap. I haven't slept for shit in days and I'm whipped."

He closed his eyes. There was a few minutes of silence, and then, almost tentatively despite the raucous melody, Blood Sweat and Tears began to play.

"Born a natural loser, I can't recall just where. Raised on pool and poker and a dollar here and there. Blackjack hand dealer man, you'd better pay off that last bet. Two-bit hand of twenty-one is all I ever get. Go down gambling, say it when you're running low. Go down gambling. You may never have to go."

He raised one eyebrow but didn't open his eyes. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"If you need me, let me know, gonna be around. If you've got no place to go, if you're feeling down. If you're all alone when the pretty birds have flown, honey, I'm still free. Take a chance on me."

"Are you still on about O'Hara? Look…I'm on the rebound, she's on the rebound…even if there was the faintest chance that either of us would…make an effort to see the other in those terms, now is not the time."

The loud electric/animal howl of the needle dragging across the spinning record registered Maurice's opinion on that statement better than any lyric ever could. The hi fi fell silent.