Ennio’s breathing quickened, and the constant movement of cash on the gambling table made his throat itch and mouth go dry. He had never seen so much money in his life!
His father, an Imperial immigrant striving to emulate Federation citizens, only ever told him to follow the Federation’s laws but never taught him to pursue happiness. Over the past two decades, Ennio’s life had been nothing but poverty and suffering.
Yet, as all this money appeared before him, in that moment, he understood poverty, hardship, and the root of all misfortune—it was money!
Yes, having money brought happiness; lacking it brought pain. It was an undeniable truth.
If his father had money, he wouldn’t have vented his frustrations at home through domestic violence, and his mother wouldn’t have left them. If his father had money, Ennio wouldn’t be hanging around with these poor kids, racking his brains over how to scrape together more cash for tomorrow. Instead, he’d be cruising around the Bay Area in the latest convertible, talking about dreams with pretty girls.
Money brings happiness, but it also causes pain.
All this money—surely it would bring him happiness.
He only needed to place five dollars on the table and try his luck. Five dollars could turn into ten. He glanced at Morris, who was staring back at him, shaking his head slightly. “Think about my father.”
Morris’s father was a gambling addict—a “gambler dog”—even back in the Empire. Their family’s move to the Federation was itself a desperate gamble. His father sold their only house to escape creditors, hoping life in the Federation would bring happiness.
But life in the Federation was anything but happy. His father couldn’t find work and eventually resorted to pimping Morris’s mother. At first, her services fetched seven or eight dollars a session, then five, and now only three.
At least a third of the men on this street had been to Morris’s house, walking down the very path he was born on. At first, Morris hated it, but now he felt numb.
His father always believed he could win back his losses at the gambling table, but the reality was that he only lost more.
Ennio knew that pitiful and loathsome man. Slowly, his grip on his cash loosened. Morris let go of Ennio’s hand and watched him return the money to his pocket.
“We’re here to make money, not lose it,” Morris said. “I’ve been around here for years and never seen anyone walk away with real winnings. Everyone loses!”
As they spoke, a gambler at one of the tables called for another card amidst loud cheers from those around him. His hand totaled twelve, a precarious score.
Out of a standard deck of fifty-two cards, only sixteen were tens (including face cards). With five already visible on the table, only eleven tens remained in the remaining thirty-eight cards—giving him a 28% chance of busting.
But gamblers don’t calculate odds. If they did, they wouldn’t be sitting at a gambling table—they’d be in some corporate office. All the gambler knew was that there were fewer tens left, so he believed the odds were in his favor.
He called for a card. The dealer flipped a ten.
“Busted, buddy,” the dealer said, sweeping the man’s cards and chips from the table.
Someone in the crowd behind him smacked the gambler on the head. “Idt,” they sneered.
The gambler stood abruptly, glaring at the innocent-looking faces around him. “You told me to call for another card!”
A voice from the crowd jeered, “They also told you to eat sh*t.”
Cursing, the gambler checked his pockets but found no more money and reluctantly gave up his seat. The spot was quickly claimed by others, who exchanged sarcastic “polite” greetings about each other’s families as they jostled for the seat.
Morris tilted his head slightly, signaling to Ennio, who immediately followed him.
“Lost everything?” Ennio asked.
The gambler rolled his eyes. “Why, you gonna give me money?”
Ennio nodded. “I can lend you some.”
For a gambler, someone offering money—no matter the source or conditions—was always welcome. They were utterly convinced that this time they’d win it all back and then some.
“You from the casino?”
“Never seen you here before,” the gambler remarked.
Ennio handed him a cigarette, one of the small-packaged ones. The gambler whistled. “So, what’s the interest?”
He assumed Ennio was part of the casino. Aside from running games, casinos often offered high-interest loans to desperate gamblers. The terms didn’t matter—annual, monthly, or daily interest rates—as long as the gambler believed they could win back their losses.
“You got a permanent residency card?” Ennio asked.
The gambler lit the cigarette and exhaled slowly. “You care about that now?”
Ennio nodded. “Having a work card makes it easier.” He kept his words vague.
“How much can you lend me?”
“Up to a hundred.”
The gambler froze. It was unheard of for the casino to lend that much—usually just twenty or thirty dollars. Since the gamblers here were locals, everyone knew each other’s financial situation, making big loans unnecessary.
“What’s the interest?”
“Not more than thirty.”
“Per week?”
Ennio shook his head. “Per month.”
The gambler, who had planned to leave after finishing his cigarette, suddenly became interested. “What happens if I can’t repay?”
“You’ll hand over your work card for us to use for a while.”
Among the lower classes, they knew better than anyone the significance of a work card in the Federation and its value among illegal immigrants.
The gambler hesitated. “How will I get the money? Is there a contract?”
Ennio explained the terms simply, then motioned to Morris. Together, they escorted the gambler outside.
The bouncer at the door let them pass without a word, recognizing Ennio as an Imperial immigrant. No way would someone so young be working for the police.
Ennio made a call, and Lance arrived shortly after with a contract in hand. Lance gave the gambler a once-over. “He knows the terms?”
The gambler smiled obsequiously. “Yep, work card as collateral, and you’ll cut me a check.”
Lance presented the contract, detailing that the gambler owed one hundred dollars and was to repay thirty-eight dollars monthly for six months. If he defaulted, his work card would be retained for at least nine months, up to a year.
After some hesitation, the gambler agreed. The terms were steep, but he could manage thirty-eight dollars a month. His primary job paid thirty-five dollars and fifty cents, and his side gig brought in an additional seventeen dollars, giving him fifty-two dollars and fifty cents in total—more than the average Federation citizen.
With his income, he could survive on the remaining fifteen dollars after payments. And with this hundred dollars, he was confident he’d double it at the table.
After signing the contract and handing over the required collateral, Lance handed the gambler twenty five-dollar bills. The gambler cursed under his breath but strode back to the casino, ready to win it all back.
As the gambler disappeared, Lance handed Ennio six dollars and fifty cents—his commission.
Ennio’s heartbeat quickened. “Thank you!” he said earnestly.
Lance patted his arm. “Mutual benefit. Business is good here; I might consider opening another branch nearby. It’d make operations easier.”
“That’d be amazing!” Ennio said, carefully pocketing the cash. “I’ll head back now. These next few days might trouble you with a few more trips.”
“Not trouble at all. I’d prefer it if you troubled me more—that way, we both make more money.” Lance handed him two packs of cigarettes from his car. “Call me if you need anything. I’ll be at the office most of the time.”
Clutching the cigarettes and his freshly earned money, Ennio felt one step closer to happiness.
As Ennio walked away, Lance drove back to his company. Only two or three employees were lounging inside; the rest were out drumming up business. The nearby area was relatively easy to work in—just bring people in.
For clients further away, things were trickier. Lance realized he needed to expedite plans for his team to learn how to drive or rent small offices elsewhere with just two rooms. That way, everything would be more efficient.