Chapter 1

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MARK LEWIS had one gambling rule: don't luck yourself.

 

Beginner’s luck, birthday luck, lucky numbers, lucky horseshoes, lucky four-leaf clovers, lucky rabbit’s feet, lucky pennies, lucky pendants, lucky prophetic dreams, blow on the dice for good luck, let luck be a lady tonight.

 

No matter the variety, Mark knew that the Las Vegas Strip kept the neon flowing by convincing you—yes you!—that better luck was just one bet, ATM, loanshark, pawned engagement ring, or harvested kidney away.

 

As a high school math teacher, Mark also knew there was no such thing as luck.  The House used cold, hard math to rig the games in its favor.  For Mark, the gambler, winning was about knowing the odds and managing his bankroll.  

 

In other words, not lucking himself.

 

Which is why, as he watched the little white ball nestle between the frets of the green double-zero of the roulette wheel, as the croupier raked away his last five-dollar chip and, with it, all his money in the world, Mark wondered how he had, in fact, let himself get so non-consensually lucked.

 

“Rough luck, there, Mr. Lewis,” the croupier said.  Jordan K. – Tacoma, WA – Cornucopia Casino’s Dealer of the Month November 2023 boasted the shiny brass name tag.  “You want to saddle back up?” 

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The other gamblers were looking at Mark, too.  The stoic farmer with the sweat-stained John Deere hat who’d turned a crinkled $20 bill into seven towering stacks of chips by betting red seven, red 17, and red 27, while sipping Crown-Sevens.  The chain-smoking octogenarian who’d told Mark that, if he wanted to turn his luck around, he should start betting her great grandkids’ ages like she was.  The middle-aged married couple straight out of a church potluck who’d joined hands and asked the Blessed Lord Jesus to multiply their modest means, just as He turned five loaves and two fish into a feast for 5,000 hungry followers.  Soon, the couple had won so much that, forget bread and fish, they could treat everyone in the casino to champagne and caviar.  Not that they had any intent of doing so.  As they collected their latest payout, they eyed Mark warily, like a luckless leper whose losing streak might be contagious. 

 

Mark forced a smile.  “Not right now, Jordan.”  He looked at that listless wheel, the little white ball nestled in that damning green double-zero, the empty, chip-less air between his limp fingers and the felt.  “Good luck, everyone.”

 

Jordan plucked the ball from the wheel.  “Ladies and gentlemen, place your bets.”

 

As the other gamblers began scattering chips across the felt, Mark did his least favorite thing in Vegas. 

 

He walked away.