Taking a Gamble

From where George sat, the woman who pulled into the No Parking Zone appeared to be around 40, though, given the lack of gray hair, she was probably younger. Then he saw the car seat in the back. Definitely younger.

He smiled, sipped some coffee, and pulled on his Lucky Strike, an apt brand for his daily ritual outside the Lucky Casino, where night only ebbed and each morning brought a sense of optimism. Somebody would hit it big. But it wouldn’t be him. No, living itself was enough of a gamble. But what if the odds of winning were with him, would he take the chance? Probably not. He knew better than to bet against the house. That would be the death of him.

He chose instead to watch people. Like the woman in the scuffed, late-model sedan. With the car running, she punched numbers into her phone. He wasn’t eavesdropping—no, that was beyond his sensibilities. But he clearly heard her side of the conversation through the open window.

“Mark, it’s Suzanne. But you know that. I’m here.”

She lit a cigarette. George wondered what brand she smoked. She looked too hardened for anything mentholated. Maybe Marlboro. Definitely not Virginia Slims. Did they even make them anymore? She blew the smoke out the window, presumably to protect the baby. George wondered if it was a boy or a girl.

She stared at the door to George’s right. He followed her gaze and inhaled sharply when the door opened. Red-soaked, incessantly humming, and artificially luminous, the casino beckoned. What were the odds he could throw down a ten-spot and walk out with his dignity intact? This was as close as he dared to be.

A middle-aged man stepped out, yanking on sunglasses. To protect his eyes or his identity, George wondered. As the man who wasn’t Mark walked off in the opposite direction, George noticed the glint of a handgun holstered to his hip. As he was wont to do, George construed a story. Too soft for muscle. Too obvious for a Fed. Recon for a heist maybe.

“You son of a bitch, Mark.” Suzanne shouted into her phone, pounded the steering wheel, and jerked her head toward the backseat. “Get out here now. You promised.” Every few minutes, she repeated the ritual. Call Mark. Swear. Slam something. Look around. Check the baby.

George shifted his fabricated story to Suzanne. Was Mark the baby’s father? Loan shark? Drug dealer? George hoped it wasn’t that. Because of the baby.

Suzanne’s voice got louder, more explicit, and more desperate with each call. Suddenly, she opened the car door and looked directly at George. He averted his eyes. After all, he was an observer, not a participant. But it was too late.

She accosted him with a husky voice. “Keep an eye on my car, will ya? Just for a minute. Gotta meet someone.” George noticed the hard lines around her eyes and mouth, baggy jeans, and an old plaid shirt. Definitely a Marlboro girl. “Don’t let ’em tow the car. My baby girl’s inside.”

A minute after she transitioned from the world of chaos to one of chance, the door opened, then closed. With eyes bouncing between the car and the casino, George lit another cigarette. The door opened again.

Pop. Pop Pop Pop.

Gunfire. Before he could react, a jean-clad body fell into the doorway, propping it open. Suzanne. The house had won.

George willed his feet toward the car. The baby cried. Sirens wailed. George sweat. What to do? Move the car? Grab the baby? No. That would mean he’d get involved. Shit. He already was involved.

A bearded guy in neat jeans and a golf shirt sprinted toward him carrying a duffle bag. Mark.

“Get outta the way,” he shouted at George, who raised his hands in surrender. The guy jumped into the passenger seat. Just as quickly, he jumped out. “What’d you do with my wife, you …”

“Nothing, man! Some lady—your wife?—ran into the casino, looking for …” you, you son of a bitch. “Said she’d only be gone a minute. Asked me to look after the baby.”

Mark looked in the back seat. “Shit!”

Kicking George to the curb, Mark raced around to the driver’s side, jumped in the car, revved the engine, and sped away.

As George crawled to his feet, he heard more gunfire. Something stung his arm. And his leg. And his chest.

He had taken a chance. Bet against the house. Bet on the baby.

The baby. He wished he could tell Suzanne that the little girl wasn’t hurt.