The Southside High library smelled like old paper and lemon cleaner. Marcus sat at a corner table, his math notebook open to a page covered in scribbled numbers—probability equations he'd stolen from his textbook, repurposed to track poker hands. Claire slid into the seat across from him, her backpack thudding against the floor. She pulled out her dad's FBI notebook and a crumpled map of the Lucky Star Casino.
"Tony's break is at 8:15," she said, pointing to a red circle on the map. "The men's bathroom by the back exit—no cameras. That's your window. And if you need to switch a card, use the rubber band. My dad's notes say it's the easiest way for beginners."
Marcus nodded, twisting the rubber band around his wrist. He'd practiced all morning—slipping a card up his sleeve, keeping it in place with the band, then sliding it back when no one was looking. His fingers still fumbled, but he was getting better.
Claire picked up his math notebook, flipping through the pages. Her eyebrows shot up. "Is this… the probability of a flush drawing to a straight?" She pointed to a equation: (4×C(13,5) - 40) / C(52,5). "You're using combinatorics to count hands?"
Marcus's face heated up. "It's easier than memorizing. My grandma taught me math when I was little—said it's the only language everyone understands."
Claire smiled, soft and unexpected. "My dad used to say the same thing. He'd write equations on napkins when we went out to eat. Said math doesn't lie. Unlike people." She flipped to a page in her dad's notebook, showing a list of names. "Wolf's enforcers. The guy who talked to you yesterday—Jake. He's got a rap sheet for assault. Be careful around him."
They spent the next hour practicing. Marcus would slide a card up his sleeve, and Claire would pretend to be a dealer, watching for mistakes. "Your elbow's too high," she said once, tapping his arm. "Keep it close to your body. Tony will notice if you're flailing."
Marcus adjusted, his arm brushing the table. The card stayed in place. "Better?"
Claire nodded, grinning. "Yeah. You're a fast learner." She closed her notebook, checking her phone. "We should go. The high-stakes game starts at 8."
That night, the Lucky Star was busier than usual. Smoke hung thick in the air, and the sound of chips clinking drowned out the neon hum. Marcus spotted Jake leaning against the bar, his eyes on the poker tables. Claire, in her server uniform, walked over to him, a tray of cherry Cokes in her hands.
"Compliments of the house," she said, setting one down. Jake's eyes lingered on her face, then her tray. Marcus took the opportunity to slip away to the bathroom.
The bathroom smelled like bleach. Marcus locked himself in a stall, pulled a spare ace of spades from his pocket, and slid it up his sleeve with the rubber band. When he returned, the dealer was Tony—on his break, replaced by a guy with a buzz cut. Perfect.
The game started. Marcus got a pair of 10s. He bet $100. Everyone called. The flop came: 10 of hearts, 7 of diamonds, 2 of clubs. Three of a kind. The guy next to him, a businessman in a suit, bet $300. Marcus's heart raced. He glanced at Claire—she was refilling Jake's Coke, her eyes flicking to the bathroom door.
Marcus stood, pretending to stretch. He slipped the ace from his sleeve into his hand—now he had four of a kind. "All in," he said, pushing his $1,200 in chips forward.
The businessman stared at him, then folded. Marcus pulled the chips toward him, his hands shaking. He'd won $600—now he had $1,500 total.
As he stood to leave, a hand landed on his shoulder. It was Jake. "Wolf wants to see you," he said, his voice low. "Said you're a 'talented kid.'"
Marcus's blood ran cold. He looked at Claire—she was watching, her face pale. "What does he want?"
Jake smirked. "Just a chat. Don't worry—he won't bite. Yet."
Marcus followed Jake to the back office. Wolf sat behind a metal desk, a cigar in his hand. The room smelled like leather and fear. "You're good," Wolf said, blowing smoke. "Too good for a kid. Raymond teach you?"
Marcus nodded, keeping his eyes down. "Yes, sir."
Wolf laughed. "Sir. I like that. Listen—Raymond owes me fifty grand. But you… you could pay it off for him. I run a little side business. Money laundering. You win, you 'lose' some chips to my guys. No one gets hurt. And your mom's restaurant stays open."
Marcus's throat tightened. Money laundering. A felony. But what choice did he have? "I… I need time to think."
Wolf leaned forward, his eyes sharp. "You have until tomorrow. And Marcus?" He tapped the desk. "Don't tell Claire. Her dad's a pain in my ass. I don't need her sticking her nose in my business."
Marcus left the office, his hands clammy. Claire was waiting by the door. "What did he say?"
Marcus hesitated, then lied. "Just wanted to congratulate me. Said I'm 'good for business.'"
Claire didn't believe him—he could see it in her eyes—but she didn't push. They walked to a 24-hour burger joint down the street, the night air cool on their faces. Marcus ordered two cheeseburgers, extra fries.
He slid one to Claire, picking the meat out of his and putting it on hers. "You didn't eat dinner," he said, when she stared.
Claire smiled, small and sad. "My dad used to do that. Said I needed the protein for soccer." She took a bite, then pulled out her dad's notebook. "Look. This page—'Wolf's chips. Weighted. Possible contraband.' He wrote that a week before he went missing." She held up a chip Marcus had won. "Feel it. It's heavier than a normal chip."
Marcus took it. It was denser, like it had something inside. "What do you think it is?"
Claire shook her head. "I don't know. But we need to find out. And we need to win the rest of the money. Tomorrow's the last day."
Marcus nodded, staring at his burger. He thought of Wolf's offer, of the laundering, of his mom's restaurant. He knew what he had to do. Even if it meant breaking the law.
He took a bite of bread, the taste like cardboard. "Tomorrow. We win."