The Gamblers Heart

I close the vault and walk out, pass-coding it, and finding new guards. A duffle bag is hung over my shoulders, the straps connected together.

“Taking that to the boss, m’am?”

“Yes, obviously.”

“You usually use the leather bag, not the duffle bag.”

“I got a new bag.”

“Are you sure?”

I turn around with a scowl. “Are you questioning me?”

He clears his throat, returning to position. “No, m’am. It wouldn’t be in my best interest to do so.”

“Good.” I fix my hair, putting it back in its headband with the bow. I quickly swap out my white gloves with a new pair, the old ones stained with fresh crimson blood. I sprits myself with perfume, and put on my signature sweet and sassy smile before entering out into the casino.

The place is bustling and busy as always, something I can pride myself on. My usual game table is empty, as only when I’m there is it used. I’ve won millions upon millions there at the table.

I brush my hand against the interior. The black mahogany polished and smooth frames the purpleyfelt of the craps-table. My white dice with golden decals sit by my spot. I smile, remembering the multiple games here that I’ve had by myself, and when Clubhouse took me in.

I walk out the doors and into the starry night. Why they took me in, I’ll never know. All the others specialize in some sort of weaponry, be it guns or knives or needles. All I have is my indescribable good luck and natural girlish charms. Sure, that gets me to other places, but by no means very important. I can’t fight to well. All I have is a sharp pocketknife and some karate moves from when I was young.

I accidently bump into someone on the sidewalk. “My bad!” I say quickly, recovering from the crash.

“No, no, it was my fault.” The little old woman smiles kindly at me. “I was on the way to my grandkid’s house. The poor dears haven’t been able to get much food.”

“Why’s that, if I may ask?”

“Their parents got fired the other day from their jobs. No income has been coming into the house, so every night, I bring my grandkids my dinner.”

“That’s…wonderful.” I glance at the duffle bag. “How bad are their conditions?”

“One of them is awfully sick, but no money to fund a hospital trip.”

$500,000.

I open the duffle bag and pull out 2000. “Here. I’ve been saving up in my bank account for a nice vacation, but your kin’s plight is much more worthy of this money.”

She looks down at my hands. “No, no, I couldn’t-“

“Please.”

She takes the money and quickly pockets it. “Thank you.” She smiles and hugs me tight. “Thank you and bless you, dear girl.”

“To you too, miss.”

She lets go, nods a thank you, and continues on down the street.

$480,000.

It’s much faster to drive to the Clubhouse than to walk there. I feel weird carrying such a large duffle bag. Usually the only people who walk in the dead of night with a duffle bag are people carrying dead things or an obnoxious amount of money. I happen to be doing that, although it seems to be depleting with each poor lady and little sick kid I pass.

By the time I get to the entrance of the Clubhouse, the $500,000 has turned into $10,000.

I sigh. I enter into the parlor, knowing exactly what the boss will say.

“Early morning again, Sass?”

“N..not too early.”

“Three fifty-six?”

“A little early, sir.”

He stands from the couch and walks over. He takes the bag from my shoulders. “Lighter.”

“Slow day.”

“Funny. You don’t get slow days.”

I shift around a little in my spot, nervously moving my feet.

He glances at me oddly, then starts counting the money. “Two thousand, three thousand…” He glances back up. “Five thousand…ten thousand.”

My stomach starts to drop.

“Sass, do you want to tell me where it all is.”

“Not particularly.”

He sighs. He zips the bag back up, then stands right in front of me. I don’t dare meet his disappointed face, so I keep my eyes lowered to the floor.

“You do know that helps with this organization, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Then why do you persist on giving it away?”

I don’t speak.

“I understand your troubled past, but you shouldn’t be-“

“Shouldn’t be what?” I look up at him, my face now adorned with a bothered expression mixed with confidence. “I shouldn’t be giving this money away to sick children or poor widows? I shouldn’t be giving this money away to charities and people who need it more than we do?”

He stares down at me, his expression of faint disdain matching my look.

“Excuse me if I want to help people out while I’m running this place with you heretics and heathens. Excuse me if I want to spread some light into this dying world I’ve been dragged into. I understand that the $500,000 would help us, but it would help those people more than us. I can win back that money, and more than likely quadruple it in a single morning.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“So I did give the money to people. There. I said it.” I stare into his eyes, my scowl deepening.

He chuckles, which soon roars into a mouth.

I step back, shocked by his reaction.

“Your name holds true!”

“W-well, yeah, I-“

“Don’t sweat it, Sass.” He puts a hand on my shoulder. “You’re alright.”

I look up at him. “Th-thank you, sir.”

“No problem.” He lets go of my shoulder and walks back to the couch. I just know notice his shoes and jacket and tie are folded neatly on the arm of the furniture. “You may go home now.”

I start to take some money from the duffle bag.

“And I mean it this time. You need sleep.”

I put it back in the bag.

“I know you don’t actually have a home. You’re welcome to take the upstairs room tonight. That is,” He chuckles. “If it’s not preoccupied but a few FBI members.”

I smile. “Knowing you, it might be.”

“Pardon the mess if there is.”

I zip up the bag, and grab my purse. “Thank you for this offer, sir.”

“Please, it’s Dem.”

I nod. I climb the stairs and enter into the small room. Luckily, no FBI or CIA members hang anywhere, and the smell of blood is far gone from my senses.

The pristine sheets are soft and comfortable. My head sinks into the pillow as I pull the blankets over my body. My clothes are folded neatly on the sidetable.

My fingers go to the locket around my neck. I gently rub it, a soft song coming from my lips.

The Clubhouse, as bustling and dangerous as it is, has a certain atmosphere to it. Some would call it shameful, some may say it’s deprived. Some would call it horrid, and others may call it serious.

But me? After about half a year here, I would call the atmosphere…

Homely.