Chapter 6: The Gambler's Hand
Some clients you remember because of how they begged. Others — because they never did.
This one walked into my life like she had nothing left to lose.
---
Her name was Rhea Calder. Early thirties. Short hair, sharp eyes, voice like the click of a poker chip hitting a table. She wore a red leather jacket over a black turtleneck, and the moment she sat down across from me at Café Olmo, I could tell she wasn't looking for salvation. Just leverage.
"I heard you fix things," she said.
I stirred my coffee. "I offer one thing. A favor."
"Any kind?"
"If it's within my reach."
She leaned forward. "I want the ability to know the outcome of every gamble. Every hand, every race, every dice throw."
I met her gaze. "That's not luck. That's cheating fate."
"Is that a no?"
"It's a high price."
She smiled. "I came ready to pay."
---
We wrote the contract that night. I warned her — no second favor, no renegotiation. The Wheel comes due on the date sealed.
"You'll get ten years," I said. "Then you spin."
"Then I'll see you in 2035."
---
But I saw her again today.
2025.
Exactly six months after she signed.
She was at a casino in Atlantic City. I wasn't there to collect. I was just passing through. I hadn't expected to find her pacing by the roulette table, palms sweating, eyes darting around like a trapped animal.
She saw me before I spoke. Her face drained.
"You said ten years," she hissed.
"I did."
She leaned in, trembling. "I can't turn it off. It's too loud. Every outcome, every chance — I see it all the time. Every card before it turns. Every game before it starts. There's no surprise anymore."
"You asked for knowledge."
"I thought it would make me rich. It just made me... hollow."
I nodded slowly. I'd seen it before.
"Can I give it back?"
"No. But... you can collect early."
Her eyes widened. "Spin now?"
"If you're willing."
She stared at the Wheel. I hadn't even shown it yet, but somehow, she knew I had it.
"I want to feel uncertain again," she whispered. "I want to not know. Even if it costs me."
---
We found a quiet corner. I set the Wheel on a velvet seat between us. She reached out without hesitation.
Click. Click. Click.
The sound echoed like bones on wood.
It stopped.
Segment 3: Nerve Damage. Loss of tactile sensation. Irreversible.
She didn't cry. Just flexed her fingers, slowly, deliberately.
"Feels... like nothing," she said.
"It will. Always."
"That's okay," she said, standing. "I'd rather feel nothing than know everything."
She walked away, hands in her pockets, a phantom smile tracing her lips.
I packed the Wheel, finished my coffee, and sat for a while longer.
She never begged.
And that, somehow, made her unforgettable.