Isaí Moreno
The roulette wheel spun. White numbers against red and black squares whirled. The world turned in its wondrous isochrony, and their eyes darted obliquely, tracking the ball’s dance. Numbers in rotation—zero to thirty-six.
This time we’ll hit it, said the first. You know math, I know money. That’s why I’m telling you we should stop, replied the other. The world kept spinning. So did the wheels of two vehicles approaching Casino Royale. The roulette wheel spun on, longer than expected. You who know everything—how do odds work again? In American roulette, thirty-seven to one. Same for your number, same for any number. Not bad, said the first. Wait—which number did I pick? Twenty-nine, I think…
They argued as the world spun. Damn it, isn’t it thirty-six to one? You’re forgetting zero, clarified the second. Thanks to zero, the house always wins more than anyone. The universe spun. The clock hands spun. Hey, I think we bet on two numbers. I don’t remember. Was it two and nine? They’d drunk too much—so their minds spun too, one more than the other. Hold on, if you bet on two numbers, the odds are seventeen to one. How’d you do that math? Simple probability. Either way, the house always wins. Better not this time—we bet too much for this shit. As they bickered, noise erupted at the entrance. Gunshots. A grenade. Molotov cocktails. Look, said the first, sipping bourbon, the spinning’s starting to stop. The roulette wheel slowed—almost delicately, almost reluctantly. The spin in their heads slackened, time’s too, but they didn’t notice.
The cylinder whispered softly as the ball settled into a number. Nearly halted now, the wheel let chaos crescendo. Fire!, someone screamed. But they blessed the world, wept with gratitude, oblivious even as they coughed through smoke, their disbelieving eyes fixed on the final turn—red and black squares, the ball motionless now, right on twenty-nine. The casino burned.
