The next morning, Marcus found Raymond passed out on the couch of his studio apartment—smoke-stained walls, a mini-fridge full of beer, and a poker table in the corner covered in crumpled cards. Marcus kicked his uncle's foot. "Wake up. The guys with the wolf tattoo came to the restaurant."
Raymond jolted awake, rubbing his eyes. "Wolf… shit. I forgot. I owed him from the last game." He sat up, reaching for a beer. Marcus grabbed it first, setting it on the counter. "Fifty grand? How could you owe that much?"
Raymond sighed, running a hand through his messy hair. "It wasn't just poker. He runs a loan shark racket. I borrowed to pay your mom's medical bills last year—she never told you, did she? Said it was 'insurance.'" He stood, walking to the window. "Wolf doesn't play nice. If I don't pay, he'll shut down the restaurant. Your mom's worked too hard for that."
Marcus thought of the address in Chinatown—the one Raymond had given him. "The casino. Can you win the money back there?"
Raymond laughed, bitter. "I'm banned. Cheated Wolf out of ten grand last month. He said if I step foot in there, he'll break my hands." He paused, then looked at Marcus. "But you… you could go. He doesn't know you. You're just a kid."
Marcus's throat went dry. "Me? I don't know how to play poker."
"You don't need to play well. You just need to play smart." Raymond pulled a deck of cards from his pocket, shuffling fast. "Watch. When you hold a bad hand, you bluff. When you hold a good one, you act weak. And if you get caught? You run." He flipped a card—queen of hearts—and slid it under another card without looking. "See that? Switching. Just don't get caught."
Before Marcus could argue, the door slammed open. Wolf's men were back—two of them, one with a baseball bat. "Wolf says three days," the taller one said. "Either you get him ten grand, or you start running his school games. Kids like you—easy to trick into betting lunch money."
Marcus's jaw tightened. He thought of his mom's dumplings, of the restaurant's neon sign that said "Chen's Kitchen." "I'll get the ten grand," he said. The men looked surprised, then laughed. "Good luck, chino. You'll need it."
After they left, Raymond stared at him. "You're crazy. You can't win ten grand in three days."
"I have to," Marcus said. He grabbed the Chinatown address from his pocket. "I'm going to the casino. Teach me how to bluff."
Raymond hesitated, then nodded. He spent the next two hours teaching Marcus the basics—how to read a player's tells (Carlos bit his lip when he bluffed), how to count cards (only the high ones: 10s, face cards, aces), how to slip a card up his sleeve (practice with a rubber band around his wrist to keep it in place). "Stick to Texas Hold'em," Raymond said. "It's the most common game there. And if you see a girl with a backpack—blonde, blue eyes—avoid her. She's been hanging around, asking questions. Probably a cop's kid."
Marcus took the last $40 his mom had given him and headed to Chinatown. The casino was in a basement, down a narrow alley with a neon sign that said "Lucky Star." He pushed open the metal door, and the smell of cigarette smoke and beer hit him. The room was small, dimly lit, with three poker tables. Men in hoodies and flannel sat around them, their eyes sharp.
Marcus walked to the nearest empty seat. A dealer with a scar across his cheek nodded. "Buy in?"
"Forty bucks," Marcus said, sliding the money across the table. The dealer gave him a stack of chips. Marcus's hands shook as he picked one up. He looked around, then froze—by the bar, there was a girl with blonde hair, a backpack slung over her shoulder. She was watching him, her eyes narrow.
It was the girl Raymond had warned him about.
Marcus looked away, pretending to focus on his cards. The first hand was bad—7 and 2 of diamonds. He folded. The second hand was better—king and 5 of hearts. He bet $5. The other players folded, and he won. His heart raced. Maybe he could do this.
Then the third hand came. He got ace and queen of spades—the best hand he'd had all night. He bet $20. Everyone called. The flop came: king, 10, 3. Marcus's hands sweat. He was about to bet more when someone tapped his shoulder.
It was the blonde girl. She was wearing a server uniform now, a tray of drinks in her hand. "Nice hand," she whispered, sliding a napkin onto his lap. "But fold. The guy in the red hoodie has a straight."
Marcus stared at her. How did she know? But he trusted her—something about her eyes, sharp and determined. He folded. The guy in the red hoodie grinned, showing a straight: 8, 9, 10, J, Q.
Marcus let out a breath. He turned to thank the girl, but she was gone. He finished the night with $120—more than he'd started with, but a long way from ten grand. As he left, he saw the girl leaning against the alley wall.
"You're Raymond's nephew," she said, not a question. She held up a crumpled piece of paper—covered in symbols, just like the ones Raymond had drawn on his cards. "These are his tells. My dad's notes. He's an FBI agent. He went missing three months ago. And I think your uncle knows where he is."
Marcus's blood ran cold. He thought of Raymond's scar, of the $50,000 debt, of Wolf's men. "What do you want?"
The girl held out her hand. "I'm Claire. Help me find my dad. I'll help you win the ten grand. Deal?"
Marcus looked at her hand, then at the casino door. He thought of his mom's restaurant. He shook it. "Deal."