edge

Remy’s eyes swam slightly as he cast a long look down at the several tall cylindrical stacks of ‘nickel’ chips situated between the highball glass in his right hand and the ashtray over which his left hovered with a lit menthol. At five dollars per chip, he had to be sitting on almost five hundred dollars. He’d started with one-fifty. A few hours of conservative play had gotten him to this moment, the kind of roulette moment Remy lived for. The last six numbers had been odd reds. The next spin was bound to be even, black, or both…