Chapter 52: The Definition of Happiness

Enio’s breath came quick, the endless flow of money on the gambling table making his throat itch and his tongue dry.

He had never seen so much money in his life!

His father was an imperialist who longed to rise above others and tried to imitate Federals—he only ever told his children to obey Federal laws, never to pursue happiness.

So for the past twenty years, Enio’s life had been anything but good, filled with poverty and hardship.

But the moment so much money appeared before him, he understood in that instant what poverty was, what suffering was, and the essence of all misfortune—it was money!

Yes, more money meant happiness, less money meant pain—that was the truth, undeniable.

If his father had money, he wouldn’t have spent his days at home venting his temper through domestic violence, and his mother wouldn’t have left them.

If his father had money, he wouldn’t have been stuck with these poor kids around him, scratching his head trying to figure out how to scrape together a few more coins for tomorrow—he’d be driving the latest convertible through the Bay, chatting about dreams with beautiful girls.

Money brings happiness, and money brings pain.

With this much money, he would surely be happy.

Just place five dollars on the table, risk a little luck, and five becomes ten.

He looked at Mo Lisi; Mo Lisi looked back and shook his head slightly. “Think of my father.”

Mo Lisi’s father was a gambling addict—even back in the Empire, he was one.

Their whole family came to the Federation because of one “big gamble”: his father bet they’d find happiness here, and also to escape debt collectors.

He sold their only house and brought his family to the Federation.

Life in the Federation was miserable—he had no job, couldn’t find a suitable one, and the only way he could earn money for his family was pimping for his wife.

At first, it was seven or eight dollars a time; then five; now it only took three.

At least a third of the men on this street had been to Mo Lisi’s home, walked the same path he took when he was born.

He hated it at first, but now—he was numb.

His father always believed he could win back what he lost at the table, but the result was always losing more.

Enio knew that pitiful, hateful man—his grip on the bills loosened. Mo Lisi let go, watching as Enio put the money back in his pocket.

“We’re here to make money, not to throw it away. I’ve been here for years and never seen anyone truly win—everyone loses!”

As he spoke, a gambler at the table, amid loud shouts from his companions, asked the dealer for another card—twelve points, a contradictory total.

A standard deck has fifty-two cards, only sixteen of which are “ten-point” cards—any card above ten counts as ten.

Fourteen cards have been revealed, five of which are tens—meaning among the remaining thirty-eight cards, only eleven are tens. The chance of drawing a ten is just twenty-eight percent.

Of course, gamblers don’t calculate these odds—if they did, they’d likely be sitting in some company office, not at this table.

But he knew tens were limited; based on the dealing order, he had a high chance of getting a non-ten. So he asked for the card.

The dealer flipped a ten for him. “Busted, brother.” Even as the dealer swept away his cards and chips, the gambler stared in disbelief.

Someone behind him suddenly slapped him on the head. “Fucking idiot.”

He shot up, whirled around, and stared at the innocent faces behind him, hands spread wide in feigned innocence. “You guys told me to keep drawing!”

Someone in the crowd shouted, “They told you to go eat shit.”

The gambler cursed twice, patted his pockets, found no more cash, and stepped aside.

Several men jostled for his spot, cheerfully insulting each other’s families.

Mo Lisi tilted his head. Enio understood at once and followed.

“All gone?” he asked.

The man who’d just lost and been slapped rolled his eyes. “What, you gonna give me money?”

Enio nodded. “I can lend you some.”

To gamblers, anyone willing to hand over cash—whether it’s selling their ass, pimping for their wife, or loan-sharking—they’ll take it.

Because right now, more than ever, they believe they can win back what they just lost—and then win big.

“Are you from the casino?”

“I’ve never seen you before.”

Enio offered him a cigarette—a small pack of rolled smokes. The gambler whistled. “So how much interest are you charging?”

He assumed Enio was casino staff—the casino not only ran gambling but also lent high-interest loans.

Some fools are desperate to win back their losses and don’t care whether you say the interest is annual, monthly, or daily.

He was sure that if he’d drawn a card, the dealer would’ve busted—everyone else’s totals were high.

Give him another chance, and he’d win it all back.

“Do you have permanent residency?”

The gambler lit the cigarette, took a drag, and asked casually, “You still care about that?”

Enio nodded. “A work card makes things easier.”

He didn’t commit fully.

The gambler shook his head. “Fine. How much can you lend?”

“Up to a hundred.”

The gambler froze. Casinos here rarely lent more than twenty or thirty—it was just a side business, not their main focus.

Everyone who gambled here lived nearby; they knew each other, knew each other’s limits, weren’t afraid of people running off—but also never lent much.

He’d never heard of a casino lending a hundred. He’d borrowed once before—only twenty, one dollar interest per day. He paid it back fast.

“What’s the interest?”

“No more than thirty.”

“Per week?”

Enio was stunned. “Per month!”

The gambler, who’d planned to smoke the cigarette and leave, suddenly perked up. “What if I can’t pay back?”

“Your work card will be held by us for a while.”

For the lower class, they understood better than the middle or upper class what a work card meant in the Federation—and how valuable it was among illegal immigrants.

He hesitated. “How do I get it? Do I sign a contract?”

Enio explained briefly, then nodded to Mo Lisi and led the gambler away.

The big man at the door said nothing as the two left—he could tell Enio was an imperialist, and the police wouldn’t hire such a young one, even if they were desperate for officers.

Enio made a call. Soon, Lans arrived with the contract. He glanced at the gambler. “You’ve already explained it to him?”

The gambler grinned obsequiously. “Right. Work card as collateral, then you issue me a check.”

He pulled out the contract: it stated the gambler owed a hundred dollars, repaying thirty-eight per month for six months. If he defaulted, his work card would be seized for at least nine months, up to a year.

Because Lans was starting a labor company, the contract now extended the work card’s usage period from six to nine months.

The gambler hesitated briefly—the interest was high, but thirty-eight a month wasn’t beyond his means.

His main job paid thirty-five and a half per month; he also rented out a side job, earning seventeen more.

That totaled fifty-two and a half—more than the average Federal income. After paying thirty-eight, he’d still have fifteen left. Life would be hard, but livable.

And… with this hundred, he was confident he could win back two hundred!

Quickly, he signed his name as Lans demanded, copied the liability waiver, and handed over everything required.

Lans pulled out twenty five-dollar bills and handed them over. The gambler cursed as he headed back to the casino—he’d crush everyone, win back every cent he’d lost.

Watching the gambler disappear, Lans pulled six and a half dollars from his pocket—one five, one one, and two quarters—and handed them to Enio. “Your cut.”

Again, six and a half. Enio’s heart quickened. He sincerely said, “Thank you!”

Lans clapped his shoulder. “Mutual benefit. Your side’s doing well—I’m considering opening another company nearby. Makes things simpler.”

“If that’s true, that’d be great!” Enio tucked the money safely away. “I’ll head back. Might need you to make a few more trips these days.”

“Not a bother at all. I actually hope you bother me more—that’s how we both make money.” He pulled two packs of cigarettes from his car and gave them to Enio. “Call me if anything comes up. I’ll be at the company most days.”

Clutching the two packs of cigarettes and his new six dollars and fifty cents, Enio felt he’d taken another step toward happiness.

Watching Enio leave, Lans drove back to the company. Only two or three people were resting inside; the rest were out hunting for business.

Business here was relatively easy—just bring people directly. Farther out, it’s much harder. Looks like getting others to learn to drive needs to go on the schedule.

I can’t keep running everywhere myself, or rent small houses in other places—just two rooms would do—but someone needs to manage it.