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shirts, ready for the players who would surely
    drift in as the evening deepened into night; and for a few attractive
    Asian women whom I made as shills, there to attract passing high
    rollers with their bright smiles and plunging necklines.
    I glanced over at the active table. There they were, Belghazi and
    the blonde, both dressed tastefully and a bit more stylishly than the
    other players: Belghazi in a white shirt, open at the neck, and navy
    blazer; the blonde in a white silk blouse and black bolero. Most of
    the fourteen player slots were taken, but Belghazi and his girlfriend
    had empty seats to either side of them. They were the only foreigners
    in the room, and had probably taken the isolated seats so as
    not to offend anyone who might consider a foreigner's presence unlucky.
    I didn't have such qualms. Quite the contrary tonight, in fact.
    I'd been in this room before, and had seen bets of as high as one
    hundred thousand U.S. for a single hand. Some of the patrons here,
    I knew, might gamble all night, and on into the next night. A few
    of Belghazi's cohorts, their eyes glassy, their complexions pasty beneath
    the chandelier lighting, looked as though they might have
    done just that.
    The dealer turned over the player's hand and cried out, "Natural
    eight!" An excited murmur picked up around the table: eight
    was a "natural," and could be beaten only by a nine. The round
    would be decided based on the cards already on the table--nothing
    new could be dealt. With almost painful deliberation, the dealer
    next turned over the bank's cards, calling out, "Natural nine!" as he
    did so. There was an outburst of cheers and curses, the former by
    those who had bet on the bank's hand that round, the latter by
    those who had bet on the player's. As the dealer passed the cards
    across the table to the other two dealers, who began paying off the
    winning bets, many of the players dipped their heads and began
    marking up the pads the casino had provided, attempting to discern
    some pattern in the randomness, a lucky streak they might lunge at
    and manage to grab.
    I walked over and took the seat to Belghazi's right, so that he
    would naturally look away from me to talk to the blonde or to follow
    the action of the player in Seat 1, who was designated to act as
    the bank. I noticed the computer briefcase, nestled against his leg
    where he would feel it if it were somehow to move.
    He turned to me. "I've seen you, haven't I," he said in French-accented
    English, his dark eyes narrowing a fraction. The effect was
    half attempt at recollection, half accusation. The blonde glanced
    over and then away.
    This was a slight breach of high roller etiquette, which is generally
    predicated on respect for the other players' anonymity. "Maybe
    at the tables downstairs," I answered, concealing my surprise. "I
    have to build up the bankroll a bit before a trip to the VIP rooms."
    He shook his head twice, slowly, and smiled, still looking into
    my eyes. "Not downstairs. At the Oriental. With a pretty Asian
    woman. She's not with you tonight?"
    "You're staying at the Oriental?" I asked, sidestepping his inquiry
    as would any self-respecting philanderer who'd just been
    questioned about his mistress by a stranger.
    "It's a good hotel," he replied, doing a little sidestepping of
    his own.
    I was impressed. I had been taking care not to stand out or to
    otherwise become memorable, and he had spotted me anyway. He
    was well-attuned to his environment, to the patterns that might at
    some point make the difference between winning and losing. Or
    living and dying.
    The dealer advised us that it was time to place our bets. "Yes," I
    said, putting down the minimum of about U.S. ten thousand on
    the bank, "but this is the place for baccarat." Belghazi nodded and
    put down fifty thousand on player, then turned to the banker to
    watch the hand get dealt. I saw from this movement that he wasn't
    truly concerned about me. If he had been, he wouldn't have