I reach for my chips.
And that's when I see the pit boss pick up the phone.
It's a small gesture. He doesn't look at me while he does it. He's facing the roulette tables, phone pressed to his ear, posture relaxed.
But I've been watching pit bosses for a long time and I know the difference between a routine call and a call about a specific player at a specific table, and this is the second kind.
There’s something in the way he turned away from me a fraction of a second before the phone went to his ear, creating distance, making it look unrelated. It's good technique. If I hadn't spent years making a study of exactly this kind of behavior, I'd have missed it entirely.
I didn't miss it.
I stack my chips, taking my time about it because rushing is suspicious. I slide off the stool, adjust my glasses, pick up the club soda and take a final sip like a man who's in no hurry at all, and I walk toward the cashier cage at a pace thatsays slightlydrunk office worker calling it a night. Tonight, I don’t have a care in the world.
I make it about thirty feet.
They come from both sides, which is smart. Two men in dark suits, big enough that the wordsecurityis redundant.
One of them steps into my path. The other appears at my left shoulder, close enough that I can smell his cheap aftershave.
My brain is doing what it always does in situations where my body would prefer to panic: sorting information, filing details, running calculations.
Two men, both armed if the slight bulge beneath the left suit jacket is what I think it is. Distance to the nearest exit: forty feet.
Number of people between me and that exit: at least twelve. Probability of getting there before one of these two puts a hand on me: essentially zero.
"Sir," the one in front says. His voice is polite. "If you could come with us, please."
Please. As if I have a choice.
"Is there a problem?" I ask, and my voice comes out steady, which is remarkable, because my heart is hammering so hard I can feel it in the base of my throat.
"No problem, sir. Just a conversation."
"I'm happy to have a conversation," I say. "But I'd like to know what it's about first."
The one behind me puts his hand on my shoulder. Not hard. Not aggressive. Just there.
"The owner would like a word."
I manage to keep my face still, which is the only skill that matters right now. Theowner.That’s when I really start to panic.
Casino owners do not personally involve themselves with people like me. Card counting is pest control: a floor-level problem handled by floor-level staff.
You get identified, you get escorted out, your photo goes in a database, and you don't come back. That's how it works. That's how it works everywhere I've ever been and I've been to a lot of places.
The hand on my shoulder steers me forward. I walk because there's nothing else to do through a door marked PRIVATE, into a corridor with no carpet and fluorescent lighting. We move past another door and into an elevator.
We stop on the second floor and the doors open.
The two security men step back. One of them gestures toward a door. "Through there, sir."
I walk through. I am in a lot of trouble.
2. Dom
The reports don't lie. That's the thing about numbers. You can ignore them, you can bury them under justifications and maybes, but they sit there on the page and they say what they say. What these are saying is that someone is robbing me.
I spread the quarterly summaries across my desk and stare at them, as if looking harder will change what's there.
