Blackjackwasn’t supposed to be boring.
Shelooked at Ryan, her pit boss, a slim man in his fifties who’d workedVegas casinos his whole life. He’d seen it all, and he was on hisradio. Good. Security could review the video and spot whatever this guywas doing. Palming cards, probably—though she couldn’t guess how he wasmanaging it.
Shewas about to deal the next hand when the man in question looked at her,looked at Ryan, then scooped his chips up, putting stack after stack inhis jacket pockets, then walked away from the table, wearing a small,satisfied grin.
Hedidn’t leave a tip. Even the losers left tips.
“Right.He’s gone, probably heading for the cashiers. Thanks.” Ryan put hisradio down.
“Well?”Julie asked.
“Theycan’t find anything to nail him with, but they’ll keep an eye on him,”Ryan said. He was frowning, and seemed suddenly worn under the casino’slights.
“He’sgot to be doing something, if we could just spot it.”
“Never mind,Julie. Get back to your game.”
Hewas right. Not her problem.
Cardsslipped under her fingers and across the felt like water. The remainingplayers won and lost at exactly the rate they should, and she collectedmore chips than she gave out. She could tell when her shift was closeto ending by the ache that entered her lower back from standing. Justanother half hour and Ryan would close out her table, and she couldleave. Run to the store, drag herself home, cobble together a meal thatwouldn’t taste quite right because she was eating it at midnight, butthat was dinnertime when she worked this shift. Take a shower, watch ahalf hour of bad TV and finally, finally fall asleep. Wake up late inthe morning and do it all again.
Thatwas her life. As predictable as house odds.
There’sa short film, a test of sorts. The caption at the start asks you towatch the group of people throwing balls to one another, and count thenumber of times the people wearing white pass the ball. You watch thefilm and concentrate very hard on the players wearing white. At theend, the film asks, how many times did people wearing white pass theball? Then it asks, Did you see the gorilla?
Hardlyanyone does.
Untilthey watch the film a second time, people refuse to believe a gorillaever appeared at all. They completely failed to see the person in thegorilla suit walk slowly into the middle of the frame, among theball-throwers, shake its fists, and walk back out.
This,Odysseus Grant knows, is a certain kind of magic.
Casinosuse the same principles of misdirection. Free drinks keep people at thetables, where they will spend more than they ever would have on rum andCokes. But they’re happy to get the free drinks, and so they stay andgamble.
Theythink they can beat the house at blackjack because they have a system.Let them think it. Let them believe in magic, just a little.
Butwhen another variable enters the game—not luck, not chance, not skill,not subterfuge—it sends out ripples, tiny, subtle ripples that mostpeople would never notice because they’re focused on their own world:tracking their cards, drinking free drinks, counting people in whiteshirts throwing balls. But sometimes, someone—like OdysseusGrant—notices. And he pulls up a chair at the table to watch.
Thenext night, it was a housewife in a floral print dress, lumpy brownhandbag, and overpermed hair. Another excruciating stereotype.Another impossible run of luck. Julie resisted an urge to glance at thecameras in their bubble housings overhead. She hoped they were gettingthis.
Thewoman was even following the same pattern—push a stack of chipsforward, hit no matter how unlikely or counterintuitive, and win. Shehad five grand sitting in front of her.
Oneother player sat at the table, and he seemed not to notice thespectacle beside him. He was in his thirties, craggy-looking, crinklesaround his eyes, a serious frown pulling at his lips. He wore a whitetuxedo shirt without jacket or bow tie, which meant he was probably alocal, someone who worked the tourist trade on the Strip. Maybe abartender or a limo driver? He did look familiar, now that she thoughtabout it, but Julie couldn’t place where she might have seen him. Heseemed to be killing time, making minimum bets, playing conservatively.Every now and then he’d make a big bet, a hundred ortwo hundred, but his instincts were terrible, and he never won. Hisstack of chips, not large to begin with, was dwindling. When he finallyran out, Julie would be sorry to see him go, because she’d be alonewith the strange housewife.
Thewoman kept winning.
Juliesignaled to Ryan, who got on the phone with security. They watched, butonce again, couldn’t find anything. Unless she was spotted palmingcards, the woman wasn’t breaking any rules. Obviously, some kind ofring was going on. Two unlikely players winning in exactly the samepattern—security would record their pictures, watch for them, and mightbar them from the casino. But if the ring sent a different person inevery time, security would never be able to catch them, or even figureout how they were doing it.
Noneof it made sense.
Theman in the tuxedo shirt reached into his pocket, maybe fumbling forcash or extra chips. Whatever he drew out was small enough to cup inhis fist. He brought his hand to his face, uncurled his fingers, andblew across his palm, toward the woman sitting next to him.
Shevanished, only for a heartbeat, flickering in and out of sight like theimage on a staticky TV. Julie figured she’d blinked or that somethingwas wrong with her eyes. She was working too hard, getting too tired,something. But the woman—she stared hard at the stone-faced man, thenscooped her chips into her oversized handbag, rushing so that a fewfell on the floor around her, and she didn’t even notice. Hugging thebag to her chest, she fled.
Stillno tip, unless you counted what she dropped.
Theman rose to follow her. Julie reached across the table and grabbed hisarm.
“Whatjust happened?” she demanded.
Theman regarded her with icy blue eyes. “You saw that?” His tone wascurious, scientific almost.
“It’smy table, of course I saw it,” she said.
“And you see everything thatgoes on here?”
“I’mgood at my job.”
“Thecameras won’t even pick up what I did,” he said, nodding to the ceiling.
“Whatyou did? Then it did
