RainStorm

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 turned
    his back. No, he had only been reflexively probing, firing into the
    tree line, checking to see whether he'd hit anything and whether
    anyone fired back.
    The banker handed the first card to the dealer. As he did so, I
    leaned forward and crossed my hands, my right fingers settling
    across the Traser P5900 I was wearing on my left wrist. On the underside
    of the watch was a thumbnail-sized squib containing a little
    cocktail, one unlikely to be served by the casino's bar girls. The
    concoction in question consisted primarily of staphylococcus
    aureus--a rapid-onset food poisoning pathogen--and chloral hydrate,
    a compound that causes nausea, disorientation, and unconsciousness
    within one to four hours. The first would get Belghazi
    back to the hotel in a hurry. The second would ensure that he slept
    soundly, if not terribly comfortably, when he got there. I eased the
    squib free and held it at the junction of my right middle and forefinger.
    I'd wait for the right moment--one of Belghazi's head-turns,
    or a big win or loss for one of the players, or some other
    distraction--and then make my move.
    I realized there was an important side benefit to my plan: the
    symptoms of staph infection are so acute, and set in so quickly, that
    there was a good chance Belghazi would return to the hotel room
    without, or at least ahead of, the blonde. And, even if she came
    back with or only shortly behind him, he might very well send her
    away for a while, so he could endure the effects of his rebelling
    stomach in privacy.
    I won the first round. So far so good: I didn't know how long
    this would take, and, even with baccarat's favorable odds and
    leisurely pace of play, Kanezaki's money wouldn't hold out forever.
    A pretty attendant came by. Belghazi ordered a tonic water. At
    fifty thousand a hand, I supposed he wanted to exercise a little alcohol
    discipline. I followed suit.
    The blonde leaned toward Belghazi and said, "Je vais essayer les
    tables de des.Je serai de retour bientot." I'm going to try the craps tables.
    I'll be back in a little while. She got up and left.
    Perfect. I stole a glance, just a quick one, the kind Belghazi
    would find neither surprising nor disrespectful. She was wearing a
    black skirt to match the bolero. Her legs were stunning, and she
    walked with the unpretentious confidence of someone who long
    ago came to understand that she is beautiful and today finds the fact
    neither remarkable nor worthy of flaunting.
    Belghazi doubled his