Cyril Queck seemed to levitate as he glided through his deliberate
stroll along the outskirts of the baccarat pit. Most surmised his
eyes were closed, but the mystery would forever remain unsolved
beneath those blackened shades. As he moved closer to the various
baccarat tables, the dealers seated at those tables did their level
best to stare straight ahead, avoiding any hint of their abounding
curiosity. The entourage adopted Queck's identical pace, foot for
foot, stride for stride, maintaining a holy silence throughout.
Outside the baccarat pit, in the heart of the casino, a player
whispered to his dealer: What's he looking for? The dealer
whispered back, He's not looking for anything. He gets vibrations
from the tables. That's how he picks the one he wants to play at.
How long does he do that? It varies. Last time he was here, it took
him two hours before he settled on one. Two hours? Did he end up
winning? Dropped four million, said the dealer with a grin. Hell,
he could have hand-built his own table and installed a vibrator in
it for a lot less than that, the player whispered.
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