Wynn baccarat room. 2 a.m.
50-something white guy in a navy jacket. Looked like he had money. Except the shirt was too tight around the neck — already bankrupt from the collar up.
The weird part was his eyes.
He wasn’t looking at the cards.
He was looking at the entrance.
His phone.
The host.
The cage.
Back to his phone.
Those weren’t casino eyes.
Those were eyes looking for the insurance policy while the house is on fire.
Started with 5k.
Lost. Went to 10k.
Lost again. Went to 20k.
No anger. No drinking. Just peeling the label off his water bottle like it owed him money.
At one point I caught a glimpse of his phone screen.
“vendor payment”
Midnight baccarat and you’re looking at vendor payments. Not a good sign.
A little later he told the host, “Another hundred.”
Said it casually. Fingers were shaking. He was still carefully aligning his chips like it mattered.
Guy’s probably burning the whole company and he’s still making sure the chips are straight. Like folding napkins on a sinking ship.
He stepped outside to make a call. I heard a little.
“Don’t move it yet.”
“Wait until I call.”
“I know what account.”
I walked away.
Getting too close to another man’s hell in Vegas usually ends with your own bill in the mail.
Saw him again around 5 a.m. in the lobby.
Tumi bag. Shirt stuck to his back with sweat. Eyes still running.
On the phone he said, “I’ll fix it today.”
Fix it.
Sure.
He wasn’t fixing anything.
He was just delaying the fire.