Deal

272.

Every gambler worth her weight knows when to quit. It is an essential skill, a sixth sense, aware of that enough is enough and it's time to pack the crazy bones and head home. Before disaster strikes. Before all the winnings evaporate into the ionosphere like water turning to steam. I sit in my makeshift gymnasium after a particularly gnarly therapy session with Mustang, who, although realizing the anguish it creates, understands its necessity. Accelerated convalescence, she says, suck it up. Perhaps in some form of telepathic projection I envision myself in Davis' cleats - and I can't shake the feeling, how they say in Italian, 'non sfidare la fortuna - don't press your luck - is a perfect and literal translation of the current situation.

I am also a touch irritated at myself for my outlandish - although well intentioned - breech of protocol by using Davis' code name in a tactical communication. That's where it starts, I school myself, the details, the small stuff, somebody along the chain gets sloppy and before you can say 'whose there?' the knock knock is at your door. These guys, the bad guys, the guys that want to exterminate us like ticks, are good. We have to simply be better, every way and all the time.

Davis and Saunders as Sharkey and Bess show up ten minutes early for the scheduled 1000 meeting with Alexander Goldson, the new CEO of the most powerful gaming syndicate in Vegas. Meaning, of course, that the Vegas borders extend from California to Connecticut, Minnesota to New Mexico. And all point spreads between. Sharkey is an international con-man disguised as a flamboyant high roller whose salesmanship and bravado will attempt to reinstate an arrangement made, and agreed to, by his predecessor. The stakes are astronomical and the risk slight - for the consortium whose only requirement is to fund the staging of the operation, somewhere in the neighborhood of five large, Sharkey brazenly estimates. "Plus the pot has just increased significantly with our skillful internal change of personnel, Mr. Big out and the brains behind the computer program guaranteed to wrap the green bow of the present, in," he tells Goldson and six of his legal consultants and a pair of security specialists. Saunders sits close to his right, looking every bit the modern and sophisticated femme fatale, sporting a lapel diamond the dazzling glimmer of which she blinds each of the gentlemen seated around the polished Brazilian teak oval slab of greed.

"Continue," Goldson instructs.

His continuation of, "as a demonstration of our reach - and its potential - on Sunday we will bankrupt your most profitable operation," creates the exact response he was seeking, so he pushes it into the dramatic unknown, risking the entire operation with one preposterous prediction, "Sunday's game will transfer five million dollars from your cashier's cage to our pocket in the Luxor Sports Book."

"You make that boast without knowing the outcome?" Goldson hisses.

"I do. Remember this is proof of concept, so we - as you- need to keep it hush-hush. We fully intend on reimbursing you and providing the algorithm upon completion of the successful test. It was written by the same person who designed the Big Board application as well - our diamond in the rough."

Under normal circumstances, any experienced executive would ask for a time-out to convene with counsel, but this is Goldson's first day at the job of CEO, and he wants the glory commensurate with his shiny new star.

"You recognize the risk here, do you not?" he asks.

"Fully. We are in the business of rolling the dice, are we not?" Sharkey, bordering on excessive flippancy, responds with a like-for-like tit-for-tat answer.

Goldson glares at Sharkey with a pair of hazel daggers, two razor-sharp shivs, one looking for vengeance and the other for domination. Bess observes the mano a mano confrontation with emotionless interest, Sharkey cool as a cucumber, his smile more inviting than threatening. Goldson scratches his chin and glances at his lead counsel so fast that a slow motion camera would barely catch it. One more massage of chin, stare intact, with a deep contemplative breath he speaks:

"Deal."