Next it was the old man’s turn, down at third base, the last chair at the table. It had just been Hailey and the man for the past hour, because it was so goddamn late and the middle of the week, and because the limits in this particular corner of this particular casino were way too high for its zip code. Hailey had no idea how the man could afford a hundred-dollar minimum; from his clogs to his resort-wear linen suit, the man’s look screamed pension. Then again, Hailey knew better than most—looks could be pretty deceiving. She’d been using her looks to deceive for a really long time. And at the moment, she was about to deceive her way into a tidy little fortune.

The dealer wasn’t paying attention, and the pit boss—gnarled, mildly overweight, belly pushing precariously against the buttons of his uniform as he chatted up a cocktail waitress on the other side of the blackjack pit—was otherwise engaged, so Hailey let her glance linger a little longer across the table. The brightly colored metropolis of chips spread out across the felt nearest to her was a thing of pure beauty, and judging from the dealer’s revealed card—a six, a wonderful, incredible, palpably sexy six—things were about to get even better. Hailey had eight thousand dollars behind her four hands, another six thousand in yellow chips, bananas, already safe next to her drink, a light brown mixture in a scotch glass that smelled like apple juice if you got close enough. Because, in truth, it was apple juice.

Looks, again, deceiving.

But moving her eyes from the table to the surrounding casino, Hailey knew she had nothing to feel guilty about. The entire place—this entire industry—was built on sleight of hand. The table gaming room was vast and very beige, other than the felts; beige, from the tables themselves to the thick carpeting to the curtained walls. In stark contrast, there were velvety red chandeliers hanging from the high ceiling—matching the crimson tide that blanketed every inch of the nearby slots parlor, and soft, soothing music pumping in from speakers hidden somewhere in the corners. The air was cool and, if rumors held true, slightly over-oxygenated. And everything smelled slightly floral. To be sure, the place was rife with flowers. A seizure-inducing botanical excess, from the fifty-five thousand different blooms spanning the walkways out front of the lavish casino’s entrance, to the four thousand potted plants spread through the gaming areas and hotel rooms, to the multitude more intertwined in the working carousel that dominated the foyer. But the scent in the air didn’t come primarily from the colorful plants, it was manufactured by teams of aroma therapists and pumped in along with the oxygen. Everything, from the decor to the lighting to the air, was designed, by people much less interested in art than commerce.