Chapter One
It was ten minutes past three in the morning, and Kevin Lewis looked like he wasabout to pass out. There were three empty martini glasses on the table in frontof him, and he was leaning forward on both elbows, his gaze focused on hiscards. The dealer was still feigning patience, in deference to the pile ofpurple chips in front of the martini glasses. But the other players werebeginning to get restless. They wanted the kid to make his bet already - orpack it in, grab the ratty duffel bag under his chair, and head back to Boston.Hell, hadn't he won enough? What was a college senior going to do with thirtythousand dollars?
The dealer, sensing the mood at the table, finally tapped the blackjack shoe."It's up to you, Kevin. You've had a hell of a run. Are you in for anotherround?"
Kevin tried to hide his trembling hands. Truth be told, his name wasn't reallyKevin. And he wasn't even slightly drunk. The red splotches on his cheeks hadbeen painted on in his hotel ro
Chapter One
It was ten minutes past three in the morning, and Kevin Lewis looked like he wasabout to pass out. There were three empty martini glasses on the table in frontof him, and he was leaning forward on both elbows, his gaze focused on hiscards. The dealer was still feigning patience, in deference to the pile ofpurple chips in front of the martini glasses. But the other players werebeginning to get restless. They wanted the kid to make his bet already - orpack it in, grab the ratty duffel bag under his chair, and head back to Boston.Hell, hadn't he won enough? What was a college senior going to do with thirtythousand dollars?
The dealer, sensing the mood at the table, finally tapped the blackjack shoe."It's up to you, Kevin. You've had a hell of a run. Are you in for anotherround?"
Kevin tried to hide his trembling hands. Truth be told, his name wasn't reallyKevin. And he wasn't even slightly drunk. The red splotches on his cheeks hadbeen painted on in his hotel room. And though thirty thousand dollars in chipswas enough to make his hands shake, it wasn't something that would impress thepeople who really knew him. They'd be much more interested in the ratty duffelbag beneath his chair.
Kevin breathed deeply, calming himself. He'd done this a hundred times, andthere was no reason to think that tonight would be any different.
He reached for three five-hundred-dollar chips, then glanced around, pretendingto look for the cocktail waitress. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw hisSpotter. Red-haired, pretty, wearing a low-cut blouse and too much makeup.Nobody would have guessed she was a former MIT mechanical-engineering major andan honors student at Harvard Business School. She was close enough to see thetable but far enough away not to draw any suspicion. Kevin caught her gaze, thenwaited for her signal. A bent right arm would tell him to double his bet. Botharms folded and he'd push most of his chips into the betting circle. Arms flatat her sides and he'd drop down to the lowest possible bet.
But she didn't do any of these things. Instead, she ran her right hand throughher hair.
Kevin stared at her, making sure he had read her right. Then he quickly startedto gather his chips.
"That's it for me," he said to the table, slurring his words. "Should haveskipped that last martini."
Inside, he was on fire. He glanced at his Spotter again. Her hand was still deepin her red hair. Christ. In six months, Kevin had never seen a Spotter dothat before. The signal had nothing to do with the deck, nothing to do with theprecise running count that had won him thirty thousand dollars in under an hour.
A hand in the hair meant only one thing. Get out. Get moving. Now.
Kevin slung the duffel bag over his shoulder and jammed the purple chips intohis pockets.
The dealer was watching him carefully. "You sure you don't want me to color up?"
Maybe the man sensed that something wasn't right. Kevin was about to toss him atip when he caught sight of the suits. Three of them, coming around the nearestcraps table. Big, burly men with narrow eyes. No time for niceties.
"That's okay," Kevin said, backing away from the table. "I like the way theyjiggle around in my pants."
He turned and darted through the casino. He knew they were watching him fromabove - the Eyes in the Sky. But he doubted they would make a scene. They werejust trying to protect their money. Still, he didn't want to take any chances.If the suits caught up to him - well, everyone had heard the stories. Backrooms. Intimidation tactics. Sometimes even violence. No matter how manymakeovers the town got, deep down, this was still Vegas.
Tonight Kevin was lucky. He made it outside without incident, blending into theever-present flow of tourists on the brightly lit Strip. A minute later, he wassitting on a bench at a neon-drenched cabstand across the street. The duffel bagwas on his lap.
The redhead from inside dropped onto the bench next to him, lighting herself acigarette. Her hands were shaking. "That was too fucking close. They camestraight out of the elevators. They must have been upstairs watching the wholetime."
Kevin nodded. He was breathing hard. His chest was soaked in sweat. There was nobetter feeling in the world.
"Think we should quit for the night?" the girl asked.
Kevin smiled at her.
"Let's try the Stardust. My face is still good there."
He put both hands on the duffel bag, feeling the stacks of bills inside. Alittle over one million dollars, all in hundreds: Kevin's bankroll, partiallyfinanced by the shadowy investors who recruited him six months before. They hadtrained him in mock casinos set up in ratty apartments, abandoned warehouses,even MIT classrooms. Then they had set him loose on the neon Strip.
Most of his friends were back at school - taking tests, drinking beer, arguingabout the Red Sox. He was in Las Vegas, living the high life on a milliondollars of someone else's money. Sooner or later, it might all come crashingdown. But Kevin didn't really care.
He hadn't invented the System. He was just one of the lucky few smart enoughpull it off...
Continues...
Excerpted from Bringing Down the Houseby Ben Mezrich Copyright © 2003 by Ben Mezrich. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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