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RainStorm

RainStorm

Titel: RainStorm Kostenlos Bücher Online Lesen
Autoren: Barry Eisler
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short escalator
    up to the main gaming hall. There it was, triple-distilled, a circular
    room of perhaps a thousand square meters, jammed tight
    with thick crowds shifting and sliding like platelets in a congealing
    bloodstream; high ceilings almost hidden above clouds of spot-lit,
    exhaled tobacco smoke; a cacophony of intermingled shouts of
    delight and cries of despair.
    Keiko wanted to play the slot machines, which was fine, freeing
    me as it did to roam the baccarat rooms in search of Belghazi. I
    gave her a roll of Hong Kong dollars and told her I'd be back in a
    few hours. More likely, if things went according to plan, I would
    go straight to the hotel. In which case, when we hooked up again,
    I'd tell her that I'd looked for her but couldn't find her, and had assumed
    that she'd gone back ahead of me.
    I set out for the stairs that would take me out of the low-stakes
    pit and up to the high rollers' rooms above. I passed rows of pensioners,
    each mechanically communing with a slot machine, and I
    thought of pigeons taught to peck a lever in exchange for a random
    reward. Next, several interchangeable roulette tables, the troupe
    hovering around them younger than the slot players they would
    eventually become, their jaws set, eyes shining in cheap ecstasy, lips
    moving in silent entreaty to the selfsame gods that even at the utterance
    of these foolish prayers continued to torment their worshipers
    with Olympian caprice.
    I bought chips with four hundred thousand Hong Kong dollars-- about sixty thousand U.S. I'd already squeezed Kanezaki for that
    much and more in "expenses"--the disbursements of which he had
    complained earlier. Then I wandered from room to room, never
    actually going inside, until I found what I was looking for.
    Outside the Lisboa's most exclusive VIP room, on the fifth
    floor, the highest in the casino, were the two bodyguards, flanking
    the entrance. Belghazi must have felt sufficiently safe inside not to
    bother himself arguing about the "no spectators" rule. And sure,
    the guards could effectively monitor the entrance this way, and deal
    appropriately with anyone they deemed suspicious.
    Unfortunately for them, I'm not a suspicious-looking guy. And
    their presence told me exactly where to go.
    I walked right past them and into the room. Only one of the
    three baccarat tables was in play. The rest were empty, save for their
    dealers, of course, who stood with postures as crisp as the starched
    collars of their white shirts, ready for the players who would surely
    drift in as the evening deepened into night; and for a few attractive
    Asian women whom I made as shills, there to attract passing high
    rollers with their bright smiles and plunging necklines.
    I glanced over at the active table. There they were, Belghazi and
    the blonde, both dressed tastefully and a bit more stylishly than the
    other players: Belghazi in a white shirt, open at the neck, and navy
    blazer; the blonde in a white silk blouse and black bolero. Most of
    the fourteen player slots were taken, but Belghazi and his girlfriend
    had empty seats to either side of them. They were the only foreigners
    in the room, and had probably taken the isolated seats so as
    not to offend anyone who might consider a foreigner's presence unlucky.
    I didn't have such qualms. Quite the contrary tonight, in fact.
    I'd been in this room before, and had seen bets of as high as one
    hundred thousand U.S. for a single hand. Some of the patrons here,
    I knew, might gamble all night, and on into the next night. A few
    of Belghazi's cohorts, their eyes glassy, their complexions pasty beneath
    the chandelier lighting, looked as though they might have
    done just that.
    The dealer turned over the player's hand and cried out, "Natural
    eight!" An excited murmur picked up around the table: eight
    was a "natural," and could be beaten only by a nine. The round
    would be decided based on the cards already on the table--nothing
    new could be dealt. With almost painful deliberation, the dealer
    next turned over the bank's cards, calling out, "Natural nine!" as he
    did so. There was an outburst of cheers and curses, the former by
    those who had bet on the bank's hand that round, the latter by
    those who had bet on the player's. As the dealer passed the cards
    across the table to the other two dealers, who began paying off the
    winning bets, many of the players dipped their heads and began
    marking up the pads the casino had provided, attempting to

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