They shoot cheaters at the Nile.

Blaine lost his mentor that way, a counter named Roarke. Didn't even have a chance to get ahead before the eye in the sky locked on, videotaping skills that took years to master. Then it was burly men and a room without windows. One between the eyes, tossed out with the trash.

Poor bastard deserved better.

Blaine pushed back the worry. He was dressed like a tourist, from his sandals to his Nile Casino T-shirt. Made sure to spill some beer from the paper cup down his chin when he took a sip. Sat by a loud slot machine called Pyramids and plunked in quarters, trying to look angry when he lost. Ugly American. Probably had a job in the auto industry.

When the coins ran out, he frowned, scratched himself, and made a show of looking around. He'd had an eye on a particular Blackjack dealer for the last two hours. Surfer guy, looked like a tan version of the Hulk, too young to have been in the business long.

Blaine wandered over to the table, pretended to think it over, then sat down and fished some cash out of his shorts. Three hundred to start.

He took it slow. Six deck shoe, sixteen tens per deck. Too many to keep track of mentally. But no need to. Every counter had his tally method.

Roarke had been one of the best. Subtle. See a ten, adjust the elbow. Ace, move the foot. Depending on his body position, Roarke knew if the shoe was heavy or light with face cards.

But the silver globes in the ceiling caught him just an hour into his game. Roarke was found a few days later in an alley, the offending foot and elbow smashed. Back of his head was missing, and no one bothered to look for it.

Blaine was a counter as well, but his tally couldn't be seen by the cameras. No tapping feet or odd posture. Pit boss could be taking a dump on his shoulder, wouldn't notice a thing.

He bet small, safe. Won a few, lost a few. Turned more cash into chips and bided time until he got a nice, fat shoe. Then it was payday.

Thirty minutes. Twelve thousand dollars.

He lost a grand, on purpose, before tipping the Hulk a hundred bucks and calling it quits for the night.

Blaine walked out of the casino happy, not needing to fake that particular emotion. He'd be off this tropic isle tomorrow. Back to his wife, laden with money. A memorable and profitable trip.

The goons grabbed him in the parking lot. Nile Security. Guys with scars who were paid to give them.

"What the hell's going on?"

No answer. They dragged Blaine back inside. Past the crowd. Down a hall. To a room without windows.

Panic stitched through his veins. He fought to stay in character. Hackles and indignation.

"I'm calling the police! I'm an American!"

The door slammed. A bare bulb hung from the ceiling, casting harsh shadows. The pit boss forced Blaine to his knees. Big guy, a walrus in Armani, breath like rotten meat.

"We shoot card counters here."

"What are you talking about? I won the money fair!"

The blow knocked Blaine off his feet. Concrete was sticky under his palms. Old stains.

"Camera caught it. Under the table."

The blood in Blaine's mouth contrasted sharply with his blanched face. The pit boss reached down, pulled at Blaine's shorts, his underwear.

Blaine stared down between his naked legs. The abacus was along his thigh, taped to the right of his testicles.

The pit boss ripped it off, a thousand curly hairs screaming.

"This belong in your shorts?"

"How did that get there?" Blaine tried for confused. "I swear, I borrowed this underwear. I have no idea how that got on me."

His explanation was met with a kick in the head. Blaine kissed the mottled floor, his vision a carousel. He flashed back to Roarke's funeral, closed casket, the promise he made. "I'll beat the Nile for you, old buddy."

Should have stuck with Vegas.

The pit boss dug a hand inside his sport coat. "Never saw a guy count cards with his dick before. Man with your talent, should have gone into porno."

The gun was cool against Blaine's temple.

"No one cheats the Nile."

Blaine's wife cried for seven weeks straight when she learned of his death.