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toward a bustling little town, went just past it to the Indian reservation and the sprawling Casa Grande Casino. Mahanani parked and walked in the front door, and at once a man went into step beside him. Mahanani knew him; he was what the casino called a “counselor.”
    â€œHey Jack, how’s it going, man?”
    â€œIn and out, same-oh, same-oh.”
    â€œHow are you treating our car?”
    â€œYeah, the Buick is riding good. I’m keeping up the tire pressure and getting ready for an oil change. I appreciate the lease you gave me on it, Harley, for a dollar a year.” Harley was five ten, all Mesa Grande Indian, with stylish cut black hair, a sparse little beard, and a slight 140-pound body. His main job seemed to be to help people who spent too much at the casino.
    â€œLet me buy you a drink, Jack. We need to talk. Hey, if you weren’t a SEAL, I’d have dusted you out of here weeks ago. Yeah, you had a string of bad luck, but what can I say? I got a five-thousand-dollar credit for you now, which is on my tab, and that’s as far as it’s going.”
    They went into one of the bars in the casino, and Jack felt the sweat begin on his forehead. His armpits were already wet. Damn, he just needed a little luck. Twenty-one, the blackjack table, was the best way a player could beat the house. All the rest of the games and the machines were fixed with a definite house advantage. If he could just read the cards a little better.
    â€œJack, you aren’t listening to me. You’re into us for five thousand, we have the pink slip to your Buick, and can claimit at any time. If you want to put that five thousand on your MasterCard, I can get you back to the tables.”
    â€œYou know I don’t have a credit card.” He hesitated, then pulled out his wallet. “But I do have three hundred dollars. You have any objection to a man spending his own money?”
    â€œHell, man, I should take it on account. If my boss knew you had that scratch, I’d be in a whole pot of trouble.”
    â€œThe Buick is worth twice what I owe you. You want to sell it and give me the extra cash?”
    â€œHey, man, no worry there. We want to keep you happy. So go ahead. Try the table. Maybe it’ll be good to you tonight.”
    â€œNo lie? I can just go and play?”
    â€œThat’s the business we’re in, Jack. Go on. Have a blast.”
    Mahanani finished the drink, bought three hundred in chips, and went to his favorite blackjack table. He watched the play, mentally bet three times, and won each time. A player left the horseshoe and he moved in.
    A familiar calm settled over him. Yeah, this was it, the thinking man’s way to gamble. If you played the odds right and could remember just a few cards. He saw the four decks the dealer was using and frowned. Nobody could count cards with four decks. He’d go with logic and the odds. Yes.
    The first round he had a jack for a hole card, and came up with an eight. He stayed. The dealer knew he had eighteen or nineteen. The dealer showed seventeen. Two players blew over the twenty-one limit, and two stayed. The dealer checked the cards, then drew a card. He had to hit seventeen. He pulled out a three of diamonds.
    â€œPay twenty-one, who has twenty-one?” he asked in a singsong voice that Mahanani tried not to let irritate him. He paid one player and dealt the cards again. It was only a ten-dollar chip. He had deliberately bought only tens to help him conserve.
    The second round he won, and was even. Then he lost four times in a row. After a half hour of playing, he was down a hundred dollars. He should quit and leave. Have a good dinner down in San Diego and take in that action movie he’d heard a lot about.
    He kept playing. Logic, damnit, he told himself. You don’thit seventeen when the house shows a max of sixteen. Stupid. He drew a five and broke. Get with it.
    An hour later he was cleaned out. He saw