Cyril Queck seemed to levitate as he glided through his deliberate stroll along the outskirts of the baccarat pit. Most surmised his eyes were closed, but the mystery would forever remain unsolved beneath those blackened shades. As he moved closer to the various baccarat tables, the dealers seated at those tables did their level best to stare straight ahead, avoiding any hint of their abounding curiosity. The entourage adopted Queck's identical pace, foot for foot, stride for stride, maintaining a holy silence throughout. Outside the baccarat pit, in the heart of the casino, a player whispered to his dealer: "What's he looking for?" The dealer whispered back, "He's not looking for anything. He gets vibrations from the tables. That's how he picks the one he wants to play at." "How long does he do that?" "It varies. Last time he was here, it took him two hours before he settled on one." "Two hours? Did he end up winning?" "Dropped four million," said the dealer with a grin. "Hell, he could have hand-built his own table and installed a vibrator in it for a lot less than that," the player whispered.
