Friday night in the Tropicana Casino. An elderly woman sits in a wheelchair in front of a slot machine, a tube runs out of her nose into an oxygen tank strapped to her back, and she coughs as the reels spin. Bikini-clad college girls drinking margaritas walk past her and step carefully over the body of a prostrate man and out into the 90° spring heat. Meanwhile, down the road, behind a wall of glass, six men sit swapping conversation and millions of dollars in a nightly ritual. And in the middle of the table, a young guy in an open-necked blue shirt smiles warmly as his eyes flit between the table action and a Lakers game on the plasma screen in the corner.