We don't know where they come from, or why, but they are always here. Day after day, the same faces fill up chairs in this dark room. We don't know where the money comes from and, in most cases, we don't want to know, but it comes and comes and so do they. Hours will pass and we will stand silent witness to this strange dance of colored circles, green felt, tragedy and fulfillment, like eyes peeking from behind a wall portrait in a 1940s horror film.

Some of the faces I will see out and about, and while I will recognize them, they will never recognize me. I'm just a black ball on the ceiling spying on the blackjack table. On a Monday afternoon when they're supposed to be stuck at the office, they'll really be here with me, but I'll never tell. We never do. Pass judgment? Hey, I just work here. Pull up a chair, sit down, lay your money on the table and see what lady luck has in store for you. We'll park your car for you, feed you, comp you, give you a nice hotel to sleep in — all you have to do is keep playing.

Today, I will spend more time with Richard than I've spent with a friend or loved one in weeks. He will sit, much as I am sitting now, beginning with a fevered flourish of crisp bills onto the table. He and I both know that he has a long way back to zero. But he is more optimistic of his chances than I am. Or is he? He hands his player's card to our pit boss, and I instantly know everything I could ever hope to know about Richard. His losses, his nice house in the hills, how much money he's lost, his bankruptcy in 2002, where he is in the building, you name it. This man cannot possibly be 36 years old. His hair is graying, his hands are tense and fine lines collect around his mouth and eyes, suggesting that he's playing against more than just the dealer. He may be married, but it certainly isn't to the wife listed in his personal information. Today, Richard is in the arms of his true love, and it isn't going to be a cheap date.

The cards come, the cards go. Stacks of black, then yellow, then gone. Off goes Richard, but he isn't angry. He lost what I make in a year today, but inside of his mind, a million redirections and justifications ease the anxiety and he comforts himself on his walk from the pit. Can't win 'em all.

Richard will go home to his family, now, but that part I don't have to watch. He'll be here again, tomorrow, and probably the next day and the day after that. The terminal players, those who can't be rehabilitated and will probably die at a table or slumped over a slot machine, tend to operate in cycles. The holidays are typically the worse. Lonely people play big and lose big. They keep playing until someone checks the bank balance, offers a teary ultimatum and then it's off to Gambler's Anonymous. The support groups typically keep them away for a month, but they always come back for the action of the game. Of course, you're not going to get the kind of action we see here anywhere else. They say that 2.9 percent of adults in the United States are “problem” gamblers, but problems come in a lot of different sizes. An average addict is in the hole $55,000 to $90,000, but that's a spit in the bucket to the regulars. Try $90,000 a month. We hear the whispers: He won't talk about what he does. He's here every day. He doesn't make this much money. I mean, who does? Like we don't know that the money isn't clean. The deepest pockets out here have dirty hands in them, and Richard is no exception. His habit will land him in the ground or in prison — the two most successful and common cures for a gambling addiction.

We're not going to ask you where you got the money. We will always pretend to be impressed and, as long as your check clears, you'll have smiles and handshakes all around. Worried faces will betray certain secrets, stories in the news, money mysteriously vanishing from places it shouldn't, but they didn't hear it from us, of that you can be sure. Any wrongs committed under our watchful eyes are open to negotiation, depending on just how many times you've graced these tables. Why would we bite your gentle hand when it feeds us so well? Your vice supplies my salary. The last thing I'm going to do is judge you. I glance at the clock and see that it's already too late to call her. I'll just say I was too busy, again.

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