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A man in swim shorts brags about the costly signature cocktails he had at the XS club.“I drove a Lamborghini Gallardo today,” says a fraternity guy.He brings up the sixty thousand pounds of shrimp eaten every day in the city.“It’s a shit show, but it’s a fun shit show,” he jokes. Paul nods, swiftly puts the bill in his pocket and writes down the man’s room number. The man nods and walks back to the elevators as if nothing happened.“One time we had to hire a whole team to clean his suite. Like, overturned mattresses, upside-down chairs, and glitter, glitter everywhere.God, the glitter.” Keng Joo always books the same 2,000-square-foot, ,000-a-night penthouse on the top floor.
More people are huddling around the table now, closer to the action, pushing against one another until there are no distinct bodies anymore but rather a single compacted entity made of suits and cleavages and spilled glasses, a wordless human volcano ready to erupt under the wary watch of the floor muscle, the entire casino going silent as the wheel spins and spins and spins.
“Black eleven,” the croupier announces as the ball stops in a jolt. A deafening cry of victory immediately surges from the crowd’s collective throat.
Strangers shout at the top of their lungs until their lungs are shut out of air.
The management is happy to oblige, regularly comping him free services like a private airport hangar for his Gulfstream G450, or a Bentley Mulsanne every time he needs to go out.
This morning, Keng Joo was treated to an assortment of Hermès shaving creams and foams in his private barber room.
I gave up counting his losses after the first million, but his luck at roulette probably has him slightly ahead at last. Impervious to the dealer’s cues to stand on a hard 17, his friend forfeits about four grand in the span of a minute.