SLEEPLESS IN SIN CITY

One Night on the Graveyard Shift

It's 3:55 AM, and the white ball spins as I approach a game where one mistake could cost the house $80,000 or cost me my job. An hour ago, I was asleep. Now I'm alert and ready for the mental precision required when a single spin might move over a million dollars in chips.

There's no easing into it. You're either alert or you're a liability. "Sorry, I'm not awake yet" doesn't fly when the stakes are this high.

Minutes earlier, I'd slipped through the service entrance, weaving between delivery trucks loaded with supplies for the hotel kitchens. The concrete floor vibrated under my feet from the rumbling engines, the air thick with diesel fumes and kitchen prep smells. One moment you're navigating the industrial maze that keeps the place running, the next you're in a world where a single hand could buy one of those trucks outside.

I cross the casino floor, moving from the chaotic noise and flashing lights past the two crystal peacocks that guard the high-limit entrance. Usually, stepping into the high-limit room feels like entering a cathedral of money, all hushed reverence and quiet tension. But tonight, the rarified air carries something different entirely. The room is buzzing with energy: champagne bottles, laughter, and the kind of electricity that only comes when someone's on a hot streak.

My route tonight takes me between three roulette wheels, starting with SR1 and SR2, the single-zero games. As a relief dealer, I typically rotate among three games. The routine is simple: twenty minutes on each game I relieve, followed by a twenty-minute break, then repeat the cycle throughout the shift.

SR1 is my first stop. The table is full, with a crowd stacked behind it, though only four players are actively betting.

At chair one, a well-dressed man in his mid-50s bets with $1,000 blue chips, about $40,000 stacked in front of him. Next to him in chairs two and three, a younger Asian couple is betting $100 chips, stacking four or five on individual numbers. Each has about five full stacks, each worth $10,000.

Chair four belongs to Mr. Big, a regular I've nicknamed for his wild bets and wilder energy. Confident and in his 20s, he's flanked by an entourage of admirers who hype his wins as he gambles with a mix of $1,000 and $5,000 chips. A quick glance tells me he's got around $300,000 on the felt. His cheer squad spills into nearby seats and extra chairs dragged up behind him, turning that end of the table into a champagne-fueled party zone. A bottle of Cristal chills in a stand beside him, and a forest of cocktail glasses, some full, some abandoned, lipstick prints on the rims, makes it feel more like a private club than a casino game. I stay alert, ready to catch any drink that threatens to spill.

My stint here is just twenty minutes before Tom, the primary dealer, returns from his break. The energy is high, but I stay sharp with each spin, watching both the crowd and the chips as much as the wheel.

Conversation drifts up from Mr. Big's crew. A few women mention being at XS Nightclub earlier. They're stunning; two look familiar from other high-rolling groups. Their confident, camera-ready vibe hints they might work at one of the local gentlemen's clubs. But it's past 4 AM now, and even the most polished professionalism has limits; one starts to nod off until Mr. Big tosses a pair of $1,000 chips her way, encouraging her to play. That perks her up. She trades them in for hundreds, places a few quick bets, then discreetly pockets the rest.

After a few spins, the table hits a lull, until I drop the marker on number 17.

Mr. Big had bet $1,000 straight up on it, plus another $1,000 on each of the four splits. Payout: $103,000. He flicks a $500 chip my way and tosses $100s to his entourage. Cheers, high-fives, and applause erupt across the table, drawing the attention of everyone in the room. For a brief moment, all eyes are on SR1, the spotlight firmly on Mr. Big, glowing with pride that says this win is secondary to being watched winning.