The Ever-Hopeful feed coins, one after another, into kaleidoscopic machines as reels spin, click and ring. A croupier at one of the Blackjack tables scratches at her ear in a signal I know is used to signal a possible 'Counter'. At the roulette wheels, morons with more money than sense shove stacks of chips across the table.
Many of the punters look to be here for the show, peering over shoulders, living vicariously through the winners, indulging in a little schadenfreude with the losers. But I can see their faces. They're no threat. Others hunch over tables, faces huddled anonymously into clutched cards
But by the time I've reached the rear of the hall, I've not spotted anything untoward. Glancing up to Caproni's mezzanine office of glass and brass and upholstered leather, one of Decker's men raises palms to me, shaking his head.