From the sound of the cheers, I might be the only one who forgot to bet the field. All I’m left with is a puny bet on Mickey and I have no chance of recouping my losses, unless one of my other "horses" can nab the final seat.

Nine? Four people stand up waving their cards.

Not so fast. There’s only one seat left.

We play a tiebreaker. I spread a deck of cards on the table. Now all these four guys have to do–each with at least a full bottle of champagne in his belly–is memorize the whole deck in 30 seconds. After wobbling and staring for half a minute, they turn their backs on the table.

Mr. Lucky and Pete the Griper go out on the ninth card. Jake Smallwood falters on the 16th. Bradley Petersen, one of the more seasoned imbibers in attendance, slurs something that sounds close enough to "Jack" for me, so I declare him the winner of the last coveted seat. It’s a good result: I’m the only one who bet on him to win.
The table is set and it’s a fearsome and formidable foursome. The players, going counter clockwise from third base are:

Cassie: Yeah, she’s Ivy League, with the Greeks, and makes a great living at the game, but that’s about it. The fact that she’s a woman makes her the big underdog. (You’ll understand why when you see what it takes to win.) Her, I feel a little sorry for.

Mickey Rosa: A 40-something MIT graduate in computer science, he’s the black sheep of a highly educated family for walking away from Microsoft in the early ’80s. It’s rumored that he’d be sitting on $100 million had he stuck around, but it wouldn’t have mattered anyway. Although he’s got millions, he lives a Spartan life and he’s famous for turning down gourmet comps in favor of the buffet, just so he won’t have to leave a tip. Him, I don’t understand.

Moray Eel: Scary smart, this guy got his chops in Reno while a math major at Cal Berkeley. Shunned by his family when he went to the "dark side," he’s only 30, but he’s been around the planet a half-dozen times, leaving every port with more money than he showed up with. He, too, has a wheelbarrow full of every nickel he ever made, along with a crummy car and a few yard sale possessions. Janitors in Las Vegas live better than he does. He’ll do anything to save a buck and even weaseled his way into the party empty-handed. Him, I’m rooting against–hard.

Bradley Petersen: The only sportin’ man at the table. Pushing 40, he’s been in more exotic locales (geographic and otherwise) than the rest of the table combined. An accounting major at Seton Hall, he dropped out early to pursue a life of hedonism, courtesy of the casinos. By any measure, he’s a success. Famous for his long hair and tight pants, he squanders almost everything he makes on good times and good friends, but still manages to keep an extra half-million sitting around, just in case a game breaks out. Unlike the others at the table, his momma thinks he’s the greatest and he takes her around the world on his gambling ventures. Him, I hope he wins.

The game goes off in tournament format, with blind bets moving around the table. We play 14 different games, sudden death. The first challenge is Card counting.

I remove a card from four single decks. Each player has to count one down in 15 seconds; they get even money if they know the remaining card. First one finished gets a bonus. Mickey takes two seconds. He’s just guessing, but he’s concluded that the bonus pays sufficiently higher than the odds to warrant taking the chance. He’s wrong. The Eel bets half his bankroll and draws first blood.