There was a variety of ways to fool the pit manager, and Kes was an ace at all of them. He joked and chatted to camouflage his concentration. He tipped the dealers lavishly and made rookie mistakes on purpose. Every now and then, he played the slots. He made sure to use only his peripheral vision to survey the cards on the table, and he always—always—walked away from winning too much in one go.

On top of that, Kes was a paragon of discretion. No one, not even the people he sympathized with, could tempt him to brag about his skill or how much he was winning. Professionals like him knew casinos used innocent-looking props to pick out and expose card counters.

Those strategies worked, but only for a time. Once the casino started seriously suspecting him, they sent him a “gentle” message. It could be just switching dealers in the middle of a deck or calling for a forced shuffle midshoe. If he continued to play—and to win—they’d offer him a voucher for a free meal at the restaurant and a night at the hotel just to get him away from the table.

At that point, he’d usually show the house that he got the point, enjoy his free meal, and leave town the next day. He rarely let things escalate to an invitation from the security chief for a private session. These sessions took place in a windowless basement room, lasted for several taxing hours, and ended in him being banned from the casino.

He hadn’t allowed such a thing to happen in the last three years.

That was, until his current stint at Casino Enghien-les-Bains, where he’d showed a cavalier disregard for one gentle message after another, refusing to “back off.”

And tonight, the inevitable happened.

Just as he was pocketing the two grand he’d won over the course of the evening, two massive individuals asked him to join their boss for a quick, private chat.

The next couple of hours were unpleasant, to say the least. A burly, mustached man—no doubt the head of security—and his two sidekicks took turns repeating the same questions, each round more aggressive than the previous one. Mustache would go first, then the bouncers, and then Mustache again.

On some level, Kes admired their work. The trio had a well-practiced teamwork thing going there, designed to intimidate geeky card counters into confessing their sins and begging for mercy. But Kes knew Mustache and his acolytes were questioning him just for the pleasure of watching a man break down. Confession or not, the verdict had already been pronounced, signed, and sealed: a permanent banishment from the casino.

Which meant his best option was to keep calm and recite Gypsy rhymes in his head.

“You see this telephone?” Mustache asked. “One call and the police will be here to arrest you.”

“Please.” Kes rolled his eyes. “We both know card counting is a perfectly legal activity.”

“So you did count?”

“Me? Never. We Gypsies suck at math.”

The man’s face grew flaming red, and various muscles on it began to twitch with suppressed rage. Kes imagined him in a Nazi uniform, yelling with a ridiculous German accent from bad war movies, Vee hef veys to make you tawk!

The image transformed his smirk into a grin, which sent Mustache over the tipping point.

He screamed at the top of his voice, “You son of a bitch! I’m gonna share your mug shot with every casino in the country! They’ll be able to spot you the moment you step in!”

Kes shrugged, unimpressed. He doubted the man would go to such lengths, and he doubted even more that a casino would want to spare its competitors the same loss it had suffered.

When they finally gave up and let him go, he hailed a cab and sank into the back seat, completely spent. The grueling questioning had exhausted him, but it wasn’t just that. He knew the casino would have outed him sooner or later, but he had hoped it would be later rather than sooner. Had he been more careful, he could’ve played in Enghien-les-Bains for at least two more weeks.

What was he supposed to do now? Pack up and leave? Or stay and lie to Amanda and his family?

Kes rubbed his temples. He had no more business in Paris. If he stayed on, he’d be spending money without a chance to make any. He’d be hanging out with Amanda, falling a little more for her with every passing day—and getting no closer to having her than he’d been on day one of their pastime companions deal.

Outside the cab window, the ugly northern suburbs began to give way to the majestic vistas of central Paris. Tastefully lit, the city shimmered and beckoned, looking every bit like its poster image and charming the brains out of anyone who dared glance at it.

It was truly a thing of beauty. Just like Amanda . . .

Maybe he should simply tell her the truth—that he could no longer play at the local casino and he had to move on to pastures nouveaux. Would she be sorry to hear the news? Would she change her mind about him or at least grant him a good-bye night?

He smirked. Knowing Amanda, she’d just shrug and say, “Godspeed. Send me a postcard.”

The cab slowed down and stopped a few meters from the Gypsy jazz club in the Latin Quarter where Marco was waiting for him. Kes paid the driver and stepped into the bar, immediately enveloped by a familiar sound.

Ah, so tonight was Reinhardt Night. Perfect.

Nothing could match the Manouche master’s virtuoso guitar when Kes needed cheering up. It never failed to lift him from the cage of his misery into a higher, airier place, where he lingered even after the music stopped. Cyril’s songs the other day had done the same thing.

Except that piece about a runaway curtain. That “experimental” little song had hit him with a sucker punch, stirring something repressed and painful in Kes’s soul. Something he preferred not to dwell on.

“Hey, pral, finally!” Marco greeted him with a hug. “I didn’t understand your confused texts about what held you at the casino.”

“I was questioned by the security team.”

“Shit. Did they kick you out?”

“Yep.”

“You’ll be leaving Paris, then?”

Kes delayed his reply to order a glass of wine and consider what to say.

“So?” Marco prompted.

“Soon.”

“The baptism is next week. It would make sense to stay with the clan until you go off to the States.” Marco gave him a soft look.

“Speaking of the baptism,” Kes said, eyes trained on his glass. “I’ll be bringing a friend along.”

“A friend?” Marco echoed, his voice tinged with irony.

“Yes, pral, a friend.” Kes looked up from his glass. “A female friend.”

“A gadji?”

Kes nodded.

“I have no problem with that, man, but your folks might.”

Kes shrugged. “I’m sure they’ll be civil. That’s all I’m asking for.”

“Are you dating her?” Marco’s voice had a weird edge to it.

Kes shook his head. “She’s just a friend. As I said.”

“So your plan to go to Las Vegas in a few weeks is still on, right?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Kes stared at his glass and then emptied it in one gulp. “I’ll leave Paris at the end of the month, spend a couple of weeks with the clan, and then off to Vegas.”

Marco nodded.

Was it relief Kes glimpsed in his eyes? No, it couldn’t be. Why would Marco feel relieved to be shipping off his best friend?

It didn’t make any sense.