Excelent Story about BlackJack MIT Team. Worth of being adapted by Film Industry if isn´t there one already. Please let me know it!


Complete Article From Wired Magazine - Hacking Las Vegas

"The Player

Rock music blares in my ears as I trail Lewis through the Hard Rock casino. The Hard Rock isn’t like any other gambling den in Nevada: It’s cool, it’s hip, it’s more LA than Vegas, all done up in wood tones and plush velvet. Loud and young and in-your-face, from the Harley-Davidson in the lobby to the Playboy-style grotto out back, it’s the ultimate Friday night scene. Lorded over by beautiful blond waitresses in black miniskirts and dark stockings, the crowd tends toward models, actresses, and A-list celebrities, all vying for one another’s attention.

I wade through — and in truth, at the moment I fit right in. My hair is slicked back. My shirt is open two buttons at the neck. A borrowed charcoal-colored Armani jacket drapes over my shoulders like a cape. Inside, I am Jell-O, but I don’t let it show. I try to mimic the way Lewis moves through the casino. I copy his swagger, walking in long strides as if my cock runs halfway down my leg. Like the casino itself, I am cool, I am hip. I pretend I am rich enough to be strolling toward the high-stakes blackjack pit, rich enough to smile at the dealers and wink at the cocktail waitresses. Tonight, I’m a player.

“This looks good,” Lewis says, stopping at a table in a corner of the pit. He drops onto one of the stools, gesturing for me to sit next to him. I look at the little plastic card on the felt, and see that the minimum bet is $300. I cough, breaking character, and Lewis smiles.

“Maybe I’ll spot you the first few hands.”

He pulls out a roll of $100 bills — cash that I had smuggled through airport security a week earlier — and drops it onto the felt in front of me. I’m no Rain Man, but I can count along with the dealer. Twenty thousand dollars.

“Kevin …“

He waves me silent, as the dealer finishes shuffling the deck and stacks the cards in the plastic shoe. A cocktail waitress brings us drinks — matching glasses of Jack Daniel’s, easy on the ice — and we each exchange a few thousand dollars for chips, leaving $300 in our respective betting circles. The cards start to come out, and I settle into the game, playing basic strategy like Lewis has taught me.

Ten minutes pass in near silence. I keep to the minimum bet, and I notice that Lewis’ pile of chips changes shape as we move deeper into the deck. I try to see if he’s counting, but it seems he isn’t even paying attention. His head is cocked to the side, his face relaxed, his eyes barely moving. It takes me a moment to realize that, indeed, he is watching the cards — through the reflection in my whiskey glass.

I start to follow him more carefully, raising my own bet with his. After a few hands, he notices what I’m doing and laughs. OK, he seems to tell me. Let’s play a little.

Over the next hour, I am treated to a display of pure talent. By midway through the shoe, Lewis has spread out to cover three betting circles, all with minimum bets of more than $1,000. He’s splitting tens and cutting to aces; he’s playing all the tricks I’ve researched and read about, and he’s letting me tag along. Pretty soon we’re up $12,000. I am about to double my bet for what looks to be the last hand of the shoe, when I notice that Lewis’ hand is suddenly in his hair. I know from my research that the movement isn’t natural; it’s a signal from Lewis’ gaming days, an alarm — get up, get out, now. I look up and see two men approaching from the other side of the high-stakes pit. Both are wearing dark suits with stiff lapels, and the taller of the two is talking into a cell phone.

I see Lewis gathering up his chips, and I start to do the same. The dealer asks if we want to cash out, but before either of us can answer, one of the suited men steps forward.

“Mr. Lewis, can we speak to you for a moment?”

Lewis shoves his remaining chips into his pockets and pushes back from his stool.

“We were just leaving.”

I scoop up my own chips, nearly upending my stool as I step away from the table. I can see the other gamblers in the crowded pit looking over at us, whispers rising above the rock ’n’ roll. I feel a mixture of fear and pride as the two men in suits begin to escort us out of the blackjack area. When we reach the edge of the pit, the taller of the two puts his hand on Lewis’ shoulder.

“Mr. Lewis, we can’t have you playing blackjack here anymore.”

Lewis’ eyebrows rise, indignant and surprised. I know it’s an act. He has heard this before.

“Why not?” Lewis asks, more for me than for appearances.

The suit spreads his hands, palms out.

“You’re too good for us.”

He’s smiling, but I can tell from his voice that he’s dead serious. He doesn’t want us anywhere near the blackjack tables, because he watched us play from some security roost above the casino floor, analyzing our moves through the Eyes in the Sky. He sees Kevin Lewis as a threat to his casino, a danger to his bottom line.

And the truth is, he’s right."