The husband of the couple seated in the booth behind me reminded his wife when she first mentioned Vanity Fair that he had never read a single article in that magazine.

  "Well," said she, "you ought to have checked out this one because it was about Jerry Lewis and what a real a-hole he is. How he’s used Jerry’s kids – that’s what he calls them, really – to promote himself. And how there are all kinds of protests being formed all over the country, against him and what he’s doing."

  Said the husband: "Hell, who’s gonna believe any crap like that about Jerry Lewis? He’s America’s king of comedy, so who’ll believe it?"

  Well, me, for one.

  I sat there sipping my coffee and gazing unwittingly out the window where the mid-morning traffic had begun to take itself seriously. But somehow, for a moment there, I drifted back to a day more than a quarter century ago, a crisp afternoon during my first winter as a cub reporter.

  In fact, as I shuffled up Canal Street on that long-ago afternoon, I was rather impressed with myself, knowing that within the vest pocket of my three-piece hopsacking suit I was carrying my very first assignment to interview a celebrity. Oh, I was aware, of course, that the subject, Jerry Lewis, wasn’t in the same league with, say, Chaplin or Keaton, but I figured that what the hell, it could have been Pinky Lee!

  So, I stood unobtrusively at the back of the theater’s center aisle and listened to the Saengerful of kids squeal excitedly as Lewis, the lovable lout, pranced and pranked onstage as part of the tour promoting his new movie. Frequently I would pause in my note-taking to sort mentally through the possible questions I might soon be asking in the interview session that had been scheduled to take place at his hotel. Perhaps I’d lead off with one about his Daffy Duck voice, or maybe I would ask first about his sadsack funnyface.

  While I juggled the choice of question, Jerry Lewis was winding down his routine. With a musical phrase, a sliver of sage advice about saying nightly prayers, and a deep, sweeping bow, he disappeared behind the burgundy velvet curtain. A moment later, while a thousand tiny hands clapped themselves into rosy glows, he came back for one last I-love-you-each-and-every-one smile. He threw a kiss this way, and another one that way. The whole audience of gap-toothed grins pitched back. At last I’d decided what my first question was going to be.

  Less than a half hour later I stepped off the elevator into the Roosevelt Hotel corridor. I paused to read again the assignment sheet the city editor had handed me earlier. The note at the bottom said, "Stage stuff at Saenger strictly p.r. but J.L. has agreed to present certificates of appreciation to several local kids who’ve worked all year for Muscular Dystrophy campaign. That’s back in hotel room. Human Interest angle may be real story."

  There were three of them clustered near the doorway to the suite, and as I got closer I realized that they were not only campaign workers in the Muscular Dystrophy drive, but also victims of the disease. Each was clutching a glossy photograph of Jerry Lewis, their national chairman.

  One of the women with the children cautioned them not to wrinkle the pictures. She turned to me and explained, "They’ve thought of nothing else for a whole week. Ever since we learned that they’d get to meet him they’ve been the happiest little folks I’ve ever seen." She had not tried to discourage this enthusiasm, she said. "Knowing the disease, and these cases in particular, this may turn out to be one of the few really special occasions they ever have."

  Just then Jerry Lewis and his public relations man rounded the corner. When the two were within perhaps a dozen feet of the small gathering, Lewis stopped suddenly and leaned toward his lieutenant, muttering something. Then he turned around. He hurried back toward the elevator while the other man faced the children and their chaperones and told them that they’d have to leave. No, Mr. Lewis would not be able to see them. After all, he’d just got to town a couple of hours earlier. Long delay in leaving Atlanta. Couldn’t sleep. Besides, he was ill. No, he couldn’t spare just two minutes.

  Saturday morning, as I sat there stirring through the lumps in my grits, the only detail of that interview with Jerry Lewis that came to mind was this: My first question was not the one I’d planned. It would surely have stuck in my craw, for it had something to do with caring. .

Iknow what you’re doing!" the hotel manager shouts. "I know what you’re doing!"

  His yells rise above an ugly beachfront hotel on the fringe of Biloxi, a few miles from the city’s casino strip. It is late Friday afternoon. We’re about to get thrown out of our room.

  "What are you talking about?" Darryl pleads, acting innocent. He follows the manager, a thin, older man who, at the moment, is carrying an armful of clean sheets, from room to room. Darryl is captain of a three-man team of professional, card-counting blackjack players. He arrived in Biloxi last night, driving a rental car with a suitcase in the trunk packed with $28,000 in cash, all $100 bills.

  The commotion wakes John, a professional player who, like Darryl, has been counting cards for 15 years. John’s prematurely gray hair and four-month losing streak surround him with a palpable cloud of defeat. Our third player, Edis, walks sleepily out of a back room. He’s a thin, long-haired Lithuanian immigrant who is learning to play blackjack to supplement his career as a photographer.

  Darryl returns to the room and starts packing. "We have to go," he says. "I think the manager’s listening to our phone calls."

  It later becomes clear that the manager grew suspicious when he looked into our room and saw stacks of money and purple $500 chips. After all, nobody with that kind of money stays in a dump like his.

  Darryl looks especially suspect, a massive, Brando-esque 36-year-old with a soft beard and a softer voice. His all-black attire is topped by a black hat, which looks very strange in the bright Biloxi summer sun.

  I’m the fourth man on the team. I’ve never played a card game in a casino in my life. Nonetheless, I’ve been enlisted for the weekend because of my qualifications: I can take directions and I live near Biloxi. My position is "Big Player," or "B.P." If all goes well, I’ll be sitting at a blackjack table all weekend, reading the card counter’s hand signals, betting thousands of the team’s dollars. Or, I might be tapped on the shoulder by an unfriendly pit boss and booted out of the casino.

  That’s my other qualification: I’m expendable.

  My training session begins Friday evening in our new motel room. Darryl draws the flowered curtains shut and spreads a bath towel on the table. He nonchalantly stacks a few thousand dollars of chips and begins to run through the signals. "There are two things you’re going to be told: one is how much to bet and the other is how to play the hand," he starts. "How much to bet is going to be signaled to you with the hand that’s farthest away from you at the table. If I put my hands on the table in front of the chips, it’s bet one hundred." The counter’s hands are on the chips at two hundred dollars and travel up his body for larger amounts. Play directions are also sent via hand signals.

  An hour later, the class is over. I study my notes and get ready for my first test, at the Biloxi Belle riverboat casino. We drive separately, and Darryl is already at the table when I enter the boat. I meander about until he touches his face, the signal for me to start playing. I sit down. The shouts from the craps table and the noisy staccato songs of the slot machines immediately recede. All I can see is the green felt of my proving ground.

  Then it starts. I’m instructed to bet $300 a hand. From my seat, I can look at the dealer and see Darryl. My two face-up cards are both sevens. Darryl clasps his hands together: split them. Barely understanding what this means, I’m now playing two hands for a total of $600. Two tens are dealt, but the dealer has twenty. I lose. But I lose by playing correctly.

  Immediately, a tall man with short brown hair steps behind the dealer, watches my hands, and watches my eyes. Darryl moves his hand to his cheek: bet $500. An hour and a half later, I stand up from the table and try to rediscover my shaky legs. I’ve won $3,000.

  The pit boss had already taken my name and address. It’s customary for casinos to give meals and rooms to high rollers; these comps are one way for professional gamblers to cut overhead. I’m supposed to tell the pit boss I want a room near the casino. I motion him over with my eyes.

  "I’m sorry, Mr. Tisserand, but we can’t help you," he says. He’s as friendly as any man can be without smiling. "You’re a good player. Very good. I think you know what I mean."

  I immediately want to look at Darryl, to see if he has any hand gestures to tell me what to do. Clap your hands, chief, tell me to run stupidly out the door, and I’ll do it. But I’m on my own. "O.K., thank you," I say for no real reason, then gather my chips and go back to the motel to wait for my next instructions. .