The production convoy, dusty from the long desert road, navigated the sensory overload of the Las Vegas Strip before turning into the grand, sweeping driveway of Caesars Palace. In 1988, Caesars was the undisputed monarch of Las Vegas luxury—a sprawling monument to excess, complete with Roman fountains, marble statuary, and a reputation for hosting the highest of rollers.
As the lead cars pulled up to the main portico, the contrast between the film's gritty road-trip aesthetic and the hotel's opulence was jarring. Valets in Roman-themed uniforms descended upon the vehicles but were quickly waved off by a group of executives standing near the entrance, waiting specifically for the talent.
Leading the group was a man radiating corporate confidence and hospitality: Dan Reichartz, the President of Caesars Palace. He had been instrumental in revitalizing the resort's image since taking over in 1986, and he understood exactly what it meant to have a production of this caliber—and a star of Alex Hayes's magnitude—filming on his casino floor.
As Alex stepped out of the car, stretching his legs after the long drive, Reichartz stepped forward with his hand extended and a beaming smile on his face.
"Welcome to Rome, gentlemen," Reichartz announced, his voice carrying over the noise of the fountains. "Mr. Hayes, Mr. Hoffman, Mr. Levinson. It is an absolute honor to welcome the Rain Man production to Caesars Palace."
Alex shook his hand, flashing the movie-star grin Reichartz was undoubtedly hoping to see. "Mr. Reichartz. Thank you for having us. It's quite the change of scenery from the motels we've been living in."
"We aim to impress," Reichartz replied smoothly. He turned to the group, his enthusiasm palpable. "We are thrilled you chose Caesars. The entire property is at your disposal. We've cleared the Emperor's Suite for the primary filming location, and my security team has already cordoned off the blackjack tables for your night shoots. Whatever you need to make magic happen, you have it."
"Whatever Alex wants, right?" Levinson joked, shaking Reichartz's hand.
Reichartz laughed. "When you have the man who just broke box office records with Top Gun walking through your lobby, you tend to roll out the red carpet. But truly, we are excited to be part of Mr. Hayes' new film."
Reichartz signaled to his staff, who immediately began handling the luggage with white-glove service. As they walked through the massive glass doors into the cool, air-conditioned roar of the casino, Alex felt the energy hit him—the clatter of chips, the ringing of slots, and the murmur of thousands of people chasing a dream.
Dan Reichartz led the group to a private elevator, using a key that bypassed all other floors to shoot them straight to the pinnacle of the Palace. The doors opened to reveal the Claudius Penthouse, a sprawling, two-story marvel of excess that overlooked the entire glittering Strip.
The suite was a testament to 1980s indulgence: white marble floors, gold-leaf trim, a grand piano, and a sunken Jacuzzi that could comfortably fit ten people. Silk drapes framed floor-to-ceiling windows, offering a view that made the city look like a toy set.
"This isn't just a room, Mr. Hayes," Reichartz said, gesturing to the expanse. "It's history. Frank Sinatra stayed in this very suite during his last residency. And before the renovations, this was the preferred spot for Elvis whenever he was in town."
Alex looked around, taking in the sheer scale of the luxury. He let out a low, appreciative whistle. "Not bad company to keep," he noted. "I'll try not to wreck the place."
Reichartz laughed. "We have a very discreet cleaning crew if you do. Now, if there is anything else..."
As Reichartz turned to leave, Alex stopped him. "Actually, Dan, there is one favor."
"Name it. Whatever you want."
"Can you introduce me to a high-stakes poker table?"
Reichartz smiled, a knowing glint in his eye. "I know just the room."
In a secluded, windowless VIP room deep within the casino's high-limit sector, the air was thick with cigar smoke and tension. The game was No-Limit Texas Hold'em, the "Cadillac of Poker." Unlike limit games, a player could bet their entire stack of chips at any moment, putting their tournament life—or in this case, their bankroll—on the line with a single word.
The game had started with eight players, but the brutal swings of No-Limit had winnowed the field down to four sharks. There was Arthur, an elderly real estate tycoon with eyes like flint; Jim Cooper, a boisterous Texas oilman wearing a cowboy hat and guarding a mountain of chips; and Nick Stavros, a silent, chain-smoking shipping magnate from Greece.
And Alex Hayes.
Reichartz had made the introductions, and Alex had bought in for $250,000—his hard cap. He had played conservatively for an hour, grinding his stack up to $400,000. But now, the pot in the center of the table was massive, a tangled heap of plaques and chips exceeding $1.5 million.
The board showed the river card. The tension was suffocating.
Alex looked at his opponents. He adjusted his chips, his index finger tapping nervously against the felt—a distinct, repetitive tic.
"All in," Alex said softly, pushing his entire $400,000 stack into the center.
The Texas oilman grinned. He threw his chips in. "Call."
The Greek magnate narrowed his eyes, looked at the pot, and shrugged. "Call."
Arthur, the old man, studied Alex for a long moment. He looked at the finger, then at Alex's face. "I think you're light, son. Call."
The table fell silent. It was time to show.
Alex turned over his cards: the 9 and 10 of Spades.
Combined with the Jack, Eight, and Seven of Spades on the board, he held a Straight Flush.
The room erupted. The oilman slammed his hat on the table. The Greek magnate exhaled a cloud of smoke, shaking his head in disbelief. Arthur just stared.
"How?" the oilman asked, stunned. "We thought you were bluffing."
"Why?" Alex asked, raking in the mountain of chips. "Because of my index finger tic?" He smiled, his expression cool and calm.
"Exactly!" the oilman said. "You did it three times before when you folded bad hands. We thought it was your tell."
"So you set us up," Arthur realized, leaning back.
"I purposefully ticked that finger on bad hands for the last hour," Alex explained, stacking his winnings. "I knew you were experienced players. You act on patterns. If I wanted to trap you, I had to give you a pattern to find. A tell has to be subtle to be believed."
The table burst into laughter. These men were very rich; the money didn't matter as much as the game, and they knew when they had been bested.
"You are very great at acting to fool us, son," Arthur said, chuckling as he lit a fresh cigar. "I've been playing this game for forty years."
"I am an actor, Arthur," Alex replied with a grin. "I have to know how to act right."
"It's okay," Arthur conceded. "Even if you are good at bluffing, you still need luck to catch the cards. Today, you are lucky."
The mood lightened. The oilman shook his head, smiling. "Hell, nobody back in Houston is gonna believe I lost a quarter of a million-dollar to Maverick. Can we get a picture, Alex?"
"Sure," Alex agreed.
The oilman waved a hand at the floor manager hovering near the door. "Hey, get a camera over here!"
The manager snapped his fingers, and a house photographer materialized on the casino floor. The men gathered around Alex, slinging heavy arms over his shoulders, grinning through clouds of cigar smoke. The photographer raised his heavy 35mm camera, and the electronic flash fired, freezing the moment against the opulent backdrop of the room.
They gathered around, the flashbulb popping against the backdrop of the high-limit room. Moments later, Alex cashed out. He walked toward the exit, carrying a check for $2 million and his pulse still hammering with the electric high of the hustle.