The stench of cigarette smoke, carbolic, vomit, and a hint of coming closed coffin lids climbed off the casino carpets like the plague as a squat overweight man in late middle age in a Don Johnson T-shirt with a jacket thrown over it rolled the dice at one of the tables and emitted a prehistoric shriek of triumph. The crowds plodded in and out of the dull, liver-yellow lit room in dogged pursuit of individualized pleasure - or pain, or as was the case in a clump of Newarkers outside a coffee shop on the street, agony.