Poor Greg, he never had a chance. "Oh t'hell with it," his hand rolling the eight into the side pocket, standing there slack-jawed, pissed off and much poorer than when he started off the night, the bowl full of coins and bills going toward's Penny's end of the table. She has no hangers-on, no one's asking her to buy the next round - this isn't that kind of place, these aren't that sort of people. As she counts out, the coins go one by one into the pocket of the trench and the bills get folded up into her back pocket.