It's dusk and you're cruising down West Dixie Highway in a black Cadillac at 66 mph. A pair of plastic dice dangles from the rear-view mirror, a stolen pool cue leans on the passenger seat, and a cheap vinyl bowling bag full of empty beer cans and melted ice sits in the trunk. Your back pocket bulges with a thick, wet roll of $5 bills. And you're sweating like a scared pig on speed. The plan: Slide into Styx's street-side parking lot, leave the Caddy near the door, swallow some cheap brew, hustle a game on a corner table, and triple your money in two hours before splitting as fast as possible without making anybody nervous enough to knock you out, slash your tires, or something worse. An hour and a half later, the bets are laid out on the bar, pinned under your third $8 pitcher of cold, watery Budweiser. The mark is feeding the table four quarters and racking one last round. On TV, the Dolphins are losing again and time is running out. But right here and now, you're minutes from winning big, just trying to stay sober enough to clear the table, sink the eight ball without scratching, slip out the door, hop into the Caddy, and tear away at top speed with exactly the right amount of cash to get the hell out of Miami.