They start to arrive at the United Air Lines terminal at<br >Kennedy Airport around noon， the men in sport shirts and<br >sport jackets; the women favoring， almost exclusively，<br >pants suits. The matched， unscuffed luggage， not to men-<br >tion the proliferation of golf clubs， marks them as people of<br >means. Except for them， the terminal is all but empty. This<br >is the special junket charter to Las Vegas.<br > Behind the check-in-counter， slouched in indolent ease， is<br >Big Julie Weintraub， the ringmaster of these revels. He is a<br >big man--six-foot-five~with a slight break across the<br >bridge of his nose that gives him the look of an amiable ex-<br >fighter. As the junketeers sign in， the greetings are warm<br >and effusive and full of expectation. With the men it is the<br >gambler s mixture of wild optimism and dark foreboding.<br >With the women it is all hugging and kissing and "sweety"<br >and "honey" and laughter.<br >Every Other Wednesday 1<br ><br >