Watching him go, Maxine did not share his smile. Rather, the look she focused on him was not unlike that of a snake watching a supposedly flightless meal disappear into the clouds.
"Max ... I think we've got problems," Laverna hissed, materializing at her side.
"What's that, Laverna?" Maxine blinked, tearing her eyes away from Phule's retreating back.
"I said we've got problems," her aide repeated. "It's been nearly half an hour since midnight, and those damn machines aren't-"
"I know," Max snapped, cutting her off. "Tell those idiots to stop feeding our money into the house's coffers. And don't bother being subtle. The gambit has been blown and countered."
"It has?"
"Just go," Maxine said. "Come up to the room when you're done and I'll fill you in on the details. Right now, as you pointed out earlier, every minute's delay is costing us money."
"On the way," Laverna said, and headed for the slots with a speed quite unlike her characteristic amble.
"Mr. Stilman! A moment, if you please?"
At her summons, the ex-astroball player floated over to her.
"Yes, Mrs. Pruet?"
"I want you to take over the floor operations for a while," she said. "See if you can arrange some sort of incident to remind Mr. Phule's troops that we haven't forgotten them completely. I need some time to rethink things."
"Is something wrong?"
"It seems I've underestimated our Mr. Phule ... Rather badly, at that," Max admitted, shaking her head. "I'll be in my suite with Laverna trying to figure where we go from here."
Preoccupied as she was with her own thoughts as she headed for the elevators, Maxine failed to look directly at her violence specialist after she spoke. If she had, her usually alert warning signals might have been triggered by the rare, slow smile that spread across Stilman's face.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Journal #236
One would think that the key turning point of this particular assignment was the event chronicled in the last chapter, the grand opening of the Fat Chance Casino, when my employer's forces successfully prevented the implementation of Maxine Pruet's multifaceted assault on Gunther Rafael's financial resources.
While there is no denying the importance of that skirmish, viewing the conflict from ground zero, as is my privilege, I would have to say that the events immediately following the opening were in many ways far more crucial to the eventual outcome of the confrontation.
Nicknames tended to abound among gamblers. What was more, certain nicknames were recurring almost to the point of being traditional. Thus it was that anyone in the gambling circles named Edward would invariably be hailed as "Fast Eddie."
Lucas, however, had managed to avoid the obvious title of "Lucky Luke" and was known to his associates simply as "Lucas." This was, in part, because he strove for, and achieved, a certain degree of anonymity in the casinos, dressing and acting the part of an accountant or an actuary on vacation. Mostly, however, the nickname was avoided because Lucas didn't think of himself as a gambler. He thought of himself as a crook, and luck had nothing to do with his success.
He was a meticulous planner, which was fortunate because the type of theft he favored required careful attention to detail and timing. In fact, he had been scouting the Fat Chance for nearly a week before he decided that a score was possible, and passed the word to the other members of his team who were scattered through the other Lorelei casinos.
The plan Lucas used required five people working in close cooperation, though, of course, great care was taken to be sure the pit bosses and casino security would not be able to spot that they even knew each other, much less were functioning as a unit. Their target was the craps table, where the odds were nearest to favorable to the player, and even more favorable with their system. It was a complicated system which involved the shooter palming one of the dice as he threw while another player dropped a loaded die onto the table as if it were one of the original pair. A third player would snatch up the dice and throw them back to the shooter, covertly switching them for a pair of honest dice as he did it, so that even if the house got suspicious and examined the dice, they would be clean. Two other players were at the table solely to create a diversion at the crucial moment, while the fifth, Lucas, placed the bet.
The beauty of the system was that the very number of players necessary to work it would make the pit bosses reluctant to believe they were being taken. The one placing the big bet wasn't the shooter, who would be betting the table minimum, and the shooter himself would never be vulnerable to being caught with the crooked die. While they could only work the gag a few times in a given casino without drawing undue attention, at the "adjusted odds" a few times was usually enough.
The other necessary ingredient to the scam was a sloppy croupier, which was much of what Lucas had been watching for the last week. It was also why he had chosen this time for the team to assemble for work.
The crowds from the opening-night festivities had thinned to a point where there were several seats available at the various tables. More important, the pit crews were tired from the crush and were openly glancing at their watches as if they could speed the end of their shift by willpower alone.
Lucas had been sitting at the target table for nearly an hour, carefully building the pattern of a slow loser who would bet heavily occasionally in an apparent effort to recoup his losses. The croupier was behaving as he had for the last several nights, splitting his attention between the table and a shapely cocktail waitress who winked at him in passing with increasing frequency as the end of their shift neared. Whether they were flirting or lovers, Lucas neither knew nor cared. What was important was that the croupier wasn't paying attention to what was happening at his table.
One by one, his team had drifted in and eased into their places with apparent casualness, until they were only lacking one member before they could swing into action. In spite of his confidence and control, Lucas felt his excitement starting to build. In another fifteen minutes, they'd either have scored their hit or scattered, looking for another target.
"Your dice, sir."
Lucas gathered up the dice and began shaking them slowly in preparation for his throw. This wasn't the big score, of course. He'd be the bettor, not the shooter, when they were ready for that. He was simply marking time and taking his turn in the rotation of shooters until the team was assembled.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the last team member drifting toward their table, pausing to watch the action at other tables in his show of indifference. They were just about ready to go.
"Come on, seven," Lucas said almost automatically as he raised his hand to throw the dice, and ...
"Just a moment, sir!"
A vicelike grip closed on his wrist. Startled, Lucas glanced around and discovered he was held by a black-uniformed security guard, flanked by two others.
"What ..."
"Let's have a look at those dice ... Hold all bets!"
Genuinely puzzled, Lucas surrendered up the dice he was holding to the guard with the red handlebar moustache. He had no idea what had prompted this interruption, since he had done nothing to cause any suspicion, justified or not.
The guard barely glanced at the dice.
"Just as I thought," he declared. "Check his pocket, Do-Wop ... the left-hand jacket pocket."
Before Lucas could gather his wits to protest, the greasy-looking guard next to him had plunged a hand into the indicated pocket and emerged with ...
"Here they are, Sarge. Just like you thought."
Lucas gaped at the pair of dice the guard was holding aloft.
There hadn't been any dice in that pocket ... or anywhere else on his person, for that matter!