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!
"But ..."
"Thought you'd pull a little switcheroo, eh, sir?" The moustached guard smiled. "I think it's time you moved along ... if you'll follow me. No harm done, folks! Just keeping the Fat Chance tables honest. Reclaim your bets and pass the dice to the next sh
ooter!"
Lucas barely noticed the shocked faces of the other team members as they faded back into the crowd. His entire attention was arrested by the firm hands gripping his arms as he was propelled gently but steadily toward the casino entrance.
"But I'm a guest at this hotel!" he managed at last, still trying to make sense of what had happened.
"Not anymore, you aren't, sir," the sergeant informed him. "You'll find your luggage waiting for you outside."
"But I didn't do anything! Honest!"
While he might have accepted the risks of his chosen profession, Lucas shared everyman's disbelief and indignation at being found guilty of a crime when he was, in fact, innocent.
"I know that, sir." The sergeant winked. "We just got tired of waiting for you is all. Now, if you'll step this way?"
Things suddenly snapped into focus in Lucas's mind.
"Wait a minute," he said. "If my luggage is waiting, then somebody had to have packed it before you ..."
Wrenching his arms free from his captors, he stopped dead in his tracks and pointed an accusing finger at the sergeant.
"You set me up!" he proclaimed. "There wasn't anything wrong with the dice I was holding! And he ... he planted that extra pair in my pocket!"
"Quite right, sir," Moustache said smoothly. "The dice were yours, though. We just took the liberty of moving them from your room into your pocket is all."
"My room?"
"Yes, sir. If I might suggest, sir, it's unwise to keep an extra couple dozen pairs of dice in your luggage when staying at a casino. It tends to make nasty blokes like us suspicious, and not everybody's as nice and understanding as we are."
"What ... you searched my luggage? Before I did anything?"
"Just looking out for the owner's interests, sir," the sergeant said.
"But that's ... that's ..."
"Illegal? Quite right, sir. It would seem that you're not the only crook on Lorelei, but, of course, you already knew that. The real trick, sir, is not getting caught. Now, if you'll step this way?"
Sprawled at a table near the open front of one of the casino's cocktail lounges, Doc and Tiffany watched the procession march past.
"You know," Doc said, "that actually looks like it would be fun. Maybe I should put in a request to stand regular duty once in a while. If nothing else, it would justify wearing these uniforms all the time."
The actress made a face as she sipped her drink.
"It's got to be more fun than troweling makeup onto Dee Dee the Dip five times a day," she said. "Wouldn't you know that, after making that big fuss about not wanting a live stage crew, now the computer's been dry-cleaned, she's insisting we keep working the shows?"
"All I have to do is work the curtains," Doc said, "but I know what you mean. Still, I suppose it's closer to show business than standing around watching drunks lose money day in and day out."
"Maybe for you, Doc, but you're used to working behind the scenes. For someone like me who's used to being in view in some capacity or other, working support is a real comedown. At least standing guard would be role-playing of sorts."
The stuntman cocked an eyebrow at her. "You sound kinda down, Tiff. Anything bothering you?"
"This just isn't what I expected when I signed on is all," she said with a grimace. "Or after our surprise briefing, either."
"I see," Doc said, then shifted in his seat to stare pointedly at the ceiling. "This wouldn't have anything to do with your efforts to charm our captain, would it?"
Tiffany glared at him for a moment, then broke into a rueful smile.
"Bingo." She laughed. "You know, when we were on the ship on the way here, I thought that he was just busy planning this operation, and that I'd see more of him once we got settled in. The way it's worked out, though, what with us working the showroom, I see even less of him than I did on shipboard."
Smiling, Doc signaled the bartender for another round.
"To be honest with you, Tiffany," he said, "I don't think it would make much difference. From all I can tell, our Fearless Leader is pretty much married to his work. Everyone I've talked to says pretty much the same thing-that they don't get as much time with the captain as they would like, while at the same time muttering that they're afraid he's pushing himself too hard. All in all, I don't figure him as being much for play, no matter how tempting the bait is or how often you wave it at him."
The actress smiled and laid a hand on his arm.
"Thanks, Doc," she said. "That helps a little. Maybe it's because I'm spending so much time in front of a makeup table these days, but more and more I catch myself staring in the mirror and wondering, `Have you lost it? Has time finally run out?' I guess a bit of insecurity goes with the job ... or with being a woman, for that matter."
"Well, for what it's worth, I don't think you've lost it," the stuntman said with a wink. "That's not just my opinion, either. In case you haven't noticed, Junior has a real thing for you."
"I know!" Tiffany exclaimed, rolling her eyes. "I'll tell you, Doc, I don't know what to do about him. It seems like every time I turn around he's there offering to run an errand for me or just staring at me like I just stepped off a half-shell or something. I mean, he's a nice enough kid and all that, but he's just that-a kid!"
Doc grinned. "He's not that young. You should talk to him sometime. He's really quite mature mentally. And it might help him see you more as a person than as a goddess."
"I might give that a try. You know, when it comes right down to it, he's really kind of ..."
"Excuse me?"
The two broke off their conversation as a young woman in a short, tight skirt, possibly one of the show girls, stepped up to their table.
"I thought you should know ... there's a man hurt outside."
"What?" Doc frowned, momentarily confused by the change in focus.
"In the alley beside the casino," the woman said, "there's a man lying on the ground."
"What makes you think he's hurt?"
"I don't know ... He's not moving. He may just be drunk. I didn't get that close. I just thought I should tell someone, and you're the first people I've seen in a uniform."
"Thanks," Doc said. "We'll look into it."
"We will?" Tiffany said, cocking her head as the woman marched away.
"Sure. Why not?" the stuntman said, rising to his feet and digging out some money for their bill. "Weren't we both just complaining about being stuck backstage? Besides, remember that as far as the guests are concerned, we're as much security guards as anyone else in a black uniform. It would be out of character for us to try to find someone else to send instead of going ourselves."
The actress glanced around the casino, but none of the regular troops were in sight.
"I suppose you're right," she said, gathering up her purse. "I guess we can handle it."
"Sure we can," Doc assured her. "There's two of us and only one of him, and it sounds like he's drunk, to boot. Besides, if he gives us any trouble, we're armed, remember?"
He patted the tranquilizer pistol in the holster at his hip.
Tiffany rolled her eyes.
"Please don't start going macho on me, Doc. One of the things I like about you is that you don't strut."
"Sorry," the stuntman apologized easily. "Hanging around with both actors and military types seems to bring out the melodramatic in me. Seriously, Tiff, I figure all we have to do is check to see what the problem is, then use our wrist radios to call for the appropriate help-if it's needed at all, that is. That much we should be able to do."
Even though it was still technically "indoors," the open air along the Strip was a pleasant relief for the mock Legionnaires after days of close confinement in the casino showroom. Because of the size of the Fat Chance, it was a several-minute stroll to reach the alley-a service access for the loading docks, really-and they took advantage of it, moving at an unhurried pace as they drank in the sights and sounds of Lorelei.
"You know, this place is really somethi
ng," Doc commented as he shifted his gaze from the soaring light shows to watch the stream of people walking along the Strip. "I can't remember how long it's been since I've been outside. I guess working backstage, it's easy to forget just where the stage is located."
"Take away all the lights and glitz, and what you have left is more lights and glitz," Tiffany agreed, then frowned. "Say, speaking of being outside, didn't the captain say something about our jurisdiction only being inside the complex?"
The stuntman thought for a few moments.
"You know, you may be right," he said finally. "It seems to me there was something in one of those briefings. There were so many of them, though, I can't recall for sure. Oh well, we've come this far, we might as well take a look before we head back."
The light dimmed radically a bare dozen steps into the alley. The casino light shows were designed to impress and lure the tourists on the Strip, not the hired help, and there was little point in wasting wattage on areas traveled only by residents and employees. Walking down the alley was like entering another world, a land filled with shadows and blind angles giving it such an air of gloom and menace that it was hard to realize there were lights and teeming humanity a stone's throw away.
"I don't see anybody," Tiffany said nervously, peering into the almost impenetrable shadows that lined the access.
"Maybe he woke up and moved on," Doc said. "We'll just check a little further, then-uh-oh."
"What is it, Doc?"
"Just keep walking, Tiffany. Don't look back."
Too startled to think clearly, the actress immediately shot a look behind them toward the mouth of the alley.
There were three men, faceless in the gloom but unmistakably heavyset, following the mock Legionnaires. When they saw Tiffany had spotted them, they quickened their pace as if to close the gap separating them from the pair.
"Just keep moving, Tiff."
"Shouldn't we call for help?"
"It may be nothing," the stuntman said, though his tone said he didn't believe it himself. "If it is, though, I don't think they'd give us time to use our wrist radios. No, I figure our best bet is to try to make it to the loading dock, then-shit!"
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