Read Story: SEASON 1 EPISODE 14

He looked Lane squarely back in the eye. Five seconds. Ten seconds. Twelve seconds.

And Lane turned away.

Ahhhh sweet motherfucking victory! Jack ordered a triple scotch, exultation rising in his chest, the a flag at full salute. He’d read that somewhere, that if somebody put the evil eye on you, you gave it right back to the bastard and stared him down, showed him your hairy balls. He was like King Kong now, wanting to stand up and beat his chest with snarling triumph. When the waitress brought his drink, she waved his money away, telling him it was on the house. He tipped her a ten.

But the free drink wasn’t Lane conceding anything. It was house policy to buy winners — never losers — drinks, and the more you won, the more lavish they got with their booze. The drunker you got, the more reckless you became, and if you weren’t careful they took everything back plus your spare change. Mote than one poor asshole who’d won a fortune had been sucked into losing it back, sometimes falling off his seat in the process.

Jack sipped the drink, savoring it all the more. Well, fuck you, Lane he thought happily. In the first place, Jack never got drunk. In the second, he was so fucking nervous and tense deep down, that alone would keep him alert and sober. And in the third place, there weren’t any feathers on his tail — he glanced back just to make sure — so he wasn’t exactly a turkey.

By nine o’clock Jack was eight thousand ahead.

And from his swivel leather chair high in the center of the casino, Lane watched him carefully.

At the same time three tables away, Sally scooped up her winnings, picked up her purse and headed for the bar. She was six thousand ahead and was much more cautious than Jack. She wasn’t a gambler, didn’t have that crazed, ferocious heart, and she felt like bursting into tears every time she had to give the house back a few hundred.

She sipped her martini, watching Lane watch Jack in the high mirror behind the bar. Oh shit, she thought she was going to faint when he’d stood behind the dealer, watching her husband with those death-eyes. And then she’d seen Jack boldly stare him down and the harsh, bitter love she felt for her handsome hustling husband spread throughout her jaded system like a fatal disease. He had balls! She’d always felt he was a weakling deep down, but he actually had the guts in a showdown. And she loved him for it, at least as much as her cynical feelings could allow.

Lane shifted restlessly in his chair and swiveled away from table four. So the guy was on a winning streak, so what? It happened all the time. It was, in fact, very good publicity for the house. Word spread like wildfire, a crowd would be gathering soon and greed, their major commodity, would be sparked into a blaze. In fact, the more the sleek character won the better it would be for the house in the long run.

But Lane was bothered. There was something about the guy, his eyes, his mouth… he didn’t exactly recognize him and yet, a faint beep-beep had gone off in the back of his mind; and now it beeped irritably away, a constant thorn in his side.

His phone buzzed.

“Lane here.”

“Grogan here. Table one is down about six thou. Broad in the red dress, hard face, stacked. She’s at the bar now.”

“Okay thanks, Grogan.”

The pit boss hadn’t bothered mentioning table four. He knew Lane was watching that one. Lane’s eyes scanned the bar, picked out Sally. He frowned. His instincts told him she was a hooker, nothing cheap, but still… Lane’s instincts were never wrong, not after twenty-five years in the hard, vicious arena of professional gambling.

So what if she was a hooker? As long as she didn’t hustle her trade in the Green Wheel she was welcome. Their money was as crisp and green as anyone else’s. He scanned her sensuous tits and lush ass and stunning legs. Christ, she had beautiful legs, long, silken, tapered, one of the nicest pair he’d ever seen, if her face weren’t so harshly defined, she’d be a knockout. She was picking up her purse now and returning to the seat, which no one else had taken. The action wasn’t heavy enough tonight, except for those two tables. She brought stacks of gold hundred-dollar chips out of her purse, set them up and began betting. And winning.

Lane swiveled back to table four. Sleek character was still at it, mountains of chips piled in front of him. He was definitely a hustler, probably scored heavily on women with his smooth looks.

Two babies losing, two hustlers winning.

His phone buzzed.

“Lane here.”

“It’s Shawn, Lane.” She didn’t have to tell him, because the second he heard her girlish sweet voice, his prick began tingling sharply. It was her night off and she was home with his wife.

“What’s the matter, honey?” Her voice was agitated.

“It’s Vera. She’s… well, she’s drunk out of her gourd and she wants to drive to town and party. She’s almost out of it but I can’t stop her. What’ll I do?”

He gritted his teeth. “Do you know where the distributor cap is on the Mercedes?”

Of course she didn’t. He explained carefully how to disconnect it. “After she can’t get the car started she’ll call a cab,” he went on, “but in the meantime she’ll have two or three more drinks, the dumb bitch. In the medicine cabinet you’ll find a bottle of Nembutal — small yellow caps. Empty two into one or her drinks and that’ll slow her down. Then strap that dildo on and fuck her until she faints. But listen, I don’t care how you do it, don’t let her take off, understand?”

“Count on me,” Shawn said and hung up.

Lane was satisfied. The girl was getting sharp, very sharp and lately his mind had been toying with the idea of kicking Vera out on her luscious ass and just setting up housekeeping with Shawn. As tempting as it was he just couldn’t bring himself to ditch Vera. He loved that crazy drunken woman in his own brutal way and felt compelled to take care of her.

His eyes went back to table four, to the sleek hustler — then to table one, to the brunette in red. He picked up his phone and dialed Upstairs Security.

“Johnson here,” a voice answered.

“Johnson, I want cameras on tables one and four. Keep them pinned there until further notice.”

He slammed down the phone. He knew the dealers working those tables personally and they were beyond thieving. But all his jarring instincts told him something was wrong!

He didn’t have the vaguest idea what it was, but his senses were alerted sharply.

Two hustling winners, two losing tables. It stunk.

That’s how Day One went.