Read Story: SEASON 1 EPISODE 22

As if he knew every Goddamn card coming off the deck, Lane thought furiously. He’d checked the cards too but they were all right, Apex quality grade A.

If he didn’t trust Apex so much… Lane suddenly held up his right hand and snapped his fingers twice, sharply.

The pit boss came running.

The moment the dealer finished the round, Lane inched over and took the cards from her fingers, pushing her a fresh deck. He handed them to the pit boss with low-voiced instructions.

The pit boss disappeared with the deck.

Jack felt a wave of dread rising in his blood like a flood of doom, and images of the vast desert, bleached with bones of other careless thieves, flashed cruelly in his mind. Lane would not go away. There was no other option. He would have to split with Lane standing there.

He gulped down the rest of his drink, looked pointedly at his watch and scooped up his chips, avoiding Lane’s steely eyes. He stood up, pushing a few chips forward for the dealer.

“Going somewhere?” Lane asked in a grating voice.

Jack stared back at him flatly. Fuck this honcho. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m going to take my action to another casino because I don’t like to be bugged.”

Again, his balls had saved him in a showdown. There was no reply to that. Anytime the pit boss or casino manager hugged a table too closely for too long, professional gamblers left, feeling their luck was being constricted. And Lane knew that. He shrugged, watching Jack saunter toward the cashier’s cage with narrowed eyes. That voice! Goddamnit, that voice rang a bell in his mind!

Where, WHERE?

There was a simple test Lane had completely forgotten to run on the cards, simply because he trusted Apex all the way. But suppose, the uneasy thought came to him a few minutes ago, suppose someone switched decks without Apex knowing? Sure, their security was tight but anything was possible in this business. Anything.

He’d sent the pit boss downstairs to run the cards under an infrared machine, a test usually reserved for suspected cases of dice-switching. A really hot switcher could switch in loaded dice in two seconds right under the nose of the dealer. Of course it was almost impossible to switch decks of cards because they never left the dealer’s hands, so they never used the infra-red for cards.

Until now. If those fuckers were marked they’d show up like neon signs, no matter how subtle.

At the cashier’s window, sweat poured down Jack’s body as he shoved his chips forward, feeling Lane’s eyes on him like beams of death. “Cash, hundreds,” he said tersely. Don’t glance around now, just cool it, another minute or so. Someone’s presence loomed behind him big and heavy and Jack gritted his teeth. Don’t turn, DON’T TURN ASSHOLE. The cashier deftly counting crisp bills into neat piles, a tap on his shoulder, his knees buckling, his heart bursting; again that heavy tap of fate, and his head turning, his face turning into a gritty white mask as he saw the huge security guard.

“Yeah?” he said in a croak.

“May I escort you outside, sir?” the guard asked.

Jack almost fainted with relief. “No. Bug off.”

“It’s for your own protection,” the guard said in a tough voice. “We wouldn’t want you to get mugged or hurt.”

“I can take care pf myself, buddy. Just split.”

The guard moved off and Jack began stuffing his pockets with bills, cramming them, heading for the nearest exit now, playing a little game called Beat The Pit Boss or Get The Fuck Gone Before They Bury You, stepping outside, eyes searching frantically for a taxi, no Goddamn taxi when you need one, never, okay move into the crowds now, keep moving at all times, because you know they’re gonna follow you until they get the word on the cards, don’t look back, shove these assholes out of the way, fuck you too turkeys, side street, stay in the heavy crowds, don’t run, DON’T RUN ah shit, they’re behind me because I can feel them, two of them, plainclothes goons, taxi, TAXI!

One screeched to a halt beside him. Jack saw them as he was getting in the cab, cold-faced mother-fuckers, big, expressions like zombies, real muscle-goons like the kind that had put him in the hospital. They were only a few yards away, still moving toward his taxi, SHIT!