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the table. Misty and Pepper pounded the railing, urging him on. They had also placed cash bets. The game was locked up.
    Eleven, a winner.
    The table erupted. Suckers sometimes got lucky, and the boxman, stickman, and dealer displayed no emotion. Travis kept throwing the dice, and their winnings began to add up. Two grand, five grand, then fifteen—the boxman, dealer, and stickman shaking their heads at the sudden turn of events. Like crew hands rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic, they were clueless.
    When their winnings hit thirty grand, Billy gave the signal to end the play. He’d done his homework and knew how much the Four Queens would lose before security was sent to the table. Winning too much, too often, had gotten more than one crew in hot water.
    Small bets were placed on the table. Travis switched out the gaffed dice for the regular pair and threw them hard.
    Two, a loser.
    The table groaned. The boxman, dealer, and stickman visibly relaxed, and the losing bets were picked up. Resting his arm on the table, Travis dropped the crooked dice into Billy’s hand.
    “Where we going for dinner?” Travis whispered.
    “Golden Steer,” Billy whispered back.
    “That’s a winner.”

    Possession of a crooked gambling device inside a casino was a felony, and Billy headed down Fremont clutching the gaffed dice in his hand until he’d reached a construction site for a new casino. New casinos were always popping up in Vegas, even when the economy sucked. He heaved the gaffed dice over a tall wooden fence plastered with “ N O T RESPASSING ” signs.
    His skin was tingling as he headed for the elevated garage. There was no greater rush than ripping a joint off, and it wouldn’t be very long before he’d want to do it again. He’d recently done a walk-through of the Luxor, and decided it was easy pickings. That was what made Vegas so great. There were so many scores and so little time.
    His Droid vibrated. Only a handful of people had his number, and he yanked the phone from his pocket. Caller ID said it was an old grifter named Captain Crunch. Crunchie was about as friendly as a coiled rattlesnake, but that was how it was with most of the old-timers.
    “Hey, I need to call you back,” he answered.
    “This can’t wait,” the old grifter said.
    “Everything can wait. I’ll call you later.”
    “You’ll talk to me now.”
    “I’m on a job, man.”
    “Fuck your job. There’s a lady blackjack dealer in the high-roller salon at Galaxy that’s flashing every fifth hand, and the dumb shit management hasn’t caught on. This might be the single biggest score on the Strip.”
    High-roller salons catered to whales capable of losing millions of dollars without breaking a sweat. The salons were awash in money, and it was every hustler’s dream to take one down. No hustler in town ever had, and Billy would have relished being the first.
    “You want me to be a whale?” he asked.
    “That’s right. Interested?”
    “Of course I’m interested. How are you going to get me into Galaxy’s salon?”
    “It’s all been taken care of. Just show up and work your magic. It will be like stealing candy from a baby.”
    “What’s your take?”
    “We’re straight partners, fifty-fifty.”
    “Make it eighty-twenty, and you’ve got yourself a deal.”
    “Sixty-forty, and that’s my final offer. Take it or leave it.”
    Billy hated to cave but didn’t see that he had any other choice. If he said no, Crunchie would call another hustler, and cut him out of the action.
    “I’m in,” Billy said.
    “Meet me at the Peppermill at ten o’clock, and I’ll fill you in.”
    “See you there.”
    He ended the call and headed up the stairwell. Salons had the highest betting limits around and were known to let whales wager $100,000 a hand. If this lady dealer was flashing every fifth hand, he could steal a hundred grand every five rounds, or roughly seventeen hands per hour, which translated into one point seven million bucks