Mark Carver: The naked deal

Lane's cold eyes moved over the casino with a flat, bored expression, but his mind whirred constantly. From his perch, a quiet black throne set six feet high in the center of the gambling pit, he could see everything – the crowded green crap tables, the greedy faces, the rows of noisily clicking slot machines, the fast-moving blackjack tables, the spinning roulette wheels. His eyes darted over to the bar and narrowed. He picked up the phone beside him and pushed a button. Instantly a voice answered.

"Security, sir?"

"See that broad in blue at the end of the bar? She's hustling. Get her ass out of here, but quietly."

"Yes sir."

He put the phone down and watched. Two security guards quietly threaded their way through the crowded casino toward the stacked brunette at the end of the bar. She was talking earnestly to a well-dressed business type beside her when one of the guards interrupted. Her face – pretty but too thick and garish with makeup – became angry and she slammed her drink down. She spoke in a shrill voice, which even Lane, ten yards away, could hear, but then the guard broke in, reached for the walkie-talkie on his belt and she suddenly seemed to sag. She shrugged, picked up her purse and let herself be quietly escorted out of the casino. Lane watched her lush curves move interestingly. He calculated with long experience that she was a fifty-dollar hooker. He didn't object to hustlers working his casino, but nothing less than the hundred-dollar class would do for the Green Wheel. You let the cheap floozies in and the next thing you knew the place would be crawling with them, the plush atmosphere tainted. The guard had threatened to call the regular cops and have her busted, and that always worked since they all had records.

Lane continued his restless search, watching for anything and everything that might lead to trouble. His seat was nearly invisible in the center of the casino because of the harsh lighting over the tables while his chair was in darkness. Lane was the casino manager for the Green Wheel in Reno, and he oversaw the entire operation with the eyes of years of experience. His eyes now glanced overhead at the mirrored ceiling. Fucking guards had better not be asleep up there. Two guards roamed catwalks above, watching everything below through one-way mirrors – not just the throngs of customer but the dealers as well. It was the dealers who suffered from the temptation of handling all that unaccountable cash and chips. The dealers usually did the actual stealing, rarely the customers.

A sharp dealer could take up to five thousand a day from the house in a number of ways, but usually with an agent, an accomplice who was a customer. With deft, practiced movements a dealer could pay off double in the bat of an eyelash, or pretend to pick up a bet but gently flick it back so his – or her – accomplice could palm it and use it again. Lane's eyes now rested with a smolder of lust on one blackjack dealer. She was new – only twenty two or three, with a gorgeous pair of tits, a succulently curvey ass and long legs. And every night when she got off shift she left alone. Interesting. His phone rang softly and he picked it up.

"Hey, honey, bring us home a goodie tonight, huh?"

Shit. His wife was drunk again. "Why don't you ease upon the juice, Vera?"

"Why don't you bring me home a luscious chunk with a boiling pussy?" she giggled. "Something hot and juicy for Vera to suck on while you watch? You know you love that, Lane, you know how it turns you on, stud, hnunmm?"

Bitch. He was getting a fierce hard-on just from talking to her. He had to say one thing for his torrid young wife in spite of her drinking and craziness and screwing around – she was the sexiest piece he'd ever had, with tawny skin and hot, eager lips and plump curves that could trigger an erection just thinking about them. She had the hottest, most insatiable mouth and cunt in creation, like electrifying velvet sockets, like madly sucking animals on fire.

And when she went at it with another girl, Lane was in sheer ecstasy. Vera could tease and torment and arouse almost any woman to the point of utter madness, using her fingers and lips and tits and eternally soaked pussy with frantic lust, until they were fainting or begging for mercy. And then Lane would join the action, his thick powerful cock throbbing savagely in response to their soft hot flesh, getting it up and coming three and four times in succession. But teasing wasn't all that Vera liked to do to luscious young girls. She had a crazy streak in her that could drive her helpless partner into a nut-house.

"Come on, Lane," Vera's husky voice urged now, "Bring me home a hot one, honey. Tonight I want a pair of beautiful big tits, all fat and silky and hot, hmmm! Sprinkle sugar on 'em and lick it off – tease 'em and love 'em and suck 'em 'til they're screaming with happiness and then…"

Lane slammed his phone down. It was useless talking to her when she was this drunk. But the fact was she'd given him an immense hard-on and he was almost tempted to run home for a wild quickie – plunge it in, whip it out, return satisfied.

His phone buzzed again and he snapped it up.

"Goddamnit, Vera, I told you to sober up!"

"This is security upstairs," a voice broke in.

"Well, what is it?" Lane said irritably, glancing up at the mirrored ceiling.

"I think I got one for you, Mr. Lane," the voice said excitedly.

Suddenly Lane was alert, sitting tensely up. "Who, Goddamnit? Where?"

"The cute new dealer on table four. Well, I've been watching her for about an hour now, and I think she's got an agent – the guy in seat five with the red tie and blazer. She's double-paying him on wins and once in a while not collecting on losses."

Lane's blood was seething now, with a mixture of fury mid lingering lust from his wife's voice.

"Are you sure?"

"Just about, Mr. Lane," the voice said. "I mean, I saw her double-pay four times in the past thirty minutes, all big bets too. I've had the camera on her for almost an hour. You want me to rush the film downstairs for developing?"

"Yeah, right away, pronto. I want to be absolutely sure on this one, you understand? Which guard is this anyway?"

"Name's Johnson, sir."

"Damn good work, Johnson," Lane said, biting his lip. "If you're right about this one, I'll see that you get a hundred-buck bonus. Now move your ass on that film."

"Yes sir."

Lane put the phone back, lighting a cigarette and running his eyes over the new blackjack dealer through the swirls of smoke. Absolutely gorgeous ass and legs to boot. So the bitch was working with her boyfriend, hm? The film was always the crusher, removing all doubt. When they were confronted with slow-motion pictures, they had a variety of reactions. Some would panic and try to run. Some would break down and cry. Some would claim it was a mistake, a series of slips – that's all. The women dealers almost always broke down and cried. The casinos did not call in the regular cops in such cases. It was a private internal matter and they dealt out their own brands of justice. First offense, slap on the wrist, withhold their paychecks and fire them on the spot. You could never trust a thief in this business, never!

Second offense – that became a bit harsher. A blacklist was circulated throughout all the casinos in the state and if their description was on the blacklist it meant they'd been caught before. Second offense meant a nice thorough beating for the male dealers, a brutal slapping around for the women.

And if they'd been caught twice before?

Lane exhaled smoke through his nostrils and raked his cold eyes over the blackjack dealer's lush ass. Third offense could mean hospitalization, but if they'd been caught too many times or especially if they'd stolen too much from the house… Well, the desert was an awfully vast and desolate place. No tombstones, just bye, bye thief. You simply did not fuck with the big boys' money so lightly.