Robert Asprin - Phules Paradise

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 shooter!"

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."