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The pit boss’s voice is as dark and oily as his hair.

“Heck of a hit,” he comments. Still working that chip back and forth over his fingers, I see.

I swallow and put on my best aw-shucks expression for him.

“Beginner’s luck,” I say. “Whaddya know?”

The gee-willikers act might be a little much, but I’m practically creaming my jeans being this close to that much cash, and it’s taking all my self-control not to just crabwalk my hand over and grab a fistful of bills like they’re jellybeans and book it out of here, Uncle Sam be damned.

“Was starting to think that new meter was broken,” he says, cool as caviar. “Made me look like a dumbass for suggesting we bring in that game.”

Hah. Bet he just liked looking at the pirate girls’ cartoon asses. “Well, I, for one, am glad you did.”

I’m pushing my luck, being cheeky like this. But he smiles, and it’s a real one, spreading out the thin mustache that’s crawling over his upper lip. “I watched every hand,” he says, his voice lower now. “Three hours. Textbook main game. Side bets a bit…all over the place. I’d love to know”—the chip rolls across his knuckles—“how you pulled it off.”

Adrenaline dumps into my veins, but I don’t give him the satisfaction, not even when he ever-so-subtly lifts his gaze to the black dome that sits over the cage. As if I didn’t know that everything in a fucking casino is recorded by the eye in the sky.

I shrug. “Just a hunch, I guess.”

He smiles. “The play’s clean,” he says. “I’m happy to say so. But we will have the upstairs office look over everything, just to make sure it’s all on the level.” He nods up at the black dome over the cage. “They’re very thorough.”

“I’m sure they are.”

I lay my arm next to his on the lip of the cage counter, drumming my fingers and glancing back at the cashier as she riffles through some forms. The cash is right fucking there. Right fucking⁠—

A red-shirted floorman sidles up to Pit Boss, nods him aside. I pretend not to notice—as if I couldn’t notice—but my ears are pricked like fucking Batboy.

“Table nine, around ten-thirty…knocked them over, palmed a few…two fives, maybe three…”

Pit Boss’s eyes slice to me.

And somehow, I just know, we’ve made the same conclusion at the same time.

It’s a clean win with a dirty stake. Three five-dollar chips that weren’t mine, they’ve got me on camera, and that’s all the excuse a place like the Roger needs to hold me in a back room and use my kneecaps for batting practice. No, scratch that: a place like the Roger doesn’t even need the excuse, but I guess they’re feeling polite.

Two more floormen have drifted up, now, one at each of his elbows. Pit Boss drops the chip into his pocket and steps back to me.

“Seems we’ve got something to sort out, hm?” His hand settles on my shoulder, all five fingers like an iron clamp. “Perhaps we can discuss it upstairs?”

The girl in the dress. The golden doors closing. VIP access.

Not a chance in hell.

I smile as wide as my face will go.

“Boss,” I say, stuffing my hand into my jacket pocket, “you’ve been a hell of a host.”

And with that, I fling open my jacket, lunge for the cage, and sweep the bricks of cash against my chest.

The clerk shrieks as I slap my jacket shut and leap sideways, the last band of bills still in her hand.

“Keep the change,” I yell back, and by the time Pit Boss seems to realize what’s happened, I’m already past the first bank of machines.

“Get him!” he roars.

Footfalls thud behind me, bleeping and blooping and idiotic carnival casino music all but drowning them out, and I fucking book it. I cut through the slots, past the bluehairs and their buckets and the cartoon pinups blinking at me from every screen, sprinting like I’m on fire and pinning the cash to my chest like it’s a kitten I’m trying to save from the blaze. As I run, I feel something fall down my jacket sleeve: the fucking chip, the five-dollar chip that they want to invalidate this whole goddamn thing over. I give my arm a shake and palm it as I jump just in time to clear someone’s oxygen tank rolling behind them. The crowd’s thinning; up ahead, I spy a lone old lady at a machine, pink windbreaker and white curls. Perfect. Good karma, right? As I dash past, I flick the chip into the bucket: “Don’t spend it all in one place, young lady.”

Her eyes widen behind her glasses. “Oh, my!”