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.