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?