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Ace Up His Sleeve
It was all Frankie's idea. If it were up to me and Ishmael, none of this would've happened. Okay, maybe it would've happened, but it wouldn't've happened in a way that we knew about. It was a usual Tuesday night in the casino, money was flowing and the lights were bright. Ishmael -- the crew calls him Mael but it doesn't suit him – and I were walking the floor over by the blackjack tables keeping an eye on the girls. Tuesday nights were the nights the boss scheduled the real pretty girls to get money in since it's so slow usually. Our boss doesn't like scheduling a lot of girls on the weekend since the drunks tend to get handsy. After one of the girls pulled out a hair stick and stabbed a customer for copping a feel, that policy went into effect real fast. We like our girls feisty, but stabbing idiots hurts business. Connie over at the blackjack tables reached up to her impeccably tight French twist and tucked a nonexistent stray lock back into her 'do. The tacky, blocky costume jewelry bracelet on the moving hand winked in the lights. That was the signal. Someone at her table was raking in the money a little too well. Truth be told, we don't really care how he was doing it -- counting cards, got something up his sleeve, even Lady Luck blowing him under the tables -- but the man was done. Casinos existed to make money for the people that ran them, not the people that played in them. I shifted closer to the tables to get a scope on things while Ishmael called in the cavalry. I could hear him through the earpiece.