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!”