I wave across the casino floor to my boyfriend for this particular evening, glance down the roulette table to make sure I have the croupier’s attention, then shout at my boyfriend to come on over and join me.

For an instant all eyes are on me.

Perfect.

Then the croupier glances across the casino floor to see who I’m calling. She’s curious. It’s the most natural thing in the world. A harmless distraction. My supposed boyfriend waves, raises his drink, points to the slot machine and grins like a goof having the time of his life in good ol’ Las Vegas.

That’s when I make the play.

First I slip a dark brown five hundred dollar chip under two red five dollar chips. Pinch the chips between my fingers and tuck my hand inward, hiding the big-money chip from the croupier and the other players at the table. Then, moving casually, I lean down to place my bet.

This is the first danger point.

If I’m spotted now—

Without looking up to see if I’m busted, I angle the two red chips toward the front of the table so the croupier can’t see the five-hundred dollar chip hiding underneath. I set the chips down on lucky number thirteen, a first column bet with a payout of two to one. Take an enthusiastic sip of my Long Island Iced Tea, giggle, waver slightly on my chair, shake my fists at the spinning wheel and make it seem like I’ve got my entire life riding on that one roulette spin.

Which is…ha ha on me…the truth.

Even worse, I hate iced tea.

Stiffs call the move I’m about to pull past-posting.

Grifters like me call it the Savannah.

Conventional wisdom says the Savannah is one of the fastest ways to get yanked by a scowling security meathead and shoved into a cold metal chair in a cinderblock room deep in the bowels of the casino.

But that’s bullshit. What happens is the casino calls the Nevada gaming commission guys and you get sent to prison. Dreary, boring stuff. Unless you’ve got a history of being a grifter.

A
lifelong
history.

Unless your name’s been blacklisted across the entire state—

Then you get the back room.

The scowling meathead.

Maybe even a ball-pean hammer to the fingers.

Yeah. I have a lot riding on tonight not going haywire.

The Savannah’s a one-shot scam. You either hit it and collect or you bail and hustle on out. The croupier can’t see the brown chip hidden underneath. But the eye in the sky straight above
has
to. You need the eye to see the big-money chip so if you hit, you have evidence the chip was actually there for the whole spin when the croupier cries foul. But that’s a problem, because it means there’s evidence of the scam occurring
as it’s happening
, and a trained security tool will spot that brown chip tucked under the reds and call it in.

Leaves very little wiggle room if you have to make the dash—

Tonight I’m playing the fish. The dumb-as-hell casino novice just out for a good time. It’s my standard role. I’ve got it dialed. I’ve got a suburban UNLV college-girl look going on: tan leather platforms and a pair of skinny jeans and a flowing retro-style lavender blouse that’s dressy but not too flashy. Add a vintage necklace, a half-drunk smile, a decent quality wig and I’m good.

Kind of like the outfit, actually.

Might be the best thing about the entire evening.

Unless the Savannah comes through.

Then this evening will be one for the record books.

Oh, I almost forgot. Little Miss College Girl needs an accomplice. A jocky, bored, overprotective boyfriend. One who’s playing like he’s regretting ever having introducing his college sweet to the evils of Las Vegas gaming—

“Lets get out of here, Annie. It’s getting late,” my boyfriend says as he slides into the chair next to mine.

“Thought you loved gambling?” I say, acting shocked.

“Not my night. Let’s roll.”

“But Jacky-love this is so cool!” I almost squeal, taking another sip of booze and flinging my arms around ‘Jack,’ whose real name is Jay. I plant a sloppy kiss on my accomplice’s five o’clock shadow, smearing pink lipstick, then say, “I really can’t believe how much I like this. The…thrill. Oh my god and the money? Look! I’m up like…thirty-four dollars!”

Jay flicks the croupier an apologetic smile for his nitwit girlfriend’s behavior.

Meanwhile, the roulette wheel’s spinning and the five hundred chip is sitting pretty on the table and the play is in full swing, too late to back down now, too late for cold feet and excuses because me and Jacky-love, we’re
committed
. I’m tingling all over. Little sparks of electricity coursing through me. Adrenaline and the body’s cocktail of natural stimulants surging through my blood.

Is thieving a rush?

Bet your ass.

Especially when you do it to eat.

But like any other drug…you develop a tolerance. An easy play like picking pockets from wandering tourists or wallets from the purses of rich-bitch socialites at the day spa loses its charm. Like anyone else, a grifter wants to move up in the world. Craves the big score. The one that’ll get remembered.

That’s what tonight’s about. It’s a graduation, of sorts.

“C’mon, Annie. Let’s get out of here,” Jay repeats in a tone like he means it. “We got finals tomorrow—”

“One more round?” I ask, batting eyelashes and flipping hair. I lower my voice just enough to be heard by everyone. “I haven’t been this excited since I saw Drake at Coachella. Maybe later, you and I could—”

“You want one more spin, girl?” the croupier interrupts.

I look at ‘Jack’ for approval. He sighs and flings his hands up in surrender, then settles beside me, eyeing the spinning wheel. Jay’s a heavily-muscled, clean-cut guy wearing ironed grey slacks and a navy blue golf shirt. Him and me go way back. I was eleven and he was thirteen when we started doing jobs together. It doesn’t come quite as naturally to him, but he’s reliable. Doesn’t show up drunk or high. In this business that’s a major selling feature.

Now, nine years and a few drama-filled flings later, here we are.

Haven’t exactly lit the world on fire, have we?

The roulette wheel’s clicking along.

The stacked chips are on the table.

One brown lurking under two reds.

This is the easy part. All I have to do is keep my shit together and play at being excited, which isn’t hard: I
am
excited.

Two people are playing the table with me. Neither are in on the scam. A paunchy middle-aged guy with shiny cheeks and a sharp widow’s peak, and another guy who is so dull-looking I almost forget he’s there. Both pretend to study their chips while Jack and me smooch and paw at one another.

The paunchy guy gives a little sigh of frustration.

The wheel’s spinning.

Finally sowing…

Thing is, it’s nearly three in the morning on a Tuesday night. This cute little college girl should be in bed. That’s what the men behind the cameras are thinking. Which means we’ve got to make a move, and quick, or the night’s a zero.

I can’t afford another zero. No one in the crew can.

That’s a problem.

Best time to steal is when you don’t need to.

And there it is. So subtle and insidious I hardly notice it.

Doubt. Fear.

The body’s a funny thing. Half the time it reacts without conscious thought to a bunch of shit—thoughts, emotions, even memories—we’re barely even aware of. We live our lives with the illusion of control. But get scared, or worried, or have someone throw a punch at you…then see how much control you really have.

That’s what’s happening now. Without meaning to, I tense up. Overgrip my Long Island. My smile becomes tight. Fake-looking.

They’re on to you.

The thought comes from nowhere.

Explodes into my head.

The tool’s on his way—

Shit. A thought like that in the middle of a play can get you killed.

Jay senses it. He leans his shoulder to mine. Steadying me.

Only a few more seconds—

I’ve been at the table for forty minutes. Caught a rumor from the grifter underground that this table might be worth a look. Most rumors are bullshit, like nearly everything in Vegas. But there’s that mystique. The town has a reputation to uphold. Even now, with the Strip like another Disneyland full of khaki-wearing tourists and their obnoxious greasy-faced children squealing buy me this buy me that…there’s still that wild west, big-money mystique.

The big score.

The one lucky night to make all the unlucky ones fade away.

So here I am. Trying to relax and keep it together at the same time.

Trying to bring opposites together.

Grifting’s a Zen thing.

Or maybe I could just use some luck.

Thing is, I’ve lived in Vegas my whole life. I know there’s no such thing as luck. You either win or you lose. Or more truthfully, usually you lose and you lose and you lose some more, until you’re dead or on the street.

Because tonight, if I lose, I’m going to prison for a very long time.

I take a quick breath and focus on what I
can
control: the play.

Let my mind wander over how I’ve sized up the croupier.

Tonight’s honeypot is a middle-aged woman, kind of pretty in a worn-out way, hair streaked and pinned up, glasses that are probably fake intended to give her a more serious look, lips surrounded by wrinkles from a lifetime of smoking. My bet is she spent her twenties dancing, then you know time just crept up on her, the new girls kept rolling in and the money didn’t, the manager had that heart-to-heart
well okay we can move you to the serving floor, hun, tips are pretty good and there’s less groping.
So then it was two decades serving watered-down free drinks. Not what she expected from life but hey there’s a roof over her head and the bills are mostly paid and the days slipped by until finally the noise of the floor invaded her dreams, the slots dinging and ringing and buzzing.

She woke up one morning and realized she couldn’t wash the cigarette stink from her skin. Could’t keep the sound of the slots from ringing in her head. But now we’re twenty years later and she’s still living paycheck to paycheck. Options: expired. Opportunity: gone. Sure she got raises now and then, small ones, because she was a hard worker and dependable, never showed up for work wasted like some of the other girls, but the raises never kept up with how
everything’s getting so fucking expensive
.

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