“She’s got to stop pulling stunts like this, Margot.”
Sloane knows that the security guard’s usage of the word stunt is a fairly
recent linguistic innovation—late nineteenth century, origin unknown. Personally, she prefers the terms exploit and feat.
“What was it this time?” Sloane’s mother is wearing a tight white T- shirt and jeans. Not her work clothes.
Interesting. Only 15 percent of Margot Tavish’s personal wardrobe is white.
“Blackjack tables.” Security keeps the reply brief. Sloane should really learn his name—just like she’s already learned the placement of the three dozen security cameras in the Majesty, the blind spots, and how to work her way through the casino while minimizing the chances that she’ll show up on film. It’s harder to hide from the guards.
Harder, but not impossible.
“She was counting cards.” Security does not sound happy about that. “For other players, Margot. Took three hands before we managed to escort her out.”
“I was not counting anything.” Sloane feels like that has to be clarified, even if clarifying it earns her a glare from an annoyed Margot. “I was tracking the number and distribution of cards that had already been played in an effort to calculate the individual probabilities of the next card being favorable to either the player or the dealer.”
Security lets out what Sloane deeply suspects is an exasperated sigh. Sloane has a great deal of experience with other people’s exasperation.
“No more, Margot. Kid’s twelve, and she’s already persona non grata on the strip. I don’t need to tell you how uncomfortable this could be if word works its way up the chain of command at the Majesty.”
Sloane knows the chain of command at the Majesty precisely as well as she knows the locations of the security cameras. That is, after all, the point.
To get the owner’s attention. To make him see her.
Margot puts a hand on Sloane’s shoulder and pulls Sloane’s smaller body back against her own. Sloane calculates that there is a 12 percent chance this is a sign of affection. More likely, it is protectiveness.
Or possibly a warning.
“If Shaw says anything, you can tell him that it’s not my fault she’s a genius.”
It is not Sloane’s mother’s fault that Sloane is Sloane. That hurts, and it is not precisely true.
“Due to genetic polymorphism…” That is as far as Sloane gets before the security guard takes a step forward toward her mother.
The gesture appears quite threatening.
“I’m trying to help you out here, Margot. If Shaw wanted your kid around, he’d tell you.”
“I’m his kid, too,” Sloane says.
There is a long pause. A 12.35-second pause, by Sloane’s estimation. “Your boss has always been very clear,” Margot Tavish whispers finally,
“about what he does and does not want.”
