Harry Varchetta leaned back in his deep leather chair and propped his feet on his desk. He glanced at a bank of surveillance monitors. Suddenly interested, he swung his feet to the floor and concentrated on the craps table action on one of the monitors: a seven showed on the dice. Varchetta cackled as he watched the craps dealer rake in the stack of pale green $500 chips.

Sweat glistened on top of the Texas oilman's balding head as he handed more of the precious green chips to the dealer for placement on the craps layout. He was a plunger and a terrible player to boot.

The shooter, a meek little old woman who was a steady local customer, was betting five dollars at a time on the pass-line, as she did every afternoon.

But today the high roller had spooked her with his heavy action. She didn't want to be responsible for his fate.

She had been ahead twenty dollars or so before the big fellow started playing. Then, "Seven-out, line away!" quickly became a familiar cry from the stickman. She lost her twenty, and ten more, while the Texan dropped at least $45,000.

Now her hands were shaking. The game had turned ugly. The old woman threw a four on the come-out, a hard number to make. The Texan immediately took all the place bets, but her next roll was a seven. She sighed and lowered her head.

The high roller simply laughed and shrugged his shoulders, seemingly unconcerned. That's the way dice went sometimes, and he knew it. But he kidded the old woman mercilessly, which fed her anxiety.

Varchetta watched the monitor, a grin spreading across his face. He tugged at his right ear, then tapped the pencil against the bridge of his nose as he watched the little drama that was unfolding on the casino floor.

A seven showed again. Varchetta laughed aloud and jumped in his chair. He watched the surveillance monitor with his tiny black eyes riveted to the craps table. He waited for the oilman to place another huge bet. But it didn't happen. Varchetta was disappointed and relieved at the same time. The Texan shrugged and tossed in a generous stack of black $100 chips "for the boys," then sauntered to the little old woman.

She cringed as the big man approached. She started to apologize, but he quieted her protests with a gentle pat on the shoulder, and handed her a $500 chip. Dumbfounded, the old woman watched her tormentor-turned-benefactor disappear into the crowd. Then, impulsively, she turned and laid the pale green $500 chip on the pass line. The stickman shoved the dice over to her. With two fingers, she carefully plucked them off the green felt and closed her eyes, willing her luck to change. With her eyes still closed, she tossed them toward the far end of the table.

In his upstairs office, Varchetta's eyes were fixed on the monitor. With a satisfied laugh, he watched her shoulders sag as the dealer scooped in the lone chip. The old woman turned and walked away, head down.

Varchetta picked up the telephone and punched one digit. A moment later he bellowed, "Tell Anderson he'd damn well better watch what he's doing! His eyes went wide for a moment. "Anderson, Anderson, Anderson, for Christ's sake! I didn't stutter, did I? He was handling that old broad's crummy action, and couldn't even do that right! He was so damn busy watching that asshole from Texas that he forgot to take her money when she sevened-out."

Varchetta's eyes went wide and he leaned forward in his chair. "Yes he did! He did too, you moron! I saw it happen twice! And it's your job to see to it he doesn't make mistakes!"

He slammed the phone down and jumped to his feet. He began pacing, running his hands through his thinning black hair as he tugged at his ear. He stopped for a moment to pour a drink from a crystal decanter. He tossed it down, and then poured another.

Once again he felt uneasy about Felicia. She was a potential source of embarrassment--and even worse if she talked to the wrong people. He was the butt of too many jokes already, a man who couldn't hang on to his wife. The jokes didn't bother him all that much, but the rumors from higher up made him nervous.

He sighed and tried to shrug off the dark thoughts. What the hell! He was one of the most powerful men in Vegas. "Yeah," he said aloud. "I got nothing to worry about."

Varchetta gulped his drink then belched. Picking up a TV remote, he swiveled in his chair and clicked through the channels.

Then he saw it. His eyes went wide as he watched the footage of a spectacular car crash. The commentator's voice over the scene was somber: "Jonathan Flynn, last year's Formula One champion, was killed late this afternoon during a Canadian-American sports car race at Las Vegas International Raceway. Flynn, a favorite with fans and the motoring press, will be missed...."

Varchetta stared at the screen for a moment. Then he put his head back and laughed, "So, Flynn finally got his. That sonofabitch finally got his!" Suddenly serious, he tapped the side of his nose with a pencil. Thinking aloud, he said, "Felicia will be at Flynn's funeral, which will undoubtedly be held in Reno. Perfect!"

Varchetta buzzed his secretary. "Get Benny Florentine." He listened for a moment, and then pounded on his desk. "Then beep him, damn it! Do I have to think for you, too?" He slammed down the phone.

Twenty minutes later, a granite wedge in an ill-fitting business suit lumbered into the room. The man's eyes were gray and flat behind hooded eyelids. His short blond crew cut glistened and his massive forehead jutted over his eyebrows, adding to his simian appearance. His neck bulged over his collar where the necktie was knotted.

Varchetta smiled. He felt comfortable when Benny was around. He was a reminder of the Good Old Days, when muscle was the way to get things done. Benny was six-seven, and three-hundred-forty-five pounds of solid muscle. Unfortunately, Varchetta thought, most of it rested between his ears. But at least Benny was reliable.

"You want something, boss?" Benny's thin, high-pitched voice emanating from that monstrous body proved that nature had a sense of humor. "Yes, Benny, I want something. I want Felicia back, and I want her back now!"

Benny nodded, concentrating on the boss's instructions, though the voice in his head distracted him: Mr. Varchetta don't like screw-ups. The last time, he took away all the girls for two whole weeks! Remember that? Benny nodded gravely at his unfortunate loss.

"What the hell are you nodding at?" Varchetta barked. The hulk began to mumble an explanation. Varchetta cut him off with a look of disgust. "Christ, sometimes you give me the creeps!"

The boss wrote down an address, and repeated his instructions several times. Then he took a sheaf of bills from his inside coat pocket. "Don't let Jilly catch you or your ass will be in a sling."

"Don't worry about Jilly, boss. He's old. He won't be no trouble."

Varchetta slammed his fist on the desk. "You moron! Jilly might be old, but I pity you if you think he won't be any trouble!"