A dour, hulking van, dirty metallic grey, rested outside the main doors under the towering “Casino” sign, the dim neon lights struggling to compete with the persistent, orange glowing sun on a hot August afternoon.

The driver rolled his window, letting a warm, sticky breeze flutter through the crack, providing more unbearable warmth to the passengers of the vehicle. He turned his head, granting his attention to the trio in the back. They sat solemnly, deadly serious, breathing gently in unison. Then, brushing a strand of dirty blonde hair from his sweat speckled forehead, he gazed up the extravagant marble steps which gave way to the dimmed brown-black doors. He nodded gravely – his nerves getting the better of him – and in less than a second a clutter arose as the men filed out the back of the van, and ceased just as abruptly.

They made their way towards the steps in single file, the last in the line dragging a case, straining to support itself atop tiny little wheels. Sweat stained their matching slate-grey jumpsuits.

Chalk it up to the heat, rather than apprehension.

Upon reaching the top, they explained their purpose to the sharp-suited doormen in perfect, fluent, heavily rehearsed English.

“We're air conditioners.” said the first, holding a slack-jawed, distant gaze.

“What my brother Jeb means,” interjected the tallest of the three, speaking more eloquently, “is that we're here to fix your busted air conditioner. The owner called us up this morning.”

The third man drew attention to the case, as if reinforcing a point.

“Yuh-huh. That's wut we're 'ure for.” stammered the first man who wore a blue and white cap over his shaggy mop of brown hair.

“I see. Wait here a moment.” said the doorman to their left, the only words he offered them over the course of the subsequent five minutes of tense eye shifting and nervous coughing. After some checking through the appointment files, confirming the men actually did have a job to do, the three were granted access to one of the world's most distinguished casinos.

Child's Play.

They filtered in, under the ever watching eye of security cameras and guards, and moved to a secluded corner.

“Why do I always have to play the Neanderthal?” moaned the man in the cap. “It's so degrading, really!”

“But you act it so well. . .”

“A thespian of my rank should not be reduced to such meaningless, humiliating tasks.”

“Shut up, “Jeb”, someone's coming.”

“Yeah, so, um, where are we going then? The ventilation room, right?” asked the third man, continuing the ruse.

The man in the cap sighed audibly. “Uh. . .I dunno!” he blurted with brain-dead laughter.

“Excuse me,” coughed the tall man, politely, noticing the suspicious glare from the passing security official, “might you know where we could find the air-conditioning vent? See, my brothers and I are supposed to be fixing it, and they basically just let us in without any clue as to where we would be going, and -”

The man tipped his hat with a grunt and pointed to some colourful signposts next to the men, who tried to look embarrassed.

“Thank you!” they yelled as the man waddled away, ignoring them, before moving off in the complete opposite direction.

The casino was a bright, comforting place. One-armed Bandits beckoned tourists with more loose change than brains with their colourful flashing lights and simple, teasing sound effects; lights flashed blues and reds and yellows high above on a hi-tech looking ceiling; infectious pop tunes blared through oversized speaker systems around which the ground visibly shook. Three men sidled through it all, avoiding the hustle and bustle, invisible to the money-hungry crowd of all ages.

The casino floor was largely open plan, all the main action was enclosed in the one space with the all-seeing, all-knowing security guards and the ever observant cameras. The intricate workings of the casino happened in back rooms, accessible from a number of side entrances. It wasn't long before the men reached the one they were looking for.

Now they would wait, trying to remain inconspicuous.

Outside, a large grey van was parked in the casino car park, from which the team's technical support man worked.

“Clickity click! Bye bye!” he giggled, tapping a few keys and watching with self-satisfaction as all of the casino's many CCTV cameras fizzled out of focus, the pictures eventually descending into total blackness.

“Ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred,” whispered the tall man, back inside the casino, counting the time until the cameras were to be switched off, “let's go.”

The men collected the tool case and continued towards their objective with quick, but not overly eager footsteps.

“What do you think you're doing?” yelled a voice. “Security!”

The three men turned sharply in perfect synchronisation towards the source of the uproar. A croupier, wearing a white shirt and black waistcoat, was calling out from behind a Blackjack table, beside whom a thin, bony, Asian man in a navy blue track suit stood looking genuinely shocked.

“This man is cheating! Cheating!” screamed the croupier. “He hasn't lost a hand in twelve games!”

“He lies. He is lying,” the Asian man persisted, uneasily, “I am doing no such thing.”

In a matter of seconds several nearby security officials had gathered around the table to assess the situation. The three men shrugged and continued about their business unrivalled.

The men now absent from the room, the Asian man continued to kick up a fuss, becoming increasingly irritated, almost to the point of violence.

Muffled shuffling on the plush velvet carpets rose to a crescendo, the footsteps the property of a man in a pea green suit jacket and muddy brown trousers. He slicked his hair back, winked at some passing females, and, in an immediate change of tone, sternly addressed the situation opposing him.

“What seems to be the problem here?” he questioned, simultaneously clicking his fingers, forcing the muscle-bound guards to “heel”.

“This man,” the croupier answered, reverting from hot and bothered to highly professional, “is a cheat.” The retort was blunt and offensive.

The Asian gentleman lunged forwards at the card dealer, but was stopped dead by 250 pounds of hired muscle, a long extended arm sweeping him clean off his feet.

“This way please.” said the smartly dressed man - who was clearly the casino's primary owner - as he and one of his goons carted the riled gentleman off of the main floor.

Elsewhere in the casino, three air-conditioning repairmen were handling vast amounts of cash. . .

The door to the back room of the casino (mostly used for holding rowdy gamblers or interrogating suspected swindlers) burst open, the end result of a forceful kick placed to the area near the handle, and one of the security guards from the blackjack incident earlier stood in its place.

Inside the room was only a small table and a handful of chairs, two of which were occupied – one by the casino owner, the other by the Asian gentleman, who was becoming increasingly worried and uneasy, due to a towering, heavy-set security guard looming over him.

“What do you want?” asked the owner, insistently, to the man in the doorway, who was breathing heavily, a look of shock over his face.

“The camera guy just reported a disturbance. Apparently his cameras just shut off, and the vault could be in imminent danger.”

“Okay, gather up the men on duty today, take Tobias,” he motioned to the guard behind the quivering Asian man, “and check it out. NOW!”

In one severely delayed motion, the two men present barrelled full tilt back to the casino floor to round up more mercenaries for the crusade to the vault.

The manager, leaving the Asian gentleman to contemplate in solitude, headed for the surveillance room. The door, marked with the picture of a movie studio-esque camera, led into a distasteful grey room, the walls plain and depressing, a full display of black and white televisions adorning one side.

The CCTV supervisor was no where to be found.

The owner watched inactivity over the now apparently functioning cameras – no visible threat was discernible, nothing to damage the reputation of his fine casino. In the far right corner, a money collection vehicle, like the hundreds he had seen enter and leave his casino daily, pulled out of the parking lot steadily, nonchalantly, with no threat whatsoever.

He let himself relax.

An hour or so later, in a small suburban home, a man dressed in an air-conditioning repairman's uniform emptied the contents of several bags onto a large, circular, wooden table. Around the table sat the remaining two repairmen, their driver and computer tech, a croupier fighting strenuously with his neck tie, a handful of men in jumpsuits marked “Security”, and a final man wearing a blue cotton shirt and a “technical supervisor” name badge.

They dished the money out, celebrating their winnings, their triumph, and laughing about the little Asian gentleman still being held as a consequence of their deeply laid plans, and the casino manager, blissfully unaware that he had just been robbed by the people he trusted most.

Kristofer McClelland4