Now he almost hoped it was marked. If so, then maybe the FBI would track him down and tell him where the money came from. He'd done nothing wrong. The guilty party was dead. Bring on the feds.
He found an empty chair at a blackjack table and laid five bills down for chips. "Greens," he said like a veteran gambler.
"Changing five hundred," the dealer said, barely looking up.
"Change it," came the reply from a pit boss. The tables were busy. Slots were ringing in the background. A crap game was hot off in the distance, men were yelling at the dice.
The dealer picked up the bills as Ray froze for a second. The other players watched with detached admiration. All were playing five - and ten-dollar chips. Amateurs.
The dealer stuffed the Judge's bills, all perfectly valid, into the money box and counted twenty twenty-five-dollar green chips for Ray, who lost half of them in the first fifteen minutes and left to find some ice cream. Down two hundred fifty and not the least bit worried about it.
He ventured near the crap tables and watched the confusion. He could not imagine his father mastering such a complicated game. Where did one learn to shoot dice in Ford County, Mississippi?
According to a thin little gambling guide he'd picked up in a bookstore, a basic wager is a come-bet, and when he mustered the courage he wedged his way between two other gamblers and placed the remaining ten chips on the pass line. The dice rolled twelve, the money was scraped away by the dealer, and Ray left the Rio to visit the Princess next door.
Inside, the casinos were all the same. Old folks staring hopelessly at the slots. Just enough coins rattling in the trays to keep them hooked. Blackjack tables crowded with subdued players slugging free beer and whiskey. Serious gamblers packed around the crap tables hollering at the dice. A few Asians playing roulette. Cocktail waitresses in silly costumes showing skin and hauling drinks.
He picked out a blackjack table and repeated the procedure. His next five bills passed the dealer's inspection. Ray bet a hundred dollars on the first hand, but instead of quickly losing his money, he began winning.
He had too much untested cash in his pocket to waste time accumulating chips, so when he'd doubled his money, he pulled out ten more bills and asked for hundred-dollar chips. The dealer informed the pit boss, who offered a gapped smile, and said, "Good luck." An hour later, he left the table with twenty-two chips.
Next on his tour was the Forum, an older-looking establishment with an odor of stale cigarette smoke partially masked by cheap disinfectant. The crowd was older too because, as he soon realized, the Forum's specialty was quarter slots and those over sixty-five got a free breakfast, lunch, or dinner, take your pick. The cocktail waitresses were on the downhill side of forty and had given up the notion of showing flesh. They hustled about in what appeared to be track suits with matching sneakers.
The limit at blackjack was ten dollars a hand. The dealer hesitated when he saw Ray's cash hit the table, and he held the first bill up to the light as if he'd finally caught a counterfeiter. The pit boss inspected it too, and Ray was rehearsing his lines about procuring that particular bill down the street at the Rio. "Cash it," said the pit boss, and the moment passed. He lost three hundred dollars in an hour.
Fog claimed to be breaking the casino when they met for a quick sandwich. Ray was down a hundred dollars, but like all gamblers lied and said he was up slightly. They agreed to leave at 5 P.M. and fly back to Charlottesville.
The last of Ray's cash was converted to chips at a fifty-dollar table in Canyon Casino, the newest of those on the boardwalk. He played for a while but soon grew tired of cards and went to the sports bar, where he sipped a soda and watched boxing from Vegas. The five thousand he brought to Atlantic City had been thoroughly flushed through the system. He would leave with forty-seven hundred, and a wide trail. He had been filmed and photographed in seven casinos. At two of them he had filled in paperwork when cashing in chips at the cashiers' windows. At two others he had used his credit cards to make small withdrawals, just to leave more evidence behind.
If the Judge's cash was traceable, then they would know who he was and where to find him.
Fog was quiet as they rode back to the airport. His luck had turned south during the afternoon. "Lost a couple hundred," he finally admitted, but his demeanor suggested he'd lost much more.
"You?" he asked.
"I had a good afternoon," Ray said. "Won enough to pay for the charter."
"That's not bad."
"Don't suppose I could pay for it in cash, could I?"
"Cash is still legal," Fog said, perking up a bit.
"Then cash it is."
During the preflight, Fog asked if Ray wanted to fly in the left seat. "We'll call it a lesson," he said. The prospect of a cash transaction had raised his spirits.
Behind two commuter flights, Ray taxied the Bonanza into position and waited for traffic to clear. Under the close eye of Fog, he began the takeoff roll, accelerated to seventy miles per hour, then lifted smoothly into the air. The turbocharged engine seemed twice as powerful as the Cessna's. They climbed with little effort to seventy-five hundred feet and were soon on top of the world.
Dick Docker was napping in the Cockpit when Ray and Fog walked in to log the trip and turn in headsets. He jumped to attention and made his way to the counter. "Didn't expect you back so soon," he mumbled, half-asleep, as he pulled paperwork from a drawer.
"We broke the casino," Ray said.
Fog had disappeared down into the study room of the flight school.
"Gee, I never heard that before."
Ray was flipping through the logbook.
"You paying now?" Dick asked, scribbling numbers.
"Yes, and I want the cash discount."
"Didn't know we had one."
"You do now. It's ten percent."
"We can do that. Yep, it's the old cash discount." He figured again, then said, "Total's thirteen hundred and twenty bucks."
Ray was counting money from his wad of bills. "I don't carry twenties. Here's thirteen." As Dick was recounting the money, he said, "Some guy came poking around today, said he wanted to take lessons and somehow your name came up."
"Who was he?"
"Never saw him before."
"Why was my name used?"
"It was kinda weird. I was giving him the spiel about costs and such, and out of the blue he asked if you owned an airplane. Said he knew you from someplace."
Ray had both hands on the counter. "Did you get his name?"
"I asked. Dolph something or other, wasn't real clear. Started acting suspicious and finally left. I watched him. He stopped by your car in the parking lot, walked around it like he might break in or something, then left. You know a Dolph?"
"I've never known a Dolph."
"Me neither. I've never heard of a Dolph. Like I said, it was weird."
"What'd he look like?"
"Fiftyish, small, thin, head full of gray hair slicked back, dark eyes like a Greek or something, used-car-salesman type, pointed-toe boots."
Ray was shaking his head. Not a clue.
"Why didn't you just shoot him?" Ray asked.
"Thought he was a customer."
"Since when are you nice to your customers?"
"You buying the Bonanza?"
"Nope. Just dreaming."
Fog was back and they congratulated each other on a wonderful trip, promised to do it again, the usual. Driving away, Ray watched every car and every turn.