"How can a dealer cheat with all this?" he asked, waving a hand.
Piccolo said, "There are ways," and gave Barker a knowing look. "Many ways. We catch one a month."
"Why do you watch the slots?" Ray asked, changing the subject. He would kill some time scatter-shooting since he'd been promised only one visit upstairs.
"Because we watch everything," Piccolo said. "And because there have been some instances where minors won jackpots. The casinos refused to pay, and they won the lawsuits because they had videos showing the minors ducking away while adults stepped in. Would you like something to drink?"
"Sure."
"We have a secret little room with a better view."
Ray followed them up another flight of stairs to a small enclosed balcony with views of the gaming floor and the surveillance room. A waitress materialized from thin air and took their drink orders. Ray asked for cappuccino. Waters for his hosts.
"What's your biggest security concern?" Ray asked. He was looking at a list of questions he'd pulled from his coat pocket.
"Card counters and sticky-fingered dealers," Piccolo answered. "Those little chips are very easy to drop into cuffs and pockets. Fifty bucks a day is a thousand dollars a month, tax free, of course."
"How many card counters do you see in here?"
"More and more. There are casinos in forty states now, so more people are gambling. We keep extensive files on suspected counters, and when we think we have one here, then we simply ask them to leave. We have that right, you know."
"What's your biggest one-day winner?" Ray asked.
Piccolo looked at Barker, who said, "Excluding slots?"
"Yes
"We had a guy win a buck eighty in craps one night."
"A hundred and eighty thousand?"
"Right."
"And your biggest loser?"
Barker took his water from the waitress and scratched his face for a second. "Same guy dropped two hundred grand three nights later."
"Do you have consistent winners?" Ray asked, looking at his notes as if serious academic research was under way.
"I'm not sure what you mean," Piccolo said.
"Let's say a guy comes in two or three times every week, plays cards or dice, wins more than he loses, and over time racks up some nice gains. How often do you see that?"
"It's very rare," said Piccolo. "Otherwise, we wouldn't be in business."
"Extremely rare," Barker said. 'A guy might get hot for a week or two. We'll zero in on him, watch him real close, nothing suspicious, but he is taking our money. Sooner or later he's gonna take one chance too many, do something stupid, and we'll get our money back."
"Eighty percent lose over time," Piccolo added.
Ray stirred his cappuccino and glanced at his notes. "A guy walks in, complete stranger, lays down a thousand bucks on a blackjack table and wants hundred-dollar chips. What happens up here?"
Barker smiled and cracked his thick knuckles. "We perk up. We'll watch him for a few minutes, see if he knows what he's doing. The pit boss'll ask him if he wants to be rated, or tracked, and if so then we'll get his name. If he says no, then we'll offer him a dinner. The cocktail waitress will keep the drinks coming, but if he doesn't drink then that's another sign that he might be serious."
"The pros never drink when they gamble," Piccolo added. "They might order a drink for cover, but they'll just play with it."
"What is rating?" ;
"Most gamblers want some extras," explained Piccolo. "Dinner, tickets to a show, room discounts, all kinds of goodies we can throw in. They have membership cards that we monitor to see how much they're gambling. The guy in your hypothetical has no card, so we'll ask him if he wants to be rated
"And he says no."
"Then it's no big deal. Strangers come and go all the time."
"But we sure try to keep up with them," Barker admitted.
Ray scribbled something meaningless on his folded sheet of paper. "Do the casinos pool their surveillance?" he asked, and for the first time Piccolo and Barker squirmed in unison.
"What do you mean by pool?" Piccolo asked with a smile, which Ray returned, Barker quickly joining in.
While all three were smiling, Ray said, "Okay, another hypothetical about our consistent winner. Let's say the guy plays one night at the Monte Carlo, the next night at Treasure Cove, the next night at Alladin, and so on down the strip here. He works all the casinos, and he wins a lot more than he loses. And this goes on for a year. How much will you know about this guy?"
Piccolo nodded at Barker, who was pinching his lips between a thumb and an index finger. "We'll know a lot," he admitted.
"How much?" Ray pressed.
"Go on," Piccolo said to Barker, who reluctantly began talking.
"We'll know his name, his address, his occupation, phone number, automobile, bank. We'll know where he is each night, when he arrives, when he leaves, how much he wins or loses, how much he drinks, did -he have dinner, did he tip the waitress, and if so then how much, how much did he tip the dealer."
"And you keep records on these people?"
Barker looked at Piccolo, who nodded yes, very slowly, but said nothing. They were clamming up because he was getting too close. On second thought, a tour was just what he needed. They walked down to the floor where, instead of looking at the tables, Ray was looking up at the cameras. Piccolo pointed out the security people. They stood close to a blackjack table where a kid who seemed like a young teenager was playing with stacks of hundred-dollar chips.
"He's from Reno," Piccolo whispered. "Hit Tunica last week, took us for thirty grand. Very very good."
"And he doesn't count cards," Barker whispered, joining the conspiracy.
"Some people just have the talent for it, like golf or heart surgery," Piccolo said.
"Is he working all the casinos?" Ray asked.
"Not yet, but they're all waiting for him." The kid from Reno made both Barker and Piccolo very nervous.
The visit was finished in a lounge where they drank sodas and wrapped things up. Ray had completed his list of questions, all of which had been leading up to the grand finale.
"I have a favor," he asked the two of them. Sure, anything.
"My father died a few weeks ago, and we have reason to believe he was sneaking over here, shooting dice, perhaps winning a lot more than he was losing. Can this be confirmed?"
"What was his name?" asked Barker.
"Reuben Atlee, from Clanton."
Barker shook his head no while pulling a phone from his pocket.
"How much?" asked Piccolo.
"Don't know, maybe a million over a period of years."
Barker was still shaking his head. "No way. Anybody who wins or loses that kinda money, we'll know him well." And then, into the phone, Barker asked the person on the other end if he could check on a Reuben Atlee.
"You think he won a million dollars?" Piccolo asked.
"Won and lost," Ray replied. "Again, we're just guessing."
Barker slammed his phone shut. "No record of any Reuben Atlee anywhere. There's no way he gambled that much around here." '
"What if he never came to this casino?" Ray asked, certain of the answer.
"We would know," they said together.
CHAPTER 24
He was the only morning jogger in Clanton, and for this he got curious stares from the ladies in their flower beds and the maids sweeping the porches and the summer help cutting grass at the cemetery when he ran past the Atlee family plot. The soil was settling around the Judge, but Ray did not stop or even slow down to inspect it. The men who'd dug the grave were digging another. There was a death and a birth every day in Clanton. Things changed little.
It was not yet eight o'clock and the sun was hot and the air heavy. The humidity didn't bother him because he'd grown up with it, but he certainly didn't miss it either.
He found the shaded streets and worked his way back to Maple Run. Forrest's Jeep was there, and his brothe
r was slouched in the swing on the porch. "Kinda early for you, isn't it?" Ray said.
"How far did you run? You're covered in sweat."
"That happens when you jog in the heat. Five miles. You look good."
And he did. Clear, unswollen eyes, a shave, a shower, clean white painter's pants.
"I'm on the wagon, Bro."
"Wonderful." Ray sat in a rocker, still sweating, still breathing heavily. He would not ask how long Forrest had been sober. Couldn't have been more than twenty-four hours.
Forrest bounced from the swing and pulled the other rocker near Ray. "I need some help, Bro," he said, sitting on the edge of the chair. :c Here we go again, Ray said to himself. "I'm listening."
"I need some help," he blurted again, rubbing his hands fiercely as if the words were painful.
Ray had seen it before and had no patience. "Let's go, Forrest, what is it?" It was money, first of all. After that, there were several possibilities.
"There's a place I want to go, about an hour from here. It's way out in the woods, close to nothing, very pretty, a nice little lake in the center, comfortable rooms." He pulled a wrinkled business card from his pocket and handed it to Ray.
Alcorn Village. Drug and Alcohol Treatment Facility. A Ministry of the Methodist Church.
"Who's Oscar Meave?" Ray asked, looking at the card.
"A guy I met a few years ago. He helped me, now he's at that place."
"It's a detox center."
"Detox, rehab, drug unit, dry-out tank, spa, ranch, village, jail, prison, mental ward, call it whatever you want. I don't care. I need help, Ray. Now," He covered his face with his hands and began crying
"Okay, okay." Ray said. "Give me the details.
" Forrest wiped his eyes and his nose and sucked in a heavy load of air. "Call the guy and see if they have a room," he said, his voice quivering”
“How long will you stay?"
"Four weeks, I think, but Oscar can tell you."
"And what's the cost?"
"Somewhere around three hundred bucks a day. I was thinking maybe I could borrow against my share of this place, get Harry Rex to ask the judge if there's a way to get some money now." Tears were dripping from the corners of his eyes.
Ray had seen the tears before. He'd heard the pleas and the promises, and no matter how hard and cynical he tried to be at that moment, he melted. "We'll do something," he said. "I'll call this guy now."
"Please, Ray, I want to go right now."
"Today?"
"Yes, I, uh, well, I can't go back to Memphis." He lowered his head and ran his fingers through his long hair.
"Somebody looking for you?"
"Yeah," he nodded. "Bad guys."
"Not cops?"
"No, they're a helluva lot worse than cops."
"Do they know you're here?" Ray asked, glancing around. He could almost see heavily armed drug dealers hiding behind the bushes.
"No, they have no idea where I am."
Ray stood and went into the house.
Like most folks, Oscar Meave remembered Forrest well. They had worked together in a federal detox program in Memphis, and while he was sad to hear that Forrest was in need of help, he was nonetheless delighted to talk to Ray about him. Ray tried his best to explain the urgency of the matter, though he had no details and was not likely to get any. Their father had died three weeks earlier, Ray said, already making excuses.
"Bring him on," Meave said. "We'll find a place."
They left town thirty minutes later, in Ray's rental car. Forrest's Jeep was parked behind the house, for good measure.
"Are you sure these guys won't be snooping around here?" Ray said.
"They have no idea where I'm from," Forrest replied. His head was back on the headrest, his eyes hidden behind funky sunshades.
"Who are they, exactly?"
"Some really nice guys from south Memphis. You'd like them."
"And you owe them money?"
"Yes."
"How much?"
"Four thousand dollars."
"And where did this four thousand bucks go?"
Forrest gently tapped his nose. Ray shook his head in frustration and anger and bit his tongue to hold back another bitter lecture. Let some miles pass, he told himself. They were in the country now. farmland on both sides. t,
Forrest began snoring.
This would be another Forrest tale, the third time Ray actually loaded him up and hauled him away for detox. The last time had been almost twelve years earlier - the Judge was still presiding, Claudia still at his side, Forrest doing more drugs than anyone in the state. Things had been normal. The narcs had cast a wide net around him, and through blind luck Forrest had sneaked through it. They suspected he was dealing, which was true, and had they caught him he would still be in prison. Ray had driven him to a state hospital near the coast, one the Judge had pulled strings to get him into. There, he slept for a month then walked away.
The first brotherly journey to rehab had been during Ray's law school years at Tulane. Forrest had overdosed on some vile combination of pills. They pumped his stomach and almost pronounced him dead. The Judge sent them to a compound near Knoxville with locked gates and razor wire. Forrest stayed a week before escaping.
He'd been to jail twice, once as a juvenile, once as an adult, though he was only nineteen. His first arrest was just before a high school football game, Friday night, the playoffs, in Clanton with the entire town waiting for kickoff. He was sixteen, a junior, an all-conference quarterback and safety, a kamikaze who loved to hit late and spear with his helmet. The narcs plucked him from the dressing room and led him away in handcuffs. The backup was an untested freshman, and when Clanton got slaughtered the town never forgave Forrest Atlee.
Ray had been sitting in the stands with the Judge, anxious as everyone else about the game. "Where's Forrest?" folks began asking during pregame. When the coin was tossed he was in the city jail getting fingerprinted and photographed. They found fourteen ounces of marijuana in his car.
He spent two years in a juvenile facility and was released on his eighteenth birthday.
How does the sixteen-year-old son of a prominent judge become a dope pusher in a small Southern town with no history of drugs? Ray and his father had asked each other that question a thousand times. Only Forrest knew the answer, and long ago he had made the decision to keep it to himself. Ray was thankful that he buried most of his secrets. . :
After a nice nap, Forrest jolted himself awake and announced he needed something to drink.
"No," Ray said.
"A soft drink, I swear."
They stopped at a country store and bought sodas. For breakfast Forrest had a bag of peanuts.
"Some of these places have good food," he said when they were moving again. Forrest the tour guide for detox centers. Forrest the Michelin critic for rehab units. "I usually lose a few pounds," he said, chomping.
"Do they have gyms and such?" Ray asked, aiding the conversation. He really didn't want to discuss the perks of various drug tanks.
"Some do," Forrest said smugly. "Ellie sent me to this place in Florida near a beach, lots of sand and water, lots of sad rich folks. Three days of brainwashing, then they worked our asses off. Hikes, bikes, power walks, weights if we wanted. I got a great tan and dropped fifteen pounds. Stayed clean for eight months."
In his sad little life, everything was measured by stints of sobriety.
"Ellie sent you?" Ray asked.
"Yeah, it was years ago. She had a little dough at one point, not much. I'd hit the bottom, and it was back when she cared. It was a nice place, though, and some of the counselors were those Florida chicks with short skirts and long legs."
"I'll have to check it out."
"Kiss my ass."
'Just kidding."
"There's this place out West where all the stars go, the Hacienda, and it's the Ritz. Plush rooms, spas, daily massages, chefs who can fix great meals at one thousand calories a day. And
the counselors are the best in the world. That's what I need, Bro, six months at the Hacienda."
"Why six months?"
"Because I need six months. I've tried two months, one month, three weeks, two weeks, it's not enough. For me, it's six months of total lockdown, total brainwashing, total therapy, plus my own masseuse." . .
"What's the cost?"
Forrest whistled and rolled his eyes. "Pick a number. I don't know. You gotta have a zillion bucks and two recommendations to get in. Imagine that, a letter of recommendation. 'To the Fine Folks at the Hacienda: I hereby heartily recommend my friend Doofus Smith as a patient in your wonderful facility. Doofus drinks vodka for breakfast, snorts coke for lunch, snacks on heroin, and is usually comatose by dinner. His brain is fried, his veins are lacerated, his liver is shot to hell. Doofus is your kind of person and his old man owns Idaho.' "
"Do they keep people for six months?"
"You're clueless, aren't you?"
"I guess."
"A lot of cokeheads need a year. Even more for heroin addicts."
And which is your current poison? Ray wanted to ask. But then he didn't want to. "A year?" he said.
"Yep, total lockdown. And then the addict has to do it himself. I know guys who've been to prison for three years with no coke, no crack, no drugs at all, and when they were released they called a dealer before they called their wives or girlfriends."
"What happens to them?"
"It's not pretty." He threw the last of the peanuts into his mouth, slapped his hands together, and sent salt flying.
THERE WERE no signs directing traffic to Alcorn Village. They followed Oscar's directions until they were certain they were lost deep in the hills, then saw a gate in the distance. Down a tree-lined drive, a complex spread before them. It was peaceful and secluded, and Forrest gave it good marks for first impressions.
Oscar Meave arrived in the lobby of the administration building and guided them to an intake office, where he handled the initial paperwork himself. He was a counselor, an administrator, a psychologist, an ex-addict who'd cleaned himself up years ago and received two Ph.D.'s. He wore jeans, a sweatshirt, sneakers, a goatee, and two earrings, and had the wrinkles and chipped tooth of a rough prior life. But his voice was soft and friendly. He exuded the tough compassion of one who'd been where Forrest was now.
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