“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 brother 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.