Oh, please! I thought. Everyone knows me in these parts! I used to be the Wolf of Wall Street, for Chrissake! “That's nothing,” I said confidently. “Watch me take these bastards to the cleaner's!” And I quickly started gambling.
Five minutes later, most of my chips were gone and Kiley was saying, “Why do they keep taking your chips away?”
I shook my head sadly, as I stared at $18,000 of the government's money now being stacked on the wrong side of the craps table. “I'm having a bad run,” I mumbled. “I'll have to get even with the other thirty.”
Just then the towering Box-man walked over holding a clipboard. “Sign here, Mr. B.” And he handed me the clipboard and then a pen.
With a sinking heart, I signed a $50,000 chit, which looked like a certified bank check. Then I took a deep breath and handed it back to him. The Box-man nodded a single time. “I just need a copy of your driver's license,” he added, “and you're good to go.”
“No problem,” and I reached into my back pocket and… “Eh, shit!” I muttered. “I forgot my damn license.” I looked up at the Box-man and smiled. “I'm sure you guys got a copy on file, right?”
He shook his head. “Actually, we don't, Mr. B. You never gambled here before.”
“Hmmm,” I mumbled, “you're right. Let me think… How about calling the Castle and have themfax over my license? That should do the trick, no?” I looked over at Kiley and winked. The Wolf of Wall Street was a masterat working through problems!
Alas, the Box-man began shaking his head again. “It doesn't work that way. Once you show ten thousand in cash, we need to see ID. That's the law.”
I cocked my head to the side and said, “So let me get this straight: You take fifty thousand of mycash, you count it, you give me chips, you let me gamble away twenty grand, and now you won't give me a chance to win my money back?”
The Box-man shrugged. “That's about the size of it, Mr. B.”
Mr. B? Mr. B!What a fucking mockery! If this guy weren't twice my size, I would sock him one—right in that obnoxious fucking mustache! I took a deep breath and said, “All right, can I speak to your boss, please? There's gotta be some way to resolve this.”
“Absolutely!” said the Box-man, happy to pass the buck.
Five minutes later, not only was his boss there but he had five other Suits accompanying him, and they all looked like they belonged in the Corleone crime family. The Suits turned out to be very nice, very helpful, and very patient, but after a great deal of chin-scratching, the Suit of all Suits—namely, the shift manager— finally said to me, “I'm sorry, Mr. B, but there's nothing I can do, other than send a few bottles of champagne up to your suite for you and the pretty young lady to enjoy.” He winked.
“All right. I'll just take my chips and cash out.” I looked over at Kiley. “Come on, sweetheart, it's time to go now.”
“Okay,” she said, oblivious. “Where are we going?”
With a demented smile: “First we're going to cash out, and then we're flying home.” I looked at the shift manager. “Will you do me a favor and call the chopper for us?”
“It's too late,” he replied, seeming to fight back the urge to smile. “The chopper is already on its way back to Long Island. But don't worry: We have a beautiful suite for you, and we're gonna send you up some Dom Perignon and beluga caviar.”
“Oh, good!” chirped Kiley. “I love beluga caviar!”
I stared at her, speechless.
“Okay, then!” mused the shift boss, feeling my pain. “Let's head over to the cage, so you can cash out.”
Yeah, I thought, it's time to put this nightmare to an end.
“What the hell are you talking about?” I nearly screamed at the sixtyish old hag on the other side of the bulletproof glass. “How could you not give me my money back?”
“I'm very sorry,” came the toneless response, through a series of shiny aluminum slits. “I can't cash you out unless you show ID. It's the law.”
I was baffled. Shocked. In utter disbelief.
Here I was, standing inside “the cage,” which was the size of a bathroom at Denny's, accompanied by an underage girl, a shift boss who was probably a shill for the mob, and a stack of $32,000 in multicolored casino chips, which I was now stuck with because this old hag on the other side of the bulletproof glass was a stickler for details. It was mind-boggling.
I turned to the shift boss and said, “You gotta do something here. This—is—not—right.” And then I clenched my teeth and shook my head slowly, as if to say, “Someone's gonna pay for this when all is said and done!”
The shift boss threw his palms up in the air and shrugged. “What can I do?” he said innocently. “The lawris the lawr.”
With frustration in my heart, I looked at Kiley and said, “Do you know why this shit happens to nobody but me?”
She shook her head nervously.
“Because I bring it on my-fucking-self. That's why! I'm a glutton for fucking punishment.” With that I turned back to the bulletproof glass and stared at the old hag suspiciously. Then I rolled my neck, like a man on the brink. “Listen,” I said logically, and I leaned forward and placed my elbows on a black Formica counter-top on my side of the glass. “I'm a sane guy, usually, so let me just give you a recap of the night's events, then you tell meif I deserve to get my cash back, okay?”
The hag shrugged.
“Fine,” I said, “I'll take that as a yes,” and then I went about telling her my tale of woe—starting with the malfunctioning helicopter and finishing with the forgotten-license debacle, while carefully omitting all references to my ankle bracelet, my spurious phone call to Patrick Mancini, Kiley's age deficiency, my interest-free loan from the federal government, and lastly (but not leastly) the fact that I was out on bail and wasn't authorized to be in Atlantic City in the first place. I said, “I think it's pretty obvious that I am who I sayI am. So why don't you just cash me out and let me go in peace, okay?” I smiled my most reasonable smile at the hag. “Is that too much to ask?”
The old hag stared at me for a few seconds longer than good manners called for. Then came her toneless response, though the slits: “I'm sorry. I can'tcash you out unless you show ID!It's the lawr.”
“Yeah,” I said, “I thought that's what you would say….” And those were the last words I said to the old hag that night. In fact, those were the last words I said to anyone that night, with the exception of Kiley, who turned out to be fine company for an ill-fated trip like this. Of course, I never laid so much as a finger on her, and, in retrospect, it had less to do with the statutory-rape clauses and more to do with my own sense of right and wrong. After all, the way I had chosen to pass my last summer on Meadow Lane was an embarrassment. I knew that better than anyone, but I just couldn't seem to control myself. It was as if I were determined to self-destruct—no, it was as if I neededto self-destruct.
Perhaps I was thinking that if I literally ran myself into the ground—burning through every possession I had, both physical and emotional—then I could somehow turn back the clock to a time before Stratton, before the tainted tree had sprouted. Maybe. Or maybe I had just completely lost my mind.
Either way, there were certain lines that even Icouldn't cross: One had been Dave Beall, and another had been Kiley. And while the two were entirely unrelated, each in its own way had allowed me to hold on to one of my last vestiges of self-respect.
When I arrived back in Southampton the next morning, I called Kiley a cab, kissed her on the cheek, and then sent her on her way. I knew that one day I would run into Kiley again and that I would probably kick myself in the butt for not taking advantage of her that Sunday evening. After all, you don't come across girls like Kiley every day, especially in the real world, and especially if you're a guy like me, with one foot in the slammer and the other in the poorhouse.