"Wanna make fifty bucks?" The man wore sunglasses and a slightly wrinkled eggplant-colored suit that had probably sold well five years ago, but in 1992 it lit him with a cheap, Blues Brothers-meets-Las Vegas aura that inevitably drew attention; especially on an early summer evening when the muggy heat and collapsing darkness exposed the suit as an extravagance and the sunglasses as an eccentricity or worse. He looked to be late twenties, honey-blond hair and a face somewhere between Dan Akroyd and Jan Michael Vincent but with Akroyd's body definitely, signs of neglect and dissipation seeking cover under the purplish tropical wool of his suit and not completely finding it.

I paused. He took this as a sign of disinterest and dragged insistently on his cigarette before turning to the push-chair driver standing to his left-rear and asking him the same question: "Wanna make fifty bucks?" The push-chair driver declined, smiling and shaking his head like the college-boy-working-summer job he appeared to be. I'd just run out of money, most of it spent the previous four weeks on the road and the remainder that night at the tables. Atlantic City was my last stop. I had to drop off the car in Philly on July 6th and I figured as long as I was in the area I'd just check it out, try to win some cash and maybe find a bit of innocuous trouble. I was curious, so I asked him "What do I have to do?"

He turned to face me, taking a long, posed drag off his cigarette before answering. "I have someone that's going to wire me money, but he can't wire it under my name 'cause I got mugged last night and they took my ID. I need someone with an ID so they can pick up the money from the cashier's desk in the casino. He's going to wire me five hundred bucks and all you have to do is talk with him on the phone, tell him it's O.K. to wire it to you and give him your name, then pick up the money at the cashier's window for me. Deal?"

"Who is he?"

"He's . . . like an old friend of the family, don't worry about it, it's nothing weird. It's just that the cashier won't let me pick up the money 'cause I don't have ID. Look if you don't wanna do it just tell me. I'll find someone else." He eyed my clothes and took the opportunity to smoke some more. "What are you, from out of state?" I was wearing loose Silvertab shorts and a Baja-style Mexican sweatshirt in dark blue and bright yellow; de rigeur for those evenings at the beach back home, but out of step with the east-coast tourist garb worn by most of the casino habitues and boardwalkers.

"Yeah, I'm from California. I'm just out here on vacation."

"By yourself? Where's your wife?"

"My girlfriend and I split two months ago so I figured I'd roll around a few weeks and see the country."

"Take advantage of the situation . . . smart man. Listen, do this favor for me and I'll show you around. I know this place like the back of my hand. We'll have some fun. How 'bout it?"

"Is that part of the deal?"

"Hey, whatever you want. I'm just trying to be a nice guy. Look if you don't wanna do it just tell me now, I haven't got all night."

"Where do we have to go?"

"It's in the casino. Follow me." He extended his hand. "I'm Mitch."

"Kevin."

We shook hands and crossed the open stretch of boardwalk toward the grand entrance of the Showboat Hotel-Casino. I'd been to the Showboat in Vegas and this version suffered from cheap building materials and poor maintenance, a trait it shared with all the other Atlantic City hotel-casinos I'd been in that day. The boardwalk and the nearby ocean lent an arcade atmosphere to the place that overwhelmed all attempts at making it look classy. I think the developers must have just given up at some point and joined the party. In any case, the Showboat's facade resembled a nineteenth-century riverboat except the exterior features were made of stucco, plastic and aluminum that were in turn painted or gilded to resemble actual riverboat materials, like wood, iron, and brass.

Mitch talked continuously from the moment we started walking and didn't stop the entire night, except for obvious things like taking a hit off one link in the chain of cigarettes he held in his right hand, drinking, eating, or when someone he thought important was talking to him, like a baccarat dealer, or the police. It got to the point where I just stopped responding and let him go. Anyway, most of the things he said didn't require a response and most often didn't seem to mean anything, although if you listened long enough his thought stream made some kind of sense on an abstract, macro level, with certain themes repeated and various connections made.

I can't remember everything he said, but as we walked toward the casino that night it went something like: "So, California, huh? Ever been to Vegas? I'm in and out of Vegas every few months; great town, but the cops bust your balls eight ways to Sunday; I was lucky last time 'cause my girlfriend's uncle is in politics and he helped me out; your family in politics at all? I guess that's more an East Coast thing; see, that's the only way to get things done around here; like my friend wanted to open a restaurant in Newark but you think he could get a loan or a permit? That's why he finally said fuck it and moved to Vegas; California's nice, though; nice beaches, nice women; my girlfriend's family is from Laguna Beach but she married this guy who's in the mining business; there's a lot of gold in Nevada, ya know? Not many people know there's a lot of gold in Nevada." And so it would go on and on until it ceased to be irritating and just became part of the background noise along with the lobby Muzak and slot machines and arcade games and roulette wheels and pounding surf; the things you notice the most when they stop.

I followed Mitch through the entrance of the Showboat and to the left side of the lobby where an alcove and plastic dividers gave the public phones an illusion of privacy. Mitch broke off his soliloquy in mid-sentence, leaving the secrets of free buffet dining unexplored. He picked up the receiver and put his finger on the wall-set lever.

"O.K. I'm going to call the Colonel now. I already talked with him earlier and he knows the routine." Mitch paused and placed his right thumb and forefinger astride his brow, the ever-present cigarette angled like a horn between the ring finger and pinky. He lightly massaged his forehead and his sunglasses bobbed up and down. "If he says anything to you about me just ignore it. Wait 'til he's done and just give him your name. The Colonel's a good guy but he worries too much."

I chuckled. "This is weird, man. The Colonel? Who am I gonna to be talking to?"

"He's a close friend of my father's, but don't talk with him about that. Just give him your name when he asks you."

"I should just ignore what he says? Not say anything?"

"Say whatever you want. It doesn't really make any difference. Give him a line of shit if you want, I don't care."

"What's he going to tell me about you?"

Mitch's face pulsed anger and he turned and walked crisply over to the ashtray in the corner of the alcove, placing the butt alongside the others in the white sand, like tombstones. "Fuck man, I don't know. I don't know what he's going to say and there's no point in me telling you what I might think he's going to say because he might not say anything at all; he might just ask for your name. Hey, please don't say you've wasted my time. I really need the money and there shouldn't be any problem." I remember thinking: what could go wrong? "O.K. Dial the number. What's his name?"

"Colonel Thornton. OK, it's ringing. Hey Colonel, it's me. I got a friend here with an ID and he's going to give you his name so you can send the money, remember? Like we talked about? All right. His name's [Mitch to me with his hand covering the phone: 'what's-yer-name-again-quick'; Me: 'Kevin'] Kevin. Here he is."

"Hello?" I said.

"Hello? Kevin?"

"Yes?"

"This is Colonel Charles Thornton. Are you Mitchell's friend? How did you meet?"

The Colonel's voice sounded like a hybrid of Franklin Roosevelt and Hugh Hefner: a resonant, authoritative tone with a sleazy presumption underlying it. At first I tried to match his tone so things would go smoothly. "We met a short while ago. I guess you could say we're friendly, if not friends."

"I see. Well, I don't mind telling you that I care very much about what happens to Mitchell and I don't want any problem here. Has he told you why I'm sending the money?"

"No."

"Kevin, I'm sending him the money so he can come home. Is he standing right there?"

"Yes."

"But he can't hear you, can he?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, he can't hear me . . . just say yes or no."

"No."

"OK. Bear with me now, Kevin. You see, Mitchell's father died some years ago. I was a close friend of his father's and I've sort of looked out for him. He's had a rough time of it lately and it's important that he get home as soon as possible. Kevin, I want you to promise me something, but first let me ask you a question. Are you an honorable man?"

"I think of myself that way."

"Good. I'm an honorable man too, Kevin. I don't know how much Mitchell has told you about me but I've spent a good deal of time and money trying to help him with his problem. I even let him live with me for several years. Kevin, I want you to promise me that you won't give the money to Mitchell. Instead, I want you to take him to the airport there and buy a one-way plane ticket to the National Airport in Washington; not the state, you understand, Washington D.C. Have you ever been to Washington, Kevin?"

"Yeah. I've been there a couple times."

"Well I live in Virginia on the Potomac River, right across from Washington. If you help me with this perhaps you can visit Mitchell and me some time after he's well. You two are friends, right?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"Good. You can keep whatever money is left over after you buy the plane ticket. Just make sure you don't give Mitchell the money. Do I have your promise on that Kevin?"

"Yeah." I was going to ask him what problem he was referring to, but Mitch was standing right there.

"All right. That's what I want to hear. I know you may not think this to look at him, but Mitchell needs your help right now."

"I'll help if I can."

"Good. Now give me your full name."

"Kevin Joseph Mattesich."

"Could you spell that last name?"

"M-A-T-T-E-S-I-C-H."

"Do you have your identification with you?"

"Yeah."

"Good. The money should be at the cashier's window in about twenty minutes. Remember what we agreed to, now. You won't forget, will you?"

"No, I won't forget."

"Good. Kevin, I want to thank you for your help. After Mitchell gets home we'll have to invite you to the house. Maybe you two can exchange addresses before he gets on the plane."

"Sure. I think I'd like that."

"OK, Kevin. Thanks again and we'll see you."

"Bye."

"Yes, goodbye."

Of course I never intended to not give the money to Mitch or to take him to the airport or any of that. At the time I felt I was first and foremost obligated to Mitch because I'd already made a deal with him. Besides, at least I'd met him, which is more than I could say about the Colonel. Also, there was something strange about Colonel Charles Thornton. Maybe it was the way he kept repeating my name over and over, like he thought I was an idiot or something.

Mitch raised his hand and offered a high-five. "How long 'til we pick it up?"

I slapped his hand without enthusiasm. "Twenty minutes."

"Let's get a drink. I'll buy."

"Yeah. You'll have to 'cause I'm broke." We left the alcove and headed across the casino floor to the bar.

"You mean flat broke or you don't wanna take money on your credit card broke?"

"I can make it back to Philly and eat for the next two days but that's about it."

"Did you lose a lot at the tables?"

"Yeah. I lost about three hundred playing blackjack."

"Boy. You're a lightweight. You deserve to lose playing that stupid game. Have you ever tried baccarat?"

"No. I thought that was just for the high rollers."

"They have what's called mini-baccarat, which has about a fifteen dollar minimum depending where you are. After we get the money I'll show you how to play. I won sixty grand in a baccarat tournament in Vegas two months ago. I'll get your three hundred back from those fucks." He flipped his cigarette butt into an ashtray and lit another as we walked.

"It's probably none of my business, man, but why is the Colonel sending you money if you won sixty grand?"

"My girlfriend has it in Vegas. She's supposed to come out here in a couple weeks and I need some cash until then."

"Why can't she just send you some?" Mitch took a deep breath and let it out slow. We reached the bar and he ordered two beers before continuing. "Ya know, you're right. It is none of your business and besides it's a long story. Let's just say I'm in a cash crunch right now and call it even, OK?"

"Sure. Sorry." Right then I knew something was wrong with either the girlfriend or the money or both because this was a guy who didn't mind long stories.

"No. That's all right. It's a legitimate question. So are you staying here through the Fourth of July?"

"Yeah. I'm here 'til the sixth."

"Good deal. They're going to have a fireworks display out on the water. We'll have to check that out. You like fireworks? When I was here last year they shot 'em off too close to the beach and someone in the crowd got hit. Actually, she was a friend of mine, but she wasn't hurt too bad. The problem was she didn't have insurance . . ." and he dove back into the word stream, and I stopped responding.

We finished the beers, then walked over to the cashier's window through the knot of gamblers and change carts and cocktail waitresses. The floor was carpeted with one of those repetitive, vaguely Persian designs in contrasting colors that induce mild vertigo. Great currents of cigarette smoke hung across the room like a weatherman's graphic and mixed with the stale, processed air from the ventilation system, forming eddies near the ceiling registers. The smell of the cigarettes and stale air fought to drown the bold cologne and perfume worn by the gamblers, but only managed to embellish it in a way that was at once repellant and intoxicating.

When my turn came at the window I told the cashier money had been wired by Colonel Charles Thornton. The cashier looked suspiciously at Mitch as I signed for the money. "Would you like that in large bills, sir?"

"No. Make it three large, one-sixty in twenties and forty in tens."

The cashier counted out the money and we turned and walked a few feet away, where I gave Mitch four hundred and fifty dollars and pocketed fifty for myself.

"Good deal. So how about I teach you a little about baccarat?"

"Is that why the Colonel didn't want me to give you the money?"

"Is that what he told you? Like I said, the guy worries too much. Follow me."

Mitch took off toward a hanging sign incribed with the words mini baccarat in raised gilt script lettering. The area below it housed two tables that were cordoned off with one of those red velvet rope arrangements like they use for the line at the bank. As we walked he explained the game, which turned out to be very simple once we started playing. "See, in baccarat you basically have three options. You can bet on the banker, or the player, or you can bet that the banker and player will tie. There are three spots on the table in front of each gambler and the dealer--one for banker, one for player, and one for tie. All you do is place your bet on one of the three spots and the dealer deals two cards each to the spots in front of him marked banker and player. The spot with the two cards that add up closest to nine wins."

"So I win even if I bet on the spot marked banker and that spot comes closest to nine?"

"Right."

"What if I bet on a tie?"

"If you put your money on the tie spot and the banker and player tie, it's eleven-to-one odds. Any other win is even money."

"What if player has ten and banker has eight; is that a tie?"

"No. In this game it's impossible to get to ten; it just rolls back over to zero. By the way, tens and face cards count as zero."

"I'm confused."

"Don't worry about it. Just watch me the first few hands." Mitch turned and looked at me over the top of his sunglasses. His eyes were slate gray. "If you see me start winning, bet on the same thing I do."

We sat down at the baccarat table next to each other; we were the only gamblers except for an elderly Asian man in a black business suit. The dealer was a tall muscular guy dressed in the typical dealer uniform: black pants with a white shirt and black bow-tie. His name badge had a smiling picture of his face on it that contrasted with the inscrutable mask he wore now. Under the picture it said: "Hi. I'm Mario."

Mitch glanced down at a card that lay on the table next to the Asian man's chips. I looked at the card too. There were little boxes where he had been checking off the pattern of wins and it went something like banker, player, player, banker, player, banker, banker, etc.

"They let you keep track like that?"

"Yeah. That's part of the fun, to see if you can spot a pattern."

Mitch laid down four hundred dollars and asked for fifty-dollar chips. The dealer complied, neatly placing eight chips in front of Mitch on the green felt-covered table. Mitch started with one fifty-dollar chip on the player spot. The Asian man put four hundred-dollar chips on banker. Mario dealt the first round: a three on banker, a jack on player, a five on banker and a nine on player. Mitch showed no reaction and neither did I until Mario said "Player" and took the Asian man's four hundred, replacing Mitch's fifty-dollar chip with one of the Asian man's hundreds and putting the rest back into the caddy.

I looked over at Mitch and smiled. He raised his eyebrows briefly and nodded once. I took the fifty dollars out of my wallet and put it meekly on my player spot. Mitch hadn't touched his hundred-dollar chip after Mario paid him off, so his was still on player too. That's one thing about Mitch I can say categorically: he always, always, always let it ride.

Mario dealt the next hand: a five on banker, a two on player, a two on banker, a six on player. Mario said "Player" again and this time we all won because the Asian man had bet four hundred on player, apparently following Mitch's lead. I took one of the fifty-dollar chips off my player spot and left one there. Of course, you know what Mitch did. Mario dealt again: a four on banker, an eight on player, another four on banker and a two on player. Suddenly, the dealer dealt another card to player: a nine. "Player." Mario paid us all off again.

"What happened there? Why'd he deal us another card?"

"Remember how I said you can't reach ten? He dealt player a two and an eight, which adds up to ten, which means zero. So he had to deal another card to player, which was a nine and we beat banker nine to eight. That was beautiful! I think you're lucky for me, Kev."

"Don't you think we should stop now? You've won almost as much as the Colonel sent you."

"First rule of gambling, my man. Never quit when you're on a roll. Relax. You're starting to sound like the Colonel."

He was right about all that, just like with everything else that happened that night. Five minutes later he had a stack of chips in front of him that must have totaled about ten thousand dollars. He'd reached the twenty-five hundred dollar per bet limit for our table about three minutes ago; otherwise the whole thing would've been sitting on player, which hadn't lost since we sat down. He had an amazing calm about him the whole time considering how broke he was when I met him. It almost seemed like he was trying to lose. I on the other hand was a nervous wreck, especially right before he reached the per-bet limit and had to pull some of his chips off. We'd won on player eight times straight and I was certain the axe was about to fall, but Mitch implacably kept with player and kept on winning.

We started to draw attention from the pit boss, who'd probably noticed Mario's voice getting louder. Also, about eight people were watching from behind the red rope, having heard the joyous but incomprehensible ejaculations of the Asian man. He'd won even more than Mitch by following him move for move. I was kicking myself mentally for not having the guts to let it ride. I'd only bet fifty dollars on each hand. Mitch eyed the pit boss, took a hit off his cigarette and moved twenty-five hundred in chips from player to tie without ever taking his eyes off the guy.

"Are you crazy? Let's just walk away!"

"This is the last one. That guy's vibe is ruining my evening."

The Asian man looked at Mitch and said something that sounded like a question, then reluctantly moved his chips to the tie spot. I followed suit and moved my fifty dollar chip over to the tie spot. Mario dealt again: a jack on banker, an eight on player, an eight on banker and a king on player. "YES!" Mitch and I and the Asian man all jumped up from our chairs and hollered together, not waiting for confirmation from Mario, who indicated a tie anyway before turning and motioning to the pit boss. Mitch high-fived us both and started laughing softly, crushed out the butt of his cigarette and lit up another.

The pit boss walked over, his face contorted into a forced smile that would frighten a small child. "Nice work, gentlemen. My name's Harris and I'm the supervisor for the mini-baccarat We're going to close this table, but you're all more than welcome to move up to the regular baccarat salon through the glass doors. In the meantime we have some paperwork for you to sign in view of your substantial winnings this evening. I'd also like to offer you all complimentary dining and lodging for the evening on behalf of the hotel."

Mitch took a huge drag off his cigarette and let the smoke float out his mouth as he spoke. "Can I get a suite for me and my friend here? Last time they gave me the Atlantic Suite. Can you arrange that?"

"I'll check and see if it's available. Now if you'll please wait here a few moments I'll get the paperwork and your comps."

Harris left and the three of us ordered drinks from the cocktail waitress. "I don't get it. Why are they giving us free lodging when we just soaked 'em for all that money?" Mitch and the Asian man both laughed. "Because they want us to stay here instead of somewhere else. They want their money back. That's why he closed this table and wants us to go to the big table, 'cause there's no limit there except what the pit boss sets on any given bet."

"Have you won this much before at this place?"

"Yeah. They all know me. That guy in particular, Harris? He hates my guts."

"He seemed a little tense."

"Tense isn't the word, my man. I beat him real bad at a private poker party one time; made him look like an idiot. He'd rip my balls off if he wasn't afraid of losing his job."

My only memories of the rest of that night are the bits and pieces that managed to survive the flood of alcohol and general debauchery we engaged in. The Atlantic Suite, dutifully arranged for us by Harris, was three bedrooms and an immense living room on the fifteenth floor of the hotel overlooking the beach. I remember during the elevator ride two really beautiful women came on to us even though I was still wearing my Baja and shorts, but Mitch said they were pros he'd seen working the hotel before. He told them to meet us at the Taj Mahal at midnight and we just never showed up. Instead we went out and Mitch rounded up a half dozen even more gorgeous women by throwing around money like it was sand from the beach. Actually, he had a certain charm around women that helped too, but it only seemed to fully manifest itself when he had a lot of money.

The last thing I remember about that night is riding in a push-chair along the boardwalk at four in the morning with one of the women (I think her name was Lenann). Mitch and two other women shared another push-chair beside us. He had a shoeshine guy walking backwards shining his shoes as the chair rolled along while one of the women blew him and the other fed him champagne. Every time the push-chair drivers would complain about getting fired for taking the chairs out so late Mitch would throw another twenty over the top of the sun shade and they'd quiet down. Mitch paid for everything that night since I'd only won about twelve hundred. He was hovering somewhere around thirty-five grand. When the guy had money he was the most generous person I've ever met.

I woke up around one o'clock the following afternoon, feeling like I might die of thirst. My head and stomach competed for attention, with my stomach eventually claiming an ugly, explosive victory in one of the suite's bathrooms. After I cleaned up and drank some water I knocked on Mitch's bedroom door, then knocked progressively louder until I finally heard something. He cracked the door, naked except for his sunglasses, and told me to meet him at nine o'clock on the boardwalk in front of the Showboat for the fireworks.

The day turned out to be fun in a low-key way. I ate a relatively greaseless sandwich after nearly getting sick walking by the stromboli concession (I think "stromboli" is Italian for coronary heart disease; the grease on top reflected in swirly rainbow patterns like an oil spill). Later I went for a swim in the ocean, then took a long nap on the sand. I went back to the room around six and pulled out the pair of slacks and sport jacket I'd brought for an emergency. Mitch wasn't there, so I ordered a two-pound lobster tail and a dinner salad from room service and ate by myself. After dinner I went down to meet Mitch for the fireworks.

I found him leaning against a wall near the entrance to the Showboat casino, smoking a cigarette. He had a different suit on; a light blue shark-skin getup that looked brand new. The material rippled reflections in the fading light every time he lifted the cigarette to take a drag.

"New suit?"

"Yeah. I had 'em bring it up from the men's boutique this morning." Mitch looked worn out despite the new clothes. I couldn't see his eyes, of course, but something about his body language conveyed a sense of deep fatigue. There was something else, too, but I couldn't put my finger on it at the time.

I said, "Let's go toward the edge of the boardwalk to get a better view."

"Sure."

We started walking toward the dark ocean, away from the hotel lights and waning rays of sunset. Mitch threw down his cigarette and stepped on it as we advanced. He said, "Did you have a nice Fourth?"

"Yeah. Nothing like last night but I don't think I could've handled that intensity much longer anyway, so I just did the tourist thing. How about you?"

Mitch didn't say anything for a minute. "How much money did you end up winning last night, Kevin?"

"Close to twelve hundred dollars. By the way, thanks a lot for everything. I'm having a great time."

"No problem."

"So how'd you do after you finally got up?"

"Not too good. I didn't feel so hot today. I probably should've stayed in the room." People had been collecting on the boardwalk for the past hour in anticipation of the fireworks and it was getting crowded. The scent of perfume, aftershave, and deodorant soap floated in the close, salty air and it occurred to me that I was glad to be an American at that moment. I've been in large crowds of people in other countries and if there's one thing you can say about Americans, as a group, it's that by-and-large they don't really smell too terribly bad; even Mitch, despite the constant pall of cigarette smoke.

The fireworks started and we watched along with the others, but it quickly became apparent that something was wrong. The explosions from the fireworks didn't seem like they were big enough. They seemed distant, like we were watching a show put on for some other nearby city.

"Hey Mitch. Is it me or does it seem like those are too far away?"

"I noticed that too. They probably moved the raft out farther 'cause of what happened last year."

A man with a New York accent was arguing with his wife about the fireworks. "What a fuckin' rip-off. I'd like to meet the idiot who set this thing up."

"Oh for chrissake, just try to enjoy it. Can't you just be happy for once? It's the Fourth of July!"

So we all watched with a feeling of mild regret at what might have been. After the finale the crowd offered tepid applause with a few boos and epithets thrown in. The people slowly moved away, most heading back toward the casinos. Mitch stood there smoking a cigarette and looking at the air between us and the Showboat. It suddenly occurred to me why I felt that vague sense of fatigue coming from him earlier, and even now. He hadn't been talking non-stop like he did the night before. I tried to draw him out. "So are we going to gamble some more tonight?"

"We can, if you want to."

"You don't want to?"

"Well, I would if I had some money."

"What?"

He shook his head and blew a cloud of smoke out the side of his mouth. "I went to the baccarat salon this afternoon and really fucked up."

"You lost it ALL?"

He didn't respond and he didn't look at me. Finally he said, "Do you think you can loan me some of what you won so I can burn those fuckers?"

"I don't understand. You did so well last night; how could you lose it all in just a few hours? I mean, you had about thirty-five grand, didn't you?"

"Don't rub it in. I think I have it figured out, though. I never should have gone without you, Kev. You were like my good luck charm last night; maybe 'cause you got the money from the Colonel for me. I know if I had another chance with you there we could do the same thing. Howboutit?" He smiled weakly and punched me lightly on the shoulder. "Come on; just five hundred to get me started. I'll pay you back."

"Mitch, I'm worried about you, man. Last night I just figured the Colonel was . . ."

"THE COLONEL'S A GODDAMN FUCKING FAGGOT! ALL RIGHT?! HE'S PROBABLY THE REASON I'M SO FUCKED UP IN THE FIRST PLACE. ALL RIGHT?!"

Mitch had started sweating and the drops on his brow coalesced and slowly migrated along the top rim of his shades. He took them off and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I yelled like that. Look. The point is I can't ask the Colonel for any more money. I've already decided that last night was it and I sure as fuck ain't going back to live with him. I need your help right now and I'm just asking for some of the money I helped you win; just as a loan."

I was confused, not knowing whether he was telling the truth and not wanting to know what had or hadn't gone on between him and the Colonel. I thought that maybe he was just telling me a bunch of lies to get me to give him the money. I was beginning to think that maybe he was one of those compulsive gamblers you hear about. On the other hand, he was right about the money I had. I was broke when we met and now I had twelve hundred in my wallet.

"It's not about the money. I'll give you all the money if you really need it."

"You don't have to do that. Just loan me five hundred so I can get those fuckers back. Look, don't believe what the Colonel . . ."

I waved him off with my hand. "I don't wanna know about that. It's none of my business." I reached into my back pocket, pulled out five hundred dollars and handed it to him. An hour later, after he'd lost the five hundred, I gave him the rest of the money I'd won. Three hours later, after he'd lost that money, he tried to convince me to take an advance on my credit card.

I started walking toward the casino entrance but Mitch followed, trying to get in front of me and talking all the while. "You saw me on that last round. Don't stand there and tell me I wasn't breaking through!"

I looked at him and shook my head. "You need to break through, all right; through your denial. The Colonel was right. You have a problem." I kept walking toward the exit. Mitch suddenly grabbed my shoulder and spun me around.

"Don't you take his side on this!" He grabbed my arms. "I swear to God! Please, Kevin. Please don't flake on me now! This is the last thing I'll ask you to do." His jaw was tense and he was holding my arms too tight.

I tried to act calm. I was thinking how much I regretted getting the money from the Colonel. "You need a favor from somebody, man, but I can't help you anymore." "After all I did for you last night? That was one of the greatest fucking nights of your life, AND DON'T LIE! All I'm asking you to do is just this one last thing. I know I'm gonna get hot. Don't you see? This closes the circle! All that other money you gave me tonight was money I helped you win. This money's your own!"

"And that means . . . ?"

"That means it's lucky." His mouth hung slightly ajar, as if closing it would scotch the deal. Right then I decided I'd give Mitch the three hundred and split when his back was turned. I knew he wouldn't leave me alone until I did. Plus, I was starting to feel like maybe the whole mess was partly my fault.

Three minutes later we were back at the cashier's window so I could take a three hundred dollar advance on my credit card, the maximum I could take and still have money to get back to Philly. When I gave Mitch the three hundred, I told him I had to use the men's room.

"You aren't going to split on me, are you?"

"No. I'm just going to the bathroom."

"Look. I know you're probably pissed off but I swear I'm going to pay you back the money if it's the last thing I do." The last few words caught in his throat and he fought to maintain control. "Shit! I'm gonna end up sleeping under the boardwalk tonight!"

"People really do that?"

His voice was ragged. "Yeah. All the guys who lose all their money. In the morning they all come out. It's like dawn of the fuckin' dead." He tightened his lips and tried to take a hit off his cigarette but it had gone out in his hand. He reached for another but the pack was empty.

"Stay right here, man. I'm going to take a leak and I'll be right back." As soon as I was out of his sight I headed out the casino entrance and walked the mile of boardwalk to the rental car. It was parked where I'd left it: a white Thunderbird that was clearly visible in the near-empty public beach parking. I got in and let the seat back, covered my face with my jacket and fell asleep almost immediately.

I awoke before sunrise and thought of getting my stuff from the room, then decided not to. I started the car and headed south along the main drag to the intersection that would take me westbound to the freeway. When I turned right at the intersection the rising sun reflected in my driver's side mirror through a break in the string of hotels along the beach and I had to squint my eyes against the glare.

I thought I saw something‹when I stopped at a red light‹I was sure I saw something eclipse the reflected sun for a split second‹and flash blue like a large, exotic, flightless bird as it fell to the horizon. I had my window rolled halfway down and I heard a woman standing on the corner say "Oh my God! Did you see that?"

Just then the light turned green and the driver of the car behind me leaned on his horn. I looked at the woman, who was pointing toward the hotels behind me and saying something in an urgent voice to a man standing beside her. The guy in the car behind had stuck his head out the window by now and was screaming expletives. The cars behind him added their horns in a dissonant chorus. I looked at the woman again; she had put her hand up to her mouth and was still looking back toward the hotels. I hesitated, then threw the Thunderbird into gear and headed back to Philadelphia. The next day I bought a newspaper in the airport. On page five there was a story with an Atlantic City dateline.

An unidentified man fell to his death from the roof of the Showboat Hotel yesterday. The hotel has issued a statement expressing sorrow over the tragedy. Police Captain Greg Hartner declined to comment on whether the police suspect foul play, but did report the man had no wallet or identification at the time of his death.

I never followed up when I got back to California, mostly out of fear, I suppose. I mean, who would I have called? My only choices were the police or the hotel or Colonel Thornton, and each held its own potential danger. Anyway, I had a gut feeling it was Mitch. The only question is whether he killed himself or ran into some kind of trouble. I'd rather believe he didn't commit suicide. He just didn't seem like the type to me. One thing I'm sure of, though. I shouldn't have left Mitch that night, at least not the way I did. I like to think of myself as an honest man, and if asked, I wouldn't say that lying is the final act I want to be remembered for, by Mitch or anyone else. On that account, I can't help but feel I let him down in the end. Money wasn't enough. And I'm sorry about that.

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Occam's Razor, Issue 14 Contents