By seven that evening he was in the third hotel of the list Uncle Willy had prepared, and getting nowhere. He had found himself the recipient of cool evaluation by pit bosses, room clerks, and bar waitresses. Skip had no money to spend; he could only look. He knew that the category flat broke was pinned on him by the dealers within ten minutes of his entering the casinos. A stubborn anger had begun to burn.

He was at a crap table. The dice were in the hands of a thickset man with an alcohol flush, expensive clothes, diamond stickpin and solitaire. Two blond chippies clung to him, slipping ten-dollar chips into their gilt bags when opportunity presented. The man was loud, much the worse for liquor, and held up the game for long periods while he argued with one or both of the girls. What Skip took in was the attitude of the dealers at the table, the hovering pit boss: they wore fixed smiles and they ignored or pacified complaints from other players. Plainly here was big money working.

He waited and watched the stack of chips dwindle. All at once he found the man staring at him across the crap table.

“Hey, you?”

Skip was stupefied. “Who?”

“You. Young fella. You come around here.” He beckoned with a weaving arm. Skip looked around, too dumfounded to know what to do. He caught the eye of the pit boss, the faint nod that commanded him to obey. Skip went around the table and the old man pushed one of the chippies away roughly and pulled Skip in close. “Uh-huh. You remind me of my boy. Did remind me. I mean, he used to look like you.” The thickset man hiccuped loudly. “Foxy boy. In England now. Long way off.” He was fumbling chips and pushing them into Skip’s hands.

Skip wanted to stare at them; he knew they were worth ten dollars apiece and the old man had given him more than a dozen.

“Play ’em,” the thickset man commanded.

Skip put one down tentatively; the old man shot the dice; the dealer raked in the bets. The old man had brought in a two-spot, craps. Skip put down another chip.

“Naw,” the old man said. “Lookee here. Fix ’em up. You get nowhere piddling along.” He raked Skip’s hands clean and dribbled the orange chips across the green felt, betting the line, the big six and eight, come bets, everything. Skip’s brief riches were all spread out waiting for the throw. Skip felt breath die out in his lungs, his heart’s thumping. Maybe . . .

Craps again. The old man had neglected that particular item. Skip stepped back into the shadows, expecting to be dismissed, but the old man turned bloodshot eyes to search him out. “Hey, you!”

The chippie was staring into Skip’s face as if the least thing would set her to clawing his eyes. “I’m . . . I’m broke,” Skip muttered.