“Hey, Jack, whaddaya think?” a man chewing a cigar asked Klay’s father. It had been like that all morning. Ever since they arrived, men had been greeting his father, peppering him with questions about what he thought, whether he was in. Klay was used to rough men like these. They came by the funeral home, knocked on the side door, then shuffled foot to foot, peering through the glass, never stepping inside unless invited, asking, “What horse looks good, Jack?” “Which jock you like?”—working their way around to the same question they always asked. “Jack, would you think I can borrow the box tickets, you’re not using them?”

Today they worked their way around to different questions. Was Resorts Casino going to get its license? If it didn’t have a 24-7 license, what good was investing? Was he in anyway?

“Are you, Jack?” they asked. “Are you in?”

His father answered each of them the same: “We’re all in anyway, aren’t we, boys?”

The green car pulled to a stop and Governor Byrne stepped out. Above, the sun was already hot. Seagulls flapped and cawed. He walked to a long table in front of Boardwalk Hall and took his seat. The table had blue and white bunting draped along the front, and a podium at one end with a microphone. Local politicians gave their speeches first. Bored, Tom watched a large man in a dark suit with a shaved head and dark sunglasses skim sweat off his head using a credit card. He was part of a group of Italian-looking men standing beside the boardwalk railing watching the politicians speak.

Finally, the governor got up. Byrne was handsome, with a strong jaw and blond hair that reminded Klay of Tarzan on television. He said tax revenues from Atlantic City’s gaming industry would go to help care for senior citizens and the disabled. He didn’t use the word “casino.” He said “gaming.” He said the gaming industry would stay on the island, but jobs would go to people all over the state. When he was done talking, he picked up a pen and signed the Casino Control Act, opening Atlantic City to gaming. Then he raised his right fist high above his head and shook it. “I’ve said it before and I will repeat it again,” he shouted. “To organized crime: Keep your filthy hands off Atlantic City. Keep the hell away!”

A brass band struck up “Happy Days Are Here Again.” The date was June 2, 1977.

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