How!! to Rob an Indian Casino

By M.B. Lhowe

“How!! to Rob an Indian Casino” is a snapshot of the Loon Indian Tribe at a particularly freakish moment in its ragtag history. Before the arrival of the Europeans, some sort of Loon or proto-Loon tribe had been eking out a pre-Columbian existence in the old Adirondack Mountains of northern New York State. Unlike the experience of many Native tribes, contact with whites did not lead to warfare, but to a gradual, relaxed dilution of Indian blood as Loons intermingled, socially and otherwise, with waves of white incursions. The racial mixing started easily and peacefully with early French trappers and missionaries and then moved on to Colonial-era explorer, adventure seekers, runaway slaves, sportsmen, vacationers, hippies, and other types of white rabble, over four centuries.
A decade before the story begins, the tribe has opened the Laughing Loon Casino on a man-made island in Winners Pond (renamed from “Indian Lake”) on the tribe’s reservation land. The casino brings in lots of money and instant disruption in the county’s old-time social balance, in which a whole lot of county people were probably at least a little bit Loon, but no one really noticed or cared. After the casino opens, profit is divided according to tribal membership, forcing county residents to take a seat on either side of the rich Indian / poor white divide. Tribal members themselves more or less had forgotten what it felt like to be an Indian, and they had to figure it out quick, partly to justify their big winnings.
The story opens on April Fools Day, as planning gets underway for two major events, one public and one private. Tribal Chief Reggie Willis, an idealistic and gentle man, announces plans for a Ceremony of Respect and Unity at the casino on Memorial Day to honor Native American patriotism. At the same time, two other big shots on the casino property, Simon Larouche, director of Security, and Jim Knickle, chief of Food & Beverage, are fine-tuning their fantastically complicated plan to rob the casino that same weekend.
Reggie struggles to stir interest in his forthcoming ceremony while Larouche and Knickle blunder through one fiasco after another to lay the groundwork for their ripoff. Meanwhile, a gaggle of busybodies occupies itself by spying on the would-be robbers. One cadre of snoops is led by Leonard Warren, a permanent stowaway who lives in the basement of the casino. Two other, separate troupes of spies, including a secretary to one of the robbers and her smarmy boyfriend, also get their fingers into the planning.
Distractions from these plans include the discovery that a plot of land crucial to the ripoff plan may be a Native American graveyard. Events build to a peak as two groups of casino denizens struggle to predict and intercede in the robbery. In a mangled series of double-double-crosses that trip along as the various conspirators collide with each other, the Memorial Day celebration and robbery play out through one surprise after another. In the end, the crooks win some battles but lose the war; the stolen Loon money is put to a better use than ever in the past; and the tribe stumbles toward a renewed view of its past and its potential.

• Language: English
• Publisher: M.B. Lhowe
• Release date: Jun 7, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476380223

M.B. Lhowe

M.B. Lhowe is a newspaper reporter and editor by trade. She has worked for newspapers in Massachusetts, New York, North Carolina, Connecticut, and Rhode Island. She cultivates a habit of skepticism and hopefulness.

Book preview

Gerald Greer wedged himself into the back corner of the elevator, folded his arms over his chest, and nodded tiredly toward the polished metal doors. His glance, the barest possible scrap of a greeting, banked off the doors and grazed Spit, the elevator operator. The sag of flesh below Spit’s left eye twitched: greeting received and returned. No guests onboard; no need to play hail-brother-well-met. It was 7 a.m. on Wednesday; Gerald was coming on after a three-day break; his low mood demanded all due respect.

Spit spoke first. How long ya been off?

Three days.

Too bad. You missed a DOA in the slot hall Sunday.

Gerald yawned. Right. Happy April Fools Day to you, too, pal. Wait, why should I believe a three-foot-tall toadstool with a bunch of feathers stuck to his chest?

Spit, a dwarf who had heard every wisecrack in the barrel, appeared unruffled by the compliment. He smoothed the spray of feathers above the name plate on his uniform and replied, These happen to be eagle feathers, which you might not know, since only us tribal members get to wear ’em. Spit looked more like a fire plug that had taken too many hits from the garbage truck than he looked like an American Indian. Nonetheless, he was a member of the Loon Indian Tribal Nation, owner of the Laughing Loon casino, a monstrous cask of poured concrete wrapped tightly around this very elevator. His Native name was Rushing Waters, but everyone on the casino property called him Spit.

The elevator jolted and stopped between floors, a more-or-less common quirk of this elevator shaft that casino workers called an Otis cease-fire. Gerald pressed his rear deeper into the corner and let his chin sink onto his chest. Spit was barely three feet tall, so talking to him took a low trajectory anyway.

No kiddin’, Spit insisted, returning to his news. We had a gagger on Friday night at the slot hall off Tomahawk Trail. Old lady. Heavy smoker. Gnarly yellow fingernails.

The two looked into the gleaming doors while speaking to each other, like girls in the junior high bathroom. Spit worked his neck side to side, cracked his knuckles, and then fingered a mole on the side of his neck that everyone on the property called The Plug.

She musta been cold before the medics got her down to the garage, but the ambulance ran its lights anyway. Never finished her last Camel. They found the butt layin’ in the coin tray. Two inches a ash and a smear a lipstick.

Gerald winced. Hell, that’ll be the third DOA since New Year’s.

Yeah, and it’s only April the first. Not so good for people who bet six or less for the year in the croaker pool. Spit cast a sideways glance at his buddy.

Damn that damn croaker pool. In six years of working casino Surveillance, Gerald hadn’t got even close to winning the pool. New Year’s Day always found him handing a couple of tens to somebody -- usually a dealer, it seemed -- in the north cafeteria. The time Vinny won for the second year in a row Gerald put a smear of honey between two of the bills just to be mean, but then felt a little cheap about it afterwards.

… so after they wheeled the gurney out, the waitresses had to scramble to pass out the two-for-one tickets to everyone, Spit was saying. And management switched the piped-in music over to the Andrews Sisters track. To pick up everybody’s spirits, I guess. But it was almost worth it, ’cause a what happened to Vinny…

Gerald uncorked an eyelid. You say Vinny?

Yeah, Vinny. Our one and only. Jock-of-all-traits, master a none. He run over and managed to step all over his own you-know-what helping get the dead lady out.

How?

Now you’re interested, now that stinking Vinny comes into the story. Spit put the storytelling on pause and lowered his stumpy carcass to the floor and thrust out a foot. Whoa there, Kimosabe -- time for a costume check. He adjusted the Velcro straps holding the mock moccasin over his shoe. Then, standing, he shook out the fringe on his polyester deerskin jacket. Gotta keep myself pretty for visitors to the Prime-Evil forest.

Gerald’s knuckles were drumming softly on the wall. He stopped himself, waited a beat or two, then inquired, Well … what did Vinny do?

Spit finished preening. Well, the old lady was running a couple of the Red, White, and Blue machines, but getting nothing, it seems. Naturally, she’s knows since she’s poured in a bunch a cash the machine’s gotta turn around and cough it back up one a these days.

Gerald scowled. Two Brink’s trucks roll out of here every day because people just won’t believe every pull is 50-50.

Tell me somethin’ I ain’t figured out yet. Anyway, the lady’s ticker musta exploded, ’cause she all of a sudden starts gagging and clawing at her chest. But she wouldn’t let go a the handle of the slot machine. The old fella with her is hollering, ‘Let go, Ivy, let go.’ The gurney is heading down the aisle toward her. ‘Let go, Ivy, let go!’ the old boy is saying. A dozen people standing around, rubbernecking, pick up the chant. ‘Let go, Ivy, let go …’ Made my flesh crawl to hear it. Sounded like they were telling her to jump, like when a guy steps out on the ledge of a high rise.

Good Lord. Gerald rubbed a hand across his sagging face.

So Vinny muscled through the crowd holdin’ a cash caddy he had pulled off a Wendy’s cocktail tray. Lucky for him, Wendy just come on duty and the caddy was empty, or he’d a lost his left nut. And Vinny takes the flip top of the cash caddy and he’s using it like a chisel or a pry bar or God-knows-what to pry the old lady’s fingers off the handle of the slot machine, if you can imagine. All of a sudden, old Ivy, she just lets go, like the people have been yellin’ at her to do. And the cash caddy whips back into Vinny’s face, and opens a cut straight down the center of that eggplant he calls a nose. He flops down on the gurney and hollers to be taken to the hospital.

Y’know, Spit, you keep telling stories like that and your tongue is going to stick out of your grave.

I shit you not. As God is my witness. It all really happened. Take a look at Vinny’s face when you see him next. At that moment the elevator lurched and began moving upward.

Take me to five. I want to grab a coffee before I head up to the crow’s nest. And see if I can find myself a decent liar in this place.

Swear to God, swear to God. Spit testified as the elevator slowed and stopped. Before the doors could open, Gerald primed his throat for the daily ritual. Gerald was known on staff for doing a hell of a good impression of Simon Larouche, the loathed chief of Security, and Spit was a grudging fan.

Cut the crap, corporal, and get yer saggin’ butt back to work, Gerald growled, in full Simon voice.

Spit smirked into the control panel. Try it more like corp’rul, he advised. That’s how Simon says it. Spit didn’t hand out compliments easily.

Gerald grabbed his morning shot of caffeine courage at the Java Nation counter and then headed across the gaming floor toward a flight of stairs for the last leg of the trip to Surveillance. The elevator stall would make him a good ten minutes late. Coffee in hand, Gerald stopped at a bank of house phones and dialed his own desk.

Surveillance. Jim Holt, a tired voice muttered.

Hey, Jimmy, it’s Gerald. Got my coffee, coming at ya.

You know what time it is, pal? Jimmy sounded near-dead.

I’m on my way. Switch to the camera over phone bank 5C. Gerald waited a second, then turned his face up to the camera above him and showed it the biggest grin he could muster, accompanied by an upraised palm. How! he mouthed toward the dark blister in the ceiling.

Very funny, smart boy, Jimmy said over the phone. The next time you show me that smirk, brush your tooth first. Now let’s see how quick you can sprint up here. It’s level six, in case you forgot.

* * * * *

Gerald was a member of the team of eyeballs who spent their days staring at monitors hooked to cameras that peppered the ceilings of the Laughing Loon casino and its garages and many sub-basements. Gerald slipped into his chair, pre-warmed by a night under Jimmy’s buns, scanned his day’s worksheet, and glanced at the screens that would be his window on the playpen that day. Five monitors faced him in a crescent, a bad hand of Texas Hold ’Em.

Jimmy was on his hands and knees like a sidecar next to Gerald’s chair, fumbling under the desk for his lunchbox. His shirt was riding up out of his belt, and the parallel tracks of wrinkles from his shirt pressed into the flesh around his waist. Jimmy hadn’t budged in his chair during the pre-dawn hours, the quietest in the casino, the hardest time to keep staring into the screens.

Anything to watch for? Gerald asked.

Lemme see. Jimmy, still on his hands and knees, was backing out from under the desk. Pamela, in the next seat, offered a beep-beep sound of a truck backing up, never looking away from her screens. There was a leather miniskirt at 7C blackjack around midnight. Buncha us was trying to spot garters underneath; Pamela over here was offering odds.

Was not, Pamela murmured.

… then a grab-ass character in a Harley tee shirt moved in on her and blocked our view with his big hairy paw.

--biggest hand I ever saw, Pamela offered. The rear end wasn’t tiny, but the hand still covered it somehow, by God.

Then, Jimmy interjected, "when it started to look like he was gonna put some wrinkles into the miniskirt, we were just about to call Security. While I was picking up the phone, Leonard Warren all of a sudden showed up outta thin air and introduced himself -- you know how he goes at it, all Cary Grant la-de-dah -- and he waltzed the girl away from the table on his right arm. Lucky for her, too. She was losing, big time. Left the grab-ass with nothing to grab but a warm patch of Naugahyde. And no ugly scenes, like Security would of cooked up.

Leonard! Gerald shook his head in admiration. He is always on the spot at the right time.

Not so hard, when you live here, Jimmy mumbled. His words were eclipsed by a yawn so wide Pamela’s eyes flicked away from her screens.

What do you mean, Leonard lives here, said Pamela. I’ve heard that before. Is that some kind of a haiku? I know it seems like he is all over this place all the time, some days, but he’s got to leave and go home, right? Right?

No one ventured an opinion until Gerald spoke up. I’m having lunch with Leonard in the cafeteria tonight. As we are shaking out our napkins in Cafe 1 I’ll ask him for you.

Pamela, surveying the day’s worksheet, let this drop. You got a double today? she asked Gerald. You must be rich as a cheating dealer by now. Who do I have to perform a Turkish sex act on to get a double every once in awhile?

Listen, kids, Jimmy interjected. Just be good while I’m gone. And keep me in the loop if you hear something juicy.

With Jimmy gone and Pamela silent as well as motionless, Gerald took a long look at the day’s assignments. To keep watchers alert, Surveillance shifts were broken into one-hour blocks of different pieces of the property: table games, slots, gift shops and restaurants, elevators and parking garages. Each place offered a different form of misbehavior: cheating at the tables, fanny-grabbing, bottom-feeders combing pay phones for overlooked quarters, the occasional mugging in the garages.

Aw, shit, I don’t get any table games today, he muttered.

Watch that mouth. The words drifted over from the statue next door.

I need my fun as much as anybody, Gerald grumbled.

Gerald, don’t be a pig. You had a month’s worth of fun last week when you spotted the chip going into Freddie’s fake cuff.

That was a year’s wortha fun, far as I’m concerned, offered Hal, from the far side of Pamela. Jeez, who wouldda thought of a fake cuff on Freddie? The boy was straight; at least I always thought so.

Yeah, you and everybody. Pamela said. I heard they had Freddie in Security and talked to him for three hours before they escorted him off the property. Still don’t know how much he took home in free chips over the eight years he was here.

He’d of had to get his wife or daughters to cash in the chips. Management would of picked up a pattern if there’d been a whole lot of cashier action from one employee’s family.

With help from the crack Surveillance team who’d of been making notes to track a pattern, Pamela said tartly.

There was a silence as the crew contemplated the notion that their work might not measure up to Vegas standards. A couple of people on the opposite bank of monitors set aside their morning bagels and turned their attention back to their screens.

After a pause, a voice came from the row across from to Gerald and Pam: Whatever, I heard management is gonna retool the dealers’ uniform now because of the false cuffs that Freddie was filling with tribal wampum.

Pamela snorted. They thought they were gonna stop dealers from palming chips by having uniforms with no pockets, then no belts, then no button-down shirts, then no ties, of course. Then they banned fake hairpieces after Mimi -- remember her? -- tried to slide hundred-dollar chips into that load of cotton candy on the top of her head.

Me-ow, Gerald said.

Yeah, like she was ever gonna get away with that, with help from all the sisters in the locker room, someone said. Then came the day when she sat down in the toilet after her shift and chips started raining down all around her. Security was waiting for her outside the stall before she could flush.

Snickers rose from the landscape of monitors.

So what’s next for the dealers’ uniform? someone asked.

Hell, nothing they can do to a uniform is gonna end cheating, someone else said.

Everybody knows that, dummy. But they gotta make it harder, or it’d be open season on chips.

Aw, screw it, put all the dealers in body stockings and hair nets. Just get it over with, once and for all.

A chorus of groans and catcalls greeted the notion, as the morning shift contemplated the many middle-aged figures swollen by starchy cafeteria food.

After a moment, Gerald murmured, I’d go for the body suit idea if they brought Mimi back.

Someone burst out laughing, followed by the ugly sound of choking and of sprayed coffee dosing a screen.

All right, Pamela barked. Has anybody around here got any work to do?

Chapter 2

It was getting near 1 p.m. and the rumbling of Gerald’s stomach had already earned him

two spitballs and a sharp elbow from Pamela. The house phone on the wall near him rang.

Greer.

Gerald! Leonard Warren’s voice was chipper.

Hey buddy, I was thinking you forgot our date.

No, no, awfully sorry, Leonard replied. I’ve been busy. A guy in the laundry department is helping me expand my cave, and I’m organizing all my uniforms. And I’ve been adjusting my inputs to the Surveillance system so that I can see the parking garages for the first time ever. A good morning’s work, I have to say.

You keep it up and you won’t just be able to see around corners of this place. You’ll know what we’re all thinking before we think it.

To stay invisible, I have to see ’em coming, as you know.

So, say we meet in fifteen minutes, in the Cafeteria One?

Tell you what, I’m just cleaning myself up and changing into janitor togs. Can you meet me in the men’s room on concourse C? I still need to floss.

Christ, Gerald snapped. You sure you don’t need thirty minutes? You sure you gonna get every eyebrow hair groomed in time?

For you, always, Leonard asked. I have the door locked, so just knock.

Two long and a short, Gerald replied, but Leonard had hung up.

* * * * *

Leonard Warren leaned close to the mirror in one of the men’s restrooms of the Laughing Loon casino, meticulously flossing his teeth with Loon-supplied dental floss, just a moment away from spraying the iron-gray waves of his hair with Loon-supplied hair spray. These were the last of a series of Loon-flagged bottles of toiletries that marched in a chorus line on the shelf that ran the length of the mirror.

He was in his 50s and shaped like a telephone pole with almost no sag in the rear end. He brushed his Hollywood-perfect teeth stroke by stroke, rinsing repeatedly, pausing often to review his toolbox of smile styles: open-mouthed, tight-lipped, jolly, serene, tender, reserved. He felt himself blessed because a smile was not only a virtue but also a necessity in his daily work.

There was a rapping on the door. Yo, Leonard! C’mon. Let’s go eat. The chicken lump and Elmer’s gravy at Cafe One ain’t going to stay yummy forever!

Leonard opened the bathroom door, exuding confidence. Gerald eyeballed the crisp creases and plumb-line seams of Leonard’s caramel-hued janitorial uniform, and he briefly glanced down at his own rumpled shirt and pants, the men’s wear equivalent of a dorm couch sticking out of a dumpster. Gerald moved aside to reveal Spit behind him. I found this guy in the elevator, he said, thumbing downward. Can we bring him along and feed him?

Ah, the winged messenger! Leonard declared, clapping Spit on the shoulder.

And just what is that s’pposed to mean? Spit could get more than usually belligerent on an empty stomach.

Meaning, Leonard explained, that you, sir, have a special role in spreading news of this Native tribe as you travel up and down the elevators from morning to night. You are, as we all know, the main wire of information for the whole family here.

Spit winced at ‘family,’ but he shrugged it off.

Please join us for lunch, Leonard added formally.

Yeah, Spit snorted. Like you’re doing me a favor.

Settled in the cafeteria, the three men poked at the tepid food on their plates and listened vaguely to a gaggle of dealers at the next table playing Crazy Eights.

So, Leonard asked Spit, what’s tribal?

Lemme see, Spit chewed and gazed at the ceiling. At the last Elders Council meeting, Harriet went on the warpath after some host at the Wind Song. The poor grunt didn’t recognize her last week and made her wait for a table along with the sneakers-and-fanny-pack riffraff. And she wants Doris’s scalp too, for hiring the poor bastard in the first place. A course, the host -- don’t remember his name -- was out on his keester ten minutes after the meeting ended.

Gerald shrugged. Doris’ll hang on. She’s got Earl Johnson on her side, and he’s still the head of the Elders. He’ll have to work up some starch for the job, but he’ll stick up for her against Harriet. Leonard offered no comment.

Spit looked at the two neutral faces across from him. Sorry, that’s all the news I got today, he snapped. Wouldn’t want to kill you two guys dead with ennui. He pronounced it on-wee.

Gerald remembered the talk in the crow’s nest that morning. Hey, Leonard, people in the nest were gossiping today about you living here in the casino. Leonard’s head whipped around, but he said nothing.

I didn’t say a thing, Gerald added quickly. I know nothing, as you know. But still, I’ve been hoping to hear the whole story one of these days. Of how you came to land here for good.

Leonard considered this, then spoke. Decades ago, I was a different person. I was working as a hunting guide in a great big swatch of the Adirondacks, north of here, including a lot of territory in sight of the Canadian border. There was a time when I had a notion that I knew my way around just about every lost logging trail in a big chunk of the mountains of northern New York State. Also, I had sweet a side job bringing marijuana across the border from Canada. He paused to swallow a gulp of coffee. Until I got caught.

Big mistake, Gerald opined. Back then, anyway.

Doing it or getting caught? Leonard said. For a while, it was easy money. But my easy money hit a brick wall one night when my American connection showed me his DEA face card. Spit guffawed.

I was in prison not even five years, Leonard went on. The state needed beds for a new generation of dopers so I caught an early release and a long parole stretch. I came home -- I grew up just down the road from here, you know -- and got a job, a room, and a suit. Not up to my present standards, but so be it. I also got a parole officer, a particularly creepy specimen named Lucas. Eventually he moved our appointments every other month. Said he couldn’t stand my cologne any oftener.

Couldn’t stand your cologne? Spit asked.

Could it be? Gerald added.

Leonard arched an eyebrow, but continued. Like a lot of people, I hired on as a laborer a little over ten years age and helped build this place. I even worked as a flagger when the dump trucks were bringing in the fill to build the very island that we’re sitting on right now.

Considering we’re in sub-basement 3, deep under the casino, we’re really sitting in the island, Spit offered. And, yeah, a lot of us remember when the island and casino were built, too.

Leonard smiled thinly, then continued. "After the casino opened, I signed on to drive the shuttle buses from the island to the mainland lots. One night I finished a double shift, ate some dinner in this very room, and then stumbled over to the laundry department. I fell asleep in the back of the big closet where they stored -- still store -- the rolling hampers. I slept straight through my next shift. I woke in the total darkness and decided to sit tight but not report to work for as long as I could get away with it.

In the second week, Leonard went on, I hung a blackout cloth across the laundry closet and set up a little bedroom behind it, like a monk’s hole. People started calling it my cave. You guys know the place.

The word is ‘cozy,’ Gerald said, thinking of the narrow bed, lamp, bedside table, easy chair, and banks of monitors in Leonard’s ten-by-eight-foot den down in Laundry.

Leonard nodded. Then I started collecting casino uniforms -- dealer, bartender, busboy, custodian -- and wearing them to move around this place. They were my first cloak of invisibility. Later, I mutated into a customer and made friends with a lot of the regulars. I thought of myself -- still do -- as the maitre d’ of the tribe. I started to eat at the casino restaurants, buy my clothes at the casino gift shops.

So, you’re nothing but a professional mooch, Spit offered.

Leonard considered this. I suppose so, if you’re referring to the meals I ate that I didn’t pay for. But I do my share. You work here forty hours a week. I work here all day, every day.

Spit laughed. My ass. You ain’t worked since Hector was a pup.

Not so! Leonard exclaimed. I have helped fold hundreds -- no, thousands -- of tablecloths. Last year I pushed the coin cart for Gloria every night during the last four months of her pregnancy. She was so grateful she said she was going to name the twins Leonard and Warren if she had boys.

Hell, Leonard, she knew the kids were gonna be girls almost from the start.

Be that as it may, Leonard responded archly. And I have at least a half-dozen lady friends who buy me a full-course dinner at the Wind Song once a week. That’s a lot of sales for F&B.

Leonard paused, not finished. But it got sticky one day, a few months after I first settled in to my cave, when I walked out of Ballroom B and bumped into Lucas the parole officer. He knew me right away. He got a grip on my arm and frog-walked me over to the Call of the Loon Grill for a little pow-wow. He was mean drunk and I was scared. You should have seen the look on Susan’s face when she brought us the menus.

I can guess, Gerald said. Susan’s been in love with you for years.

Leonard looked pleased, and almost seemed to lose his place in the story. Lucas said something like, ‘Hey, Leonard, it looks like you changed your M.O. and now you’re ripping off the Indians.’ He made quote marks in the air when he said Indians. You know what that means.

Yeah, Spit said, the Loons ain’t real Indians. We just started saying so when we spotted a chance to open a casino.

Right, Leonard agreed. That attitude. I told Lucas, ‘I worked for the tribe as a casino host.’ Then -- believe it or not -- Lucas offered me a deal. He said he had buddies in the state tax division who claimed that the Loons weren’t giving a full report of the slot winnings. He wanted me to be his inside whistle-blower on Indian tax cheating.

Gerald’s forehead wrinkled. And how, exactly, did he expect you to know about that?

Leonard shrugged. I was smart enough to keep my mouth shut. Lucas rambled on and on about tribal tax cheating, and I just nodded. He must have been dirt stupid as well as drunk. Finally, he got up and reeled out. His final line was ‘I know where you are. And I’ll be back to find you the next time I need you. Just keep yourself in sight.’

Gerald looked puzzled. That was it? No marching orders?

Leonard shrugged. Like I said, drunk and stupid. But that was the start of my plan to keep myself out of sight. I set up a computer in my little hidey hole. I tapped into the Surveillance system, so I can see people coming and going. I have a house phone line to link me up to friends inside, like you two. I haven’t set one foot outside this building -- not even out the door -- in five years, anyway.

Gerald exhaled. Not even a step outside the building?

Leonard shook his head solemnly. I had plenty of outdoor time when I was young. I’m quite content where I am.

Your story’s safe with me, Gerald said, standing. I better head back upstairs. Pamela is gonna be looking for my scalp if I run late.

Hold the phone, Spit exclaimed. What happened to Lucas?

Either he forgot about the whole thing or else his plan just kind of drifted away, Leonard said. He hasn’t shown up in years. Literally. Old Lucas might be dead or in jail himself by now --who knows. In any case, he’s gone out of my life. But the cameras and the costuming still serve me well, because I sure don’t want the tribe to catch on to my peculiar lifestyle and send me out into the cold.

Too bad we can’t put you into the Guinness World Records, Gerald said. Longest stowaway case in a casino basement, anywhere. Except you probably wouldn’t have even one competitor.

Leonard glanced at his watch. Good gracious! Reggie’s weekly executive meeting starts in a few minutes. I need to head upstairs and slip into the Council Chamber. I hate to miss a word of that meeting.

The Council Chamber? Spit asked. I don’t get it.

You know there’s a side door from the chamber to Reggie’s office, Leonard explained as he scraped and stacked his dishes. After the meeting starts, I creep in there and hunker down in the dark and listen. That’s why I’m in janitor’s drag. I’m darn near invisible from the elevator to the Council Chamber door.

Gerald stood and lifted his tray. Be careful what you pass on to Spit, he advised. You know where the news goes from him. Everywhere.

Spit scowled and opened his mouth to reply, but the other two were marching to the tray dump, leaving him sputtering.

Chapter 3

Reggie Willis, chief of the Loon Indian Tribal Nation, stood behind the enormous teak desk in his office, sipping from a can of cream soda and waiting for the department heads of the Laughing Loon Casino to sift in for their Wednesday morning meeting. Short and wiry, Reggie had skin the color of chocolate milk and a narrow head that was further elongated by a Mohawk that raised a stiff ridge of hair from his forehead to the nape of his neck. His chest was flat and the only spare flesh on him was a small, round paunch.

Behind his desk, high on the wall, was Reggie’s official portrait. In it, he stood at the end of a long, spit-shined conference table. It was common knowledge around the reservation that the photographer had stood Reggie on a couple of phone books for the picture. He