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glow, the herald of a night where there was more than the agony of a lost child, where there was glitter and laughter and risk and the possibility, no matter how dim, of real possibility.
    He took a quick look around to be sure there was no one from the State Bureau of Investigation watching over him for his own damn good, and then, with a spring in his step, headed off toward the dazzling neon lights of Casinoland.

7
    C ASINOLAND
    The casinos on the boardwalk stood bright as silver dollars and high as pipe dreams on a line fronting the utter blackness of the sea. The Castle. The Seaside. Diamond’s Alhambra. Diamond’s Pyramid. Parade Parade. LondonTown. How Fat’s House of Luck. And in the middle, higher than the others, grander, lit brighter, topped by twin domes of shimmering gold surrounded by full-color statues of Greek gods, rose Diamond’s Mount Olympus.
    Mount Olympus had the largest casino floor space, the greatest number of rooms, the most slot machines, the biggest jackpots, and the highest table drop and table win of any casino east of the Rockies. It was a palace of profit and pleasure, with gold trim on every fixture and gold rims on every glass, with air cooled by Freon and doped with oxygen, with cocktail waitresses in black high heels and little gold tops that covered just the bottoms, with second-rate singers in the lounges and first-rate acts on the main stage, and a soundtrack like the voice of Daisy Buchanan on speed, overdubbed a hundred thousand times. Diamond’s Mount Olympus.
    “Good to see you, Mr. Scrbacek,” said a greeter at the first of two sets of doors.
    “Way to go, Mr. Scrbacek,” said one of the men brushing cigarette butts into a dustbin in the foyer.
    And then he was past the second set of doors, into the impossible flash of the casino. Every time he stepped inside Mount Olympus, he couldn’t help the quickening of his pace, the jiggling of his fingers, the sense of expectation that stole upon him like a burgeoning erection. He was always after something in the casino—sometimes luck, sometimes money, sometimes the thrill of losing more than he could afford, sometimes a quiet drink, sometimes a noisy drunk, but most times, like tonight, Dolores.
    Even late on a Tuesday night, the floor was mobbed with gamblers, and the minimums were jacked high. Scrbacek stood amidst the sea of gaming tables, examining the waitresses as they paraded by with their full trays and skimpy tops. As he searched, he sidled up to one of the blackjack tables.
    “Hey, Chris,” he said.
    The dealer, short and thin with hands quick enough to hide his boredom, glanced up from the table for just an instant. “J.D.” The table was full, all except one place with a clear chip over its betting spot. Chris continued dealing while he talked. “Heard there was some excitement down at the courthouse.”
    “Some,” said Scrbacek.
    “Congrats, dude.”
    “Thanks.”
    “I thought the bastard was finally cooked. You’re some kind of a magician, you are.”
    “My client was innocent.”
    “Not since the day he was born. But I’ve been telling everyone for a long time now—I ever get in trouble, I’m going straight to J.D. Scrbacek.”
    “Have you seen Dolores?”
    “She’s on tonight, somewheres. And how about that car blowing up like that?”
    “How about it?”
    “Kaboom. I heard someone was inside.”
    “That’s right.”
    “Son of a bitch. Tough way to go. Whose car was it, anyways?”
    “It wasn’t a car, it was a Ford Explorer. And it was mine.”
    “You’re kidding me.”
    “Unfortunately not.”
    “And the guy inside was turning the key instead of you?”
    “That’s the way it looks.”
    Chris paid the winners, scooped up the cards still on the table, and looked straight at Scrbacek. “You want to sit, there’s a seat open. I’ve been saving it for some joker who’s been gone past his time.”
    “No, thanks. I’m just looking for Dolores.”
    “Hey, J.D., I don’t know