“Hundreds and twenties, please,” Akil said, easing into a club chair. Even the interior air smelled like manure in this unremarkable Midwestern farm town of 1,400 people just south of Wisconsin Dells. He thumbed through a stack of reading materials, bypassing People and opting instead for a cattle disease article in BEEF magazine.
“You a gambler?” an elderly Native American man asked from across the lobby. He wore a bright-red, leather-fringed trapper costume and a red felt cowboy hat adorned with silver, turquoise, and bright-red feathers.
“I do my share,” Akil said. He knew that for him, gambling was strictly forbidden:
In them (wine and gambling) is great sin and their sin is greater than their benefit. (2:220)
You who have believed, intoxicants, gambling, and divining arrows are but defilement from the work of Satan, so avoid it that you may be successful. (5:90)
Akil also knew that his participation was perfectly acceptable and allowed in the course of deceiving his enemies.
“They call me Wanig-suchka, the Red Bird,” the old man said. “My ancestor was a war chief who always wore a red coat and called himself English. He was born in 1788. Ho-Chunk Casino is four miles north on County Highway BD. I give local tours, and I drive a shuttle, if you need a ride. You staying around here?”
“Nah, not today,” Akil said. “I don’t feel real lucky. Besides, I’m heading south. Gotta get back to Cincinnati by tonight.”
The old man shrugged. “Too bad. Ho-Chunk is one of six tribal casinos in Wisconsin. We are also known as the Winnebago, a Siouxspeaking tribe of Native Americans from Wisconsin, Minnesota, and parts of Iowa and Illinois. We have 2,500 slot machines now, but everything started with bingojack.”
“Bingojack?”
“That goes way back,” Red Bird said. “When it first opened, there was nothing on this land but a pole barn. Bingojack was the only game we offered. All the employees were tribal volunteers with no gaming experience. Even I was a dealer. Some of us barely knew how to read.” He laughed. “We miscounted so many hands it’s a wonder we stayed in business.”
“I’ve never heard of bingojack,” Akil said.
“Tens and face cards were white, with a pink ball in the center. That way nobody could say it was blackjack, a game prohibited by Wisconsin state law. When a player got dealt an ace and a pink ball card, someone shouted bingojack.” Red Bird waved his arms theatrically. “The rest is Indian history.”
“Is the casino crowded with the flying ban?” Akil asked.
“There could be a nuclear war and people would still come here and gamble. Las Vegas might be dying, but nobody flies to Wisconsin Dells. They all drive.
“This area is one of the most beautiful and scenic locations for Midwestern tourists to pack up their rug rats and spend a summer vacation. Where else can you find majestic views of the Wisconsin River and giant roller coasters within five square miles? The water parks here rank among the best in the country, especially the indoor ones. Our casino and hotel rival any operation anywhere.
“We may not be the Bellagio, but give us time. If we forced Donald Trump’s casinos into bankruptcy, then we’re doing something right. All the Indian revenues in the United States are more than Las Vegas and Atlantic City combined. I can remember when the Ho-Chunk Nation used to raise money selling caramel apples to tourists every night at the Indian Ceremonial Dance north of town. Not anymore. Now we own the town. Tribes all over the country lobbied state governments for the right to gamble on sacred land and provide for our people. What a crock! Hardly any of the profit goes to poor and underprivileged tribal families. It all funnels back to the original investors. And many of them already own shares in the Nevada and New Jersey operations. One of the wealthiest lives in Singapore.”
The cashier appeared at the counter window.
Akil gave Red Bird a cordial nod and strode outside to his car. He tucked the seven thousand dollars into his jean pocket along with a new prepaid cash card. The MoneyGram transaction amount was well below the ten thousand dollar limit that would alert Financial Crimes Enforcement. The drive to San Diego would take at least twenty-four hours.
Tom Ross was curled up on a folding cot in a laundry room next to the NTSB’s communication center. A row of industrial clothes dryers gently hummed through their cycles.
Ron Hollings noticed his boss sleeping lightly and had no choice but to wake him. He knelt on the floor near the cot.
“Ross? Ian Goodman is here. We’re trying to patch in the live underwater video feed from the cockpit. It should take another twenty minutes or so, if you want to watch. It looks like it’s in decent shape.”
Ross sat up and let out a huge yawn. “Did the Fontenelle team form up yet?”
“Uh-huh. About an hour ago.”
“That was quick,” Ross said, inhaling deeply. “How many people did we have to give?”
“Just three. There was a contingency list of retirees willing to come back in an emergency.”
“Retirees?” Ross said incredulously. “Heaven help us.”
“Yeah. Nobody even knew there was such a list, but multiple airline crashes tend to gobble up resources. I guess they had to create some kind of backup plan in case of another 9/11.”
“My back is killing me,” Ross said, stretching for his toes.
Hollings shook his head. “You look awful, Tom. Why don’t you just sleep in your room? We can handle things here. Besides, it wouldn’t look real good if the media found the NTSB’s investigator-in-charge napping in the laundry.”
“Call me when that film starts. And by the way, I’m not in charge anymore,” Ross said matter-of-factly. “You are.”
“What?”
“Don’t worry and don’t ask. You probably wouldn’t believe me anyway. Suffice it to say that I’m going on a special assignment. I just need you to cover things. I have a one-on-one interview in fifteen minutes. Where’s Neela?”
“In her room with her cameraman. She’s been there all day. Tom, this is crazy. Are we really supposed to start approving news stories? We’re investigators, not editors.”
“I’ll handle that,” Ross assured.
“Fine with me. Nobody in our office has any experience with TV reporting. It’s so early in the process that we don’t even know the topic of the news story.”
Ross stood up and looked Hollings in the eyes.
“The topic is me.”
Chapter 30
Chief of Staff Bard fingered through several folders, trying to determine which crisis to bring up first. With an ever-slanted eye on election politics, he decided on economics.
“Mr. President, six major airlines are planning a joint statement at 1:00 p.m. I’m afraid they’re going to announce a drop-dead date for a bailout. Their cash reserves are already on fire. Secretary Minka hasn’t had time to consolidate all the carrier numbers, but he did manage a rough estimate of Delta’s — one without the accounting hocus-pocus. He looked at it from a daily revenue intake of zero. From here on, it’s all about cash flow. One thing’s for sure: they’re in pre-panic denial. Delta’s VP of Finance, John Jacobs said they have six billion in cash and could survive a shutdown for two to three months, maybe longer. Minka thinks they only have three billion in cash and the rest due from receivables.”
“What about fuel savings?”
“Already factored in, as are the effects of an unprecedented layoff of nonessential employees and union workers. They can also reduce contract maintenance work, but they still owe nearly a billion a month in short-term debt payments alone. Sir, Minka believes these companies will be on life support in twenty-five to forty days.”