39

Wayne daydreamed a lot. He imagined all kinds of things. But never in his wildest had he painted this picture.

He was sitting in Action Central thinking about the conversation he’d had with the equipment van man, wondering if there was somebody else trying to fix the pageant and why, when all of a sudden, like the voice of God coming out of the wall, Mr. F says, “Wayne, I’d like to see you in my office right now.”

It was amazing. Wayne had never been on the receiving end of this voice thing. It really did feel like God talking to you. And, in this case, of course, it was, sort of—Mr. F being his daddy and his mama and his teacher and the Baby Jesus all rolled into one.

So he dropped his cola, stopped mid-bite of a cheeseburger, and hustled his butt over to the executive offices faster than a speeding bullet—that’s what Mr. F would say.

“He’s expecting you.” That’s what Crystal had to say. You could tell it really burned her.

“Come in, Wayne. Pull that door to behind you.” Mr. F was sitting in his black calf executive chair, the very one that Wayne had copied, wiping his little round rimless glasses with his left (and only) hand and a handkerchief monogrammed TUF in one corner. T-U-F. Wasn’t that something? Wayne had never known Mr. F’s middle name. On the top of Mr. F’s specially built desk, his trains were going. Sante Fe. Southern Pacific. B&O. Rolling stock. They were really something.

“Could I offer you some orange pop?” asked Mr. F.

“Why, yes. That’d be nice.” Wayne settled back in the chair Mr. F had waved him into, across the desk. It was black leather too, but with chrome. By Vanderow, he’d heard Mr. F tell somebody once. “I’d like some, thanks.” Wayne sneaked a peek around the room to make sure Dougie wasn’t hiding in a corner. He didn’t seem to be. Well, that was good. It was about time he and Mr. F had a heart-to-heart. There were lots of things he wanted to tell him, and Dougie’s double-dealing, sneaking and hiding and stealing were right up there at the top of the list.

“You know, Wayne, I’ve been thinking it’s about time we had a heart-to-heart. Laid a few cards on the table.”

Wayne was absolutely amazed. No wonder the man was a billionaire. He was also a mind-reading genius.

“Wayne, one of the things you learn if you hang around this gambling business very long is when to hold and when to fold. And when to pull in your horns.”

Wayne nodded. He wasn’t sure what Mr. F was getting at, but he knew he’d figure it out. As long as Mr. F hadn’t started out yelling at him about those tapes, well, Wayne was happy.

“They’ve always said that this business is recession-proof, but it looks like that may not be the case. We’ve got shallow pockets all over the place.”

Shallow pockets. Wayne tried to picture them.

“What we’ve got here is a trickle down.”

Wayne saw a leaky faucet.

“It all snowballs.”

That was easy.

“We all took it in the shorts from Trump, just for starters.”

Wayne winced and crossed his legs.

“You know, the man overdeveloped. Already had two casinos, he opened the Taj, just a monument to his dick. It didn’t bring more business into the city. All it did was divide it up, take from the rest of us. And we’re not going to get the business back till he folds one.”

Wayne saw the Donald standing in a corner. Holding his dick. Everybody pointing at him.

“On top of that, we got this oil business. Crazy Arabs, oil prices go up, gasoline goes up, we don’t get the drivers.”

Wayne saw cars full of gamblers turning around on the Garden State, heading back home.

“Your high rollers, they gamble discretionary income.”

Wayne got a blank screen on that one.

“Person owns his own business, he’s cutting back, because he’s not bringing in as much.”

Okay, Wayne could see that guy, frown on his face, staring at his cash register.

“You’d be surprised, the variables. Bad weather, they stay home. Flu season, they stay home. War. Football playoffs. Super Bowl. Then freaks like this Reverend Dunwoodie, that’s very bad for business, Wayne. Man shut the expressway down two hours yesterday, cost us a million. Us! And that kind of stuff spills over. People don’t want to be around trouble, especially with the coloreds.”

Wayne could see the solution to that. Just get an 18-wheeler, run that sucker over.

“The players who keep coming, high or low, are the retirees on a fixed income who pop over every other week for entertainment. They’re still coming in droves.”

Wayne could sure see that. Those AARPs on the buses with their coupons in their spotty old hands.

“We’re cutting back on the buses, cutting back on the free chips and meal vouchers. Lots of those grandmas just play those freebies, gobble the meals and get back on the bus.”

Shame on them. No free lunch. Everybody knew that one.

“So here’s what we got. We don’t want to cut back too much on marketing because we don’t want to lose market share. But we’ve got to trim expenses where we can. And back-of-the-house is the most sensible place to start.”

Wayne saw a big pair of scissors. He nodded at Mr. F who was looking right at him through his little rimless glasses.

“Well, I really do appreciate your taking this so well, Wayne. I knew if I explained it to you, you’d understand.”

Understand? Understand what?

Mr. F was around the desk now, handing him an envelope and shaking his hand. Which was always kind of awkward, because you had to remember to give him your left.

“We’re going to miss you, Wayne. You’ve been a real integral part of FrankFair Enterprises, and believe it or not, this hurts me a lot more than it hurts you.”

That’s exactly what his mama used to say when she beat him bloody with a belt, the one she said had belonged to his daddy. Exactly.