He stroked his chin in bemusement. “I was pretty sure you’d bring me down with you.”
“Believe it or not, that’s not my style.”
“Well, I haven’t seen any car for quite some time, let alone the same car. I think it’s safe to say he’s not following us. Do you mind telling me where we are going?”
“Laughlin, Nevada,” I said, deciding to trust him a little. Besides, I still had his phone and I’d keep watching him like a hawk. I pulled my hand out of his and walked back to the car. He followed behind me.
“Doing some gambling?”
“We are. Just try not to bet the house.”
***
The Avi Resort and Casino was just outside of Laughlin in Nevada at the weird corner where the state met California and Arizona. It wasn’t anything fancy, just one of those big interchangeable casino resorts that you could find on any Nevada highway. The Avi though, had a casual atmosphere and was popular with families thanks to its sprawling pool and the mighty Colorado River which swept past their private, manmade beach. The casino also paid out pretty well and was the perfect place for two ordinary twenty-somethings like ourselves to win big.
Of course, we probably wouldn’t be winning anything. We’d be losing. But this was the first step toward getting Camden’s money cleaned. He could keep the money in cash if he wanted, but it was extremely risky and dangerous, far too easy to lose, and if he wanted to start a legitimate life again, he’d need clean money in a bank account.
After we secured a modest room at the resort, we’d head to the cashier and exchange $5,000 in cash for the same amount on their electronic card. Smaller casinos like this tended to ask questions if you handed them high amounts, but it didn’t mean people weren’t doing this every day and legitimately. Then we’d gamble for a bit, hopefully losing not more than a hundred dollars—easy to avoid if you just stick to the penny slots—then call it a day and cash in. They give you a check, you deposit the check into your bank account as casino earnings. Your money has been cleaned.
Rinse and repeat.
“Are you sure this will work?” Camden asked as we locked our hotel door and walked down the dim hall that, despite the non-smoking policy, still smelled like years and years of built-up smoke and nicotine. You could probably lick the walls and get a bit of a buzz going.
“It will work,” I told him. “I’ve been doing this a long time.”
“When was the last time you were here? You’ve only been of age for five years.”
I looked at him oddly. “I was nineteen the last time I left California. Stopped here on the way out. And it’s called a fake ID, something you should know about, Connor Malloy.”
“I’m not Connor Malloy until I get the Social Security Card,” he pointed out.
“As soon as I know where we’ll be next week, then you’ll get your card,” I told him.
We took the elevator down to the main floor and were barraged with casino sounds: blips and bleeps, bells, chimes, the pull of the lever on older models, the smack of buttons on newer ones. A waitress walked by, the ice rattling in the drinks that sat on her tray. Camden quickly plucked one off the tray and slipped the woman a dollar.
“I think I need this,” he told me before downing it. We both needed a drink. Several. But first things were first.
We went over to the cashier and I smiled at the petite, round-faced Asian girl on the other side.
“Hi, I’d like to exchange some cash for a card,” I told her with a bright smile, noting her nametag which said “Cammie.” I reached into my purse and slid a wad of crisp bills toward her.
She eyed the wad, then me, then Camden, then the cash again.
“It’s five thousand dollars,” I told her. “Thank god for alimony, right?”
I thought that would bring a smile to her lips but no such luck.
“I’ll be right back,” she said sternly and disappeared with my money. Well, our money.
Camden leaned into my ear, whispering, “This isn’t going well, is it?”
I turned my head slightly, almost shivering when his lips caught the corner of my ear. “Some people are more suspicious than others. It happens.”
When she came back, she was with a thin, balding man with a giant grey mustache. Her manager, no doubt.
“Hello, miss?” the man said, leaning toward the bars. Cammie crossed her arms, watching him intently. “May I see some ID?”
They really had no right to ask for ID at this stage in the game—it was usually when you were cashing out and for over ten thousand dollars’ worth. But I wasn’t about to argue. I had a clean record, and I knew by law that where I got the money was none of their business.