Out in the parking lot ten minutes later, Ventura suggests that a photographer get a shot of the license plate on his 1990 Porsche Carrera 4. Asked how fast the sports car could go, Ventura eagerly takes the bait. I've had it up to 140 up there. With his massive arms folded over his chest beneath an insouciant smile, the bald-headed candidate looks like an unholy cross between James Dean and Mr. Clean. You open it up, look at it, and discover that you haven't won anything.
Tonight there is a couple, perhaps from out of town, definitely from the Midwest.
They stand by the tip jars, opening ticket after ticket, as if they were on an assembly line. When they are through, and 30 bucks' worth of useless paper lie scattered at their feet, they look at one another and then towards the tables.