The toll free strait is free for sixty days.

Thirty years on a casino floor teaches you one word. Free.

I have heard “free” come out of every smooth mouth in Atlantic City. Free parking. Free drinks. Free room, Frank, comped, on the house. And every single time, somewhere behind the smile, a guy in a back office was already adding it to your tab. So when the President stood up this week, banged the gavel, and announced the Strait of Hormuz was now toll free, I did what I always do. I asked who is holding the pen on the other side of the table.

He made a whole proclamation out of it.

He did not just say free. “I hereby fully authorize the toll free opening of the Strait of Hormuz,” he said, and pulled the Navy back like a man waving off the valet. Permanent. Toll free. Folks, the water is on the house. His own number two went a step further and said he expects it stays free “for the long term,” which is the kind of thing you say when you have not read the fine print and you are hoping nobody else did either.

Free for sixty days.

Here is the part nobody at the big table mentioned. Iran’s own news agency already did the math out loud. Free for sixty days. After that, they start charging what they are politely calling a maritime services fee. Sixty days. I have been comped exactly that long before, and I can tell you what lands on the table on day sixty-one. The check.

They gave up the booth and bragged about it.

And here is the kicker, a real beauty. A few weeks back this same crew floated charging the tolls themselves. They wanted the booth. They wanted the quarters. Then they sat down, gave up the booth, walked out, and told everybody the booth is gone. Meanwhile the other guy is laminating the tickets.

I am not a diplomat. I am a man who watched people lose the mortgage to the word free for three decades. And I know the tell. When somebody promises you a thing costs nothing, permanently, with a big smile and a gavel, you do not ask if there is a catch.

You ask when it starts.