MILO: A LUSH FOR LIFE

Be careful who you admire.  Life's all-stars, even the coolest titans we know, aren't necessarily well-adjusted, happy or nice.   

                   *

In Las Vegas, during my two-year craps dealing run at the Stardust Casino, (1980-1982), I worked several months with Vincienzo Emilio Vesuvio, (he preferred to be called Milo). 

     Milo was the best dealer I ever saw as well as an arrogant, easy to hate punk.  He combined his technical skills and game expertise with a charming personality that earned him and his crew a bigger toke (tip) income. But he was also an egotist who got his rocks off making his friends, family and coworkers feel bad.

     Milo was energetic and handsome, young women would refer to his looks as cute.  He was also short and due to his youthful appearance, jealous men said he looked sixteen.

     Vesuvio was a Vegas native and a licensed real estate broker.  He lived with high school sweetheart Rachel Pross, in a gated community.  Their new, over-sized yellow custom home was the grand centerpiece of a picturesque cul-de-sac.  

     Rachel dealt blackjack part-time at the Stardust while studying interior design at UNLV.  Her dream was to decorate their house in a Victorian motif, in the hopes of it becoming a “Show-Home.”  The first piece she had bought was an ornate picture frame that housed a mirror in their grand foyer.  She teased Milo because he couldn’t walk past it without admiring his “portrait.”             
     
     In Milo’s den, a collection of Degas, Monet and Lautrec lithographs were mounted on a pure white wall.  Professional track lighting gave it a museum-like appearance. The art was just an investment because his two passions were collecting firearms and dirt-biking in the desert.



                     *

For me, other than economics, the only advantage of working with Milo came by observing him. From him, I developed a deeper understanding of craps and how to service customers.

     Few people stood too close to Vesuvio because his harsh sarcasm and condescending attitude towards coworkers and supervisors made him a target, leaving the innocents around him at risk of collateral damage.  

MILO HAD A TALENT FOR WAVING THE CRAPS STICK INCHES FROM A DEALER'S EYES TO GET HIS ATTENTION.  OFTEN, HE WOULD TELL HIS CREW MATES TO SOLICIT TIPS.  IF THEY DIDN'T, THE ASSHOLE WOULD BRAG THAT THEY'D STARVE WITHOUT HIM.

     Milo brought more unnecessary heat on himself because he disregarded the craps dealers unwritten code of; an implied vow of poverty.  Vesuvio was “dripping in gold.”  He gave low-rollers the false impression that dealers were wealthy by flaunting a thick, 18-karat necklace and matching bracelet.  He also wore a pinkie ring with a big diamond stud set into an onyx slab.  Worst of all, he dealt with a blinding, diamond encrusted Rolex.

Milo's magnetism attracted the Stardust's “jet-set" employees. Like disciples, people from every conceivable department and shift, would go out of their way to watch their icon deal or call out his name as they passed.  Finally someone clued me in.  Milo's fans weren't fascinated by the artistry of his craps dealing, they were interested in getting the attention of a great drug dealer.



                      *

His perky girlfriend Rachel was the darling of the whole staff.  But her earthy friendliness, optimism and trustfulness translated into naivete. She was so pure of heart that many of our coworkers and supervisors who despised Milo's swaggering cocksure attitude never hurt her by identifying him as a drug dealer or a whore monger.

                    
                *

Milo’s best friend since childhood was Giacomo “Jack” Grilli.  He worked in the same vocation at the more prestigious Tropicana Casino and partnered with Milo, in their illegal avocation.  Jack was tall, handsome and equally conceited.  Although his wife was expecting their first child, he remained just as much a womanizer as Milo.

     
     Jack shared Milo’s passion for guns and dirt biking.  Together with a miniature arsenal of rifles, shotguns and pistols, they frequently loaded their bikes into a caged cart and hitched it to the back of Milo’s new Toyota Celica.  Additionally, they completed these excursions by being “armed” with hip flasks of Johnnie Walker Black and a cooler of icy Heinekens. 

     On a day off, they headed north towards the Utah border.

     Jack said, "Other than the telephone poles and the train tracks, I bet the scenery hasn't changed for thousands of years." 

     Milo snapped, “You’re so deep.” 

     Jack shrugged off the typical smugness, turned on the radio and lit a joint. 

The Don McLean song "Vincent" was playing and within seconds, Milo shut it off and said, "How can you listen to that shit? I'd actually rather listen to you."

     Twenty minutes and several whiskey shots later Jack philosophized, “Dude, remember the time we saw that herd of mustangs running through the desert.  Wasn’t that amazing?”

     Milo stared him down as if he had no idea what Jack was talking about until bursting into laughter.

     
     They pulled off the highway onto an unpaved road and Jack said, “You're such a prick. Don’t bust my balls. You thought the mustangs were cool too.”

     
     For three miles, they bounced and bucked along the pockmarked trail until they were in the middle of nowhere.  Milo got out and removed both bikes from the cart.  He rejoined Jack in the car and split six lines of cocaine. 

     
     They removed twenty, one-gallon plastic jugs filled with water, numerous empty aluminum cans and an assortment of glass bottles.  While drinking beer, they laid out their targets amid barrel cacti, Joshua trees and rocks.

     Ten minutes later the targets were destroyed and Milo said, “Jackie, check this out.” 

     Tucked behind the spare tire, wrapped in a plush towel from Caesar's Palace, he revealed a magnificent, vintage, pearl handled Smith and Wesson 45° revolver.  Together they marveled at its aesthetics.

MILO'S NEW TOY IMMEDIATELY BECAME HIS FAVORITE WEAPON.  A FEW MINUTES AFTER SHOWING IT TO JACK, HE SAID, "IF I DIE TOMORROW, MAKE SURE THEY PUT IN MY COFFIN."  

“What a cannon. It’s beautiful,” Jack declared while aiming it.  “The craftsmanship, the balance...”

     Before Jack finished his thought, Milo swiped his weapon back and wildly fired at a holey Budweiser can atop a massive boulder and missed.

     
     “C’mon Dickhead,” Milo cried. “Let’s put this shit away and ride.”

                     *

They roared through the wilderness, racing up hills and chasing each other through gullies.  An hour later, two miles from the car, Jack waited in the shade, at the foot of a mountain.  Milo slammed on his brakes and intentionally kicked sandy gravel into his friend’s face before skidding to a stop.
 

“I had enough,” Jack confessed while wiping the fresh layer of grit off his perspired face, “I’m ready to go.”

     “Cool, I’ll race you. Loser puts the bikes away.” 

      Milo jerked the bike around, popped a wheelie and sped off.  Jack followed Milo along a virgin trail that snaked upward and quickly tapered into a narrow ridge.  At first, to accommodate his pursuer, Milo veered to the left edge of the rising road until impulsively swerving back to the right.  Milo accelerated down from the thirty-foot high summit and looked back through the veil of settling dust.  But where was Jack?  He had vanished. 

     Vesuvio stopped.  He shut off his bike.  Alone in a remote sea of eerie silence, he waited.  Milo stared back up the mini-mountain and smiled because this was the kind of thing he would do to spook Jack.  His grin eroded to a grimace because Jack was overplaying his grand reappearance. Stoic Milo reluctantly made a U-Turn and walked his bike back up.  

     At the crest, the absolute quiet was broken by a muted whir of an engine. Milo continued down the far slope.  Through the mourning whistle of the wind, he heard a horrible, low moan.  Milo looked down the lip of the hill and found a sheer cliff.  At the bottom, separating the inclining path from the desert floor was a shallow chasm just wide enough to trap Jack under his bike.

     Guilt-ridden by his prank, Milo hastily slid down the rocky embankment. He fell and the sun-baked, cement-like terrain lacerated his hands and face. 

     Jack was wedged into the crevice, bleeding profusely and shivering.  Groans were the only responses Milo heard, as he shut off the bike.  In a panic, he made a futile try to free his friend but was unable to budge man or machine.  

     Milo soon noticed Jack’s shinbone had pierced his jeans.  It was time to get help.  Milo whipped off his dungaree jacket and made a makeshift pillow.  He pushed it underneath Jack’s head until the victim let out a disturbing high-pitched wail.  Instead, Milo spread it over Jack’s chest, to keep him warm. 

     Vesuvio commingled their blood before lighting a marijuana stick. He whispered encouraging words of brotherhood as he placed it between Jack’s lips.  The joint fell to the ground as Milo turned to leave.

     In a slow motion dream-like trance, Milo recklessly sped through the wasteland to his car.  Tears blurred his vision as gruesome images of buzzards pecking at his friend’s contorted carcass dominated his mind.

     Milo tore-off in his Celica and left a shroud of billowing smoke behind him.  Each dip, bump and pothole tortured the car’s suspension as the empty cart bounced violently behind.  Obsessed by grisly images of death, he neared the interstate. On solid pavement, Milo “put the pedal to the metal,” and quickly eclipsed 85 MPH. 

     
     Vesuvio accelerated in the hope of being stopped by the Highway Patrol or to at least get to a pay phone quick.  Neither scenario panned out.  Nearly back to town, he roared into a Husky Truck Stop. 

     Milo harnessed all his poise to clearly explain the circumstances to the police dispatcher.  To reduce his paranoia while waiting for assistance, he discarded any evidence of contraband into a rusty trash barrel.  He also took the added precaution of checking his pockets, washing his hands and buying breath mints.

     The police car and ambulance arrived. Milo rode with Sergeant Austin McKinley.  He conveniently didn't mention that he forced Jack off the road as he rehashed the gory details.

     The sergeant removed his mirrored sunglasses and asserted, “You know drinking's not a good idea while operating any motor vehicle.”

     Milo stammered, “Y-y-yes sir.”

     Little else was said as he looked away. Daydreaming, Milo focused on the lifeless brown landscape.  Plagued by his transgression, he couldn’t get the terrible accident scene out of his mind. 

     Milo spied rolling tumbleweed and pictured it as Jack’s head being chased by wild black stallions.  

TUMBLEWEEDS ARE DEAD DESERT PLANTS WHOSE ROOT HAS BEEN SNAPPED BY THE WIND AND ROLL IN OPEN ENVIRONMENTS.

Milo’s left foot involuntarily pressed down as if “flooring” the cruiser’s accelerator as the Grim Reaper atop a white horse emerged from the imaginary herd. He used his scythe like a polo mallet and whacked Jack’s head.

     
     The officer startled Milo by saying, “He’ll be okay.”

     The policeman was doing 110 MPH as he took the precaution of requesting a helicopter.

     Milo searched the distant sky for buzzards.

     
     “Yes my friend,” started the officer. “A little prayer can’t hurt.”

     
     “I wasn’t praying,” Milo bleated.

     
     “Well,” the sergeant said, “besides divine intervention, all that’s up there are vultures.”

     Devastated by his own culpability, Milo was jolted by McKinley’s perceived clairvoyance. He didn’t speak again until pointing out the turn-off for the access road.  The ambulance followed as they bucked and bounced past Milo’s unattended bike.  Jack had been alone for an hour and five minutes when they arrived.

                    *

Jack was unconscious and having difficulty breathing as the three-person emergency squad inserted an IV.  

     The youngest medic exclaimed, "He's in shock." 
     
     McKinley ran back to his unit's radio, to reiterate the need for a “copter.”  He returned to find the team trying to support the casualty’s broken body while attempting to pry him from the trench.

     
     “I’ve got shovels,” announced the sergeant.

     The female medic and the officer were digging as Milo pestered the other two EMTs about Jack’s condition.  

     The leader didn't answer and said, "Sit down and be quiet."    

     Milo kept yammering and looking over their shoulder until the young attendant, behind his boss' back, showed Milo the joint he found beneath Jack.  Silently, Milo hustled to Jack and clawed the cement-like earth with his already bloody hands. 

     Five minutes later a chopper appeared in the southern horizon.  The rescuers used a blanket like a sling and freed Jack from the would-be grave, before airlifting him away.

                     *

Three days after the accident, Jack’s wife (two weeks prematurely), gave birth to their five-pound son.  The baby, Giacomo Emilio Grilli, remained in the same hospital as his father until his jaundice condition improved and his respiratory system matured. Nonetheless, the infant was home ten days before his comatose dad left the Intensive Care Unit. 

     Jack survived a compound fracture of the right tibia, dislocated hip, spinal trauma, a collapsed lung, internal bleeding and a concussion.  He would need a cane for a year and despite a slight limp would lead a normal life.

     
     While Jack’s life was still in doubt, Milo was declared a hero.  Basking in glory, he was interviewed on TV and the Sunday paper had an in depth article about him.    

     
     Outwardly everything was going well for Milo. But he couldn’t cope with his undeserved superstar-status.  He alone knew his friend's near death experience was his fault. Instead of rising out of the melancholia when Jack improved, Milo became enveloped by self-imposed loneliness and depression.  

     Every aspect of Milo’s life became infected.  Twice I saw his mother come into the casino to admonish him about unfinished real estate business and his girlfriend Rachel publicly argued with him regarding rumors of his infidelity. 

     To ease the pain, Milo started getting high at work.  Soon the recreational use of his own products snowballed into reliance. A vicious cycle of dulling his misery with cocaine led to more unhappiness because of it.  Early in most shifts, at fifty-percent efficiency, Milo was still an excellent dealer.  But the downward spiral continued as the night wore on. In the end, he was sloppy, disoriented and useless.

                     *

Milo was asked to make a speech in Jack’s absence at the baby’s christening.  Under perfect conditions, Milo was no public speaker. On this particular morning, he was hung over.  Plus, as was the norm when waking up before noon, Milo used amphetamines to “rise” to the occasion.

     In front of the considerable gathering, Milo blithered for thirty seconds before articulating, “NOTHING is more important than life...”

     There was an exaggerated pause.  Onlookers assumed he had lost his train of thought but Milo, with eyes open, had fallen asleep standing up. 

     The crowd began to buzz causing Milo to snap out of his stupor and close with an energetic, “And NOTHING is better than babies!” 

     The austere throng became invigorated and some applauded their hero.  Twenty minutes later, Milo was told that Rachel had run out of the chapel in tears during his oration.

                     *

Milo’s dilemma worsened when an allied drug dealer contacted him that day.  Vidál, a Brazilian informed Milo of a large cocaine shipment and offered half the action.  They had worked well on smaller deals but this was going to be huge.

     Greed got the better of Milo. He knew to whom he would sell his entire split as he calculated doubling his $25,000.00 investment over night. What he didn't factor in was, the deal was going down the next afternoon.  Due to Jack’s unavailability, Milo with Vidál and three of his men, was compelled to go it alone.

     
     Milo spent the rest of the day accumulating loose cash.  He raced around town collecting debts and borrowing money from friends.  Together with his own money, he amassed $19,000.00.  To save time, rather than chasing chump change, he headed to his mother’s real estate office.  She had financially “assisted” him several times but never for six thousand. 

     In actuality despite being licensed, Milo had only a superficial knowledge of real estate and almost never sold anything.  Instead, his mother helped “launder” drug money, by putting some of her smaller commissions in his name. 

     
     Inside the sanctuary of her private office, she verbally hammered him with a familiar, profane speech that he'd suffered through his whole life. 

     “I’ve been on my own since I was sixteen,” she started.  “When I got pregnant with YOU, all I got was a cheap engagement ring.  Then the asshole turned his back on me and my parents disowned me!  I killed myself to take care of you, finish high school, get a job and put myself through college.  I wish I had someone to give me money for two abortions, Christ...I only needed one!  I wish I didn’t have any responsibilities or a single goddamned care in the world!”

     Milo whined, "But Ma."

     “You have no respect for people. What do you take me for, a doormat, a piece of shit... what?”

     She marched into the main office and crossed the floor to the street exit.

     Witnessed by two employees, she opened the door, pointed outside and mandated, “Get the fuck out. Straighten out your sorry life and stop the drug bullshit.  If you don’t, I never want to see your pitiful ass ever again.” 

     Milo ducked his head and left.

                     *

Milo had to be at work by 6:00PM.  He hurried home, gathered all his guns, removed the impressionist lithographs and loaded them into his car. He rolled both his dirt bikes into the caged cart and hitched it to his Celica.

     
     He looked at his Rolex as he pulled up in front of Stoney’s Pawn Shop at 4:45PM.  The counterman looked at the goods and asked for identification.  Satisfied of Milo’s age, he questioned the items’ legality.  Milo produced certificates of authenticity for the art and bills of sale for the weapons.

     He spewed, “How much for all of it?”  Over-anxiously he added, “Wait, wait, wait, all of it except this,” as he withdrew his ivory handled 45º.

      Unimpressed the cashier said, “Twenty-eight hundred.”

     “I need six grand,” Milo exploded.  “What do you think I’m fuckin’ crazy?”

    “Sonny, what I think you are, is jumpy.  I’m not taking advantage of you,” said the calm man.  “But, in negotiations you should never let on that you’re desperate.”

     “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Milo pouted.  “How much?”

     The man frowned, “I don’t really want any of your stuff but I’ll pump it up to three.”

     Milo opened the door and pointed to his two bikes, “How much?”

     “A thousand,” exclaimed the man.

     “How much with the cart?” Milo declared.

     The man shook his head and smiled, “I was including the cart.” 

     Milo said, "You heartless bastard," before removing his thick gold necklace.  

     Motionless, the man watched Milo take off his matching bracelet and the gold pinkie ring.  They stared each other down. Milo broke the stalemate by checking the time before taking off his Rolex.

     
     The man used a jeweler’s loupe to examine the goods and abruptly said, “Five grand for all of it.  And not a dime more!”

     
     “C’mon,” Milo begged, “Fifty-five.  I’m coming back the day after tomorrow to get it all back anyway.”

     
     “Kid, you got moxie.  Fifty-two, take it or leave it.”

     
     With all the charm he could muster, Milo countered, “Make me happy, fifty-three.”

     
     “You watch too many movies my boy.  Why don’t you be half-happy and take fifty-two fifty.” 

     The deal was done.  Confident he could generate seven hundred and fifty dollars more in tokes, borrowing and incidentals, Milo made it to work fractionally late.

                     *

An hour into our shift Rachel and Milo had a heated discussion in front of the casino cashier. 

     I couldn’t hear much but when he stormed off she venomously shouted, “You’ve got to be the world’s worst money manager!”

     Milo was uncharacteristically nervous that night.  Still, we made some good tips early.  Then, two drunk Texans, carelessly spitting tobacco juice into Styrofoam cups arrived on Milo’s end of the table.  At first he was nauseated by their wet brown flakes dotting his work area.  However, when he saw a way into their pocket, he enthusiastically focused on giving them the royal treatment.  

     Their tips were steady but when Milo found out they were brother-in-laws, he manipulated them into a contest of who would toke him best.  From them, thirteen hundred dollars in tokes were generated.  By the time they left, Milo was as cocky as ever. When he came back from his last break, he was all messed up. 

    An hour later our shift was over, we had netted $460.00 each in tokes. To help celebrate our good fortune, we invited five supervisors across the street to the Silver City Casino so we could make our “lay-offs,” (tip them for helping us hustle tokes).

     Our four-member crew crossed the strip under the starry night. In that time, Milo borrowed the rest of what he needed from another dealer.       

     At the bar, Milo stood away from us and slapped a twenty down, “Hey ‘Beer-tender,’ Johnnie Walker Black, straight...make it a double.” 

     He slugged it down and ordered another.  His third was being poured before the bartender acknowledged any of us.

     
     Our party was starting to break up when a striking, petite blond approached.  Milo, nursing a Heineken was showing the effect from the evening’s intake as she struck up a conversation with him. 

     She ran her index finger across his embroidered name on his Stardust shirt and said, “Hey Milo, you like games?”

     “Sure gorgeous. What’s on your mind?”

     “Well Cutie, I like the vulture game.”

     Milo shook off the image of Jack’s remains being torn at and cautiously asked, “Vulture game.  What’s that?”

     “I take you back to my hotel room,” she beamed, “and play dead.  Then you eat me!”

     He put his arm around her waist and without saying good-bye left.

              *

Milo staggered to his bedroom at dawn.  Anesthetized, Milo minimized the risk of disturbing Rachel by stripping down to his shorts in the guest bathroom.  He slithered delicately into bed. Rachel stirred enough to give him a welcoming kiss and to apologize for not having more faith in his economic judgment. 

     She rubbed his belly and slid her hand under his briefs.

     When Rachel encountered the spent prophylactic he still had on, she went into a rare vulgarity-laced tirade and demanded, “What the fuck is this?”

     Milo, the consummate bullshit artist responded, “You were great.  We should do it that way more often.”

     On the verge of screaming, confused Rachel calmed herself and said, “Oh? Good night.” 

     Milo smirked, rolled over and within seconds was out.  Rachel wasn't that gullible. She made certain Milo was asleep and examined herself. 

     She sneered at the passed out lump lying beside her and huffed, “I was great, eh.” 

     Rachel glided out of bed and started gathering her things. Her anger intensified when it occurred to her that she was on the pill and that they hadn't used condoms for a long time.

                     *

At 11:20AM, a series of unanswered phone calls finally got the nauseous Milo out of bed. Beleaguered by a splitting headache, it took a while before he noticed Rachel’s empty bureau drawers were open, her jewelry box was missing and a section of her walk-in closet was barren. 

     Milo stumbled back to his nightstand.  From his “stash,” he produced his “wake-up vitamins.”  Downstairs, he stopped in front of the Victorian mirror.  He stared at his increasingly sullen portrait and swallowed a black capsule. 

     Vesuvio rummaged through the house in search of an explanation. He was walking past the front door as he heard a rustling sound, followed by the metallic clink of his mailbox.  He was expecting to catch Rachel dropping off a note but it was the postman.

     Milo scanned the three bills, some junk mail and an official looking envelope before tossing it all on the counter.  While drinking orange juice from the container, he continued his search. Frustrated, it was time to call Rachel’s mother.

     
     Mrs. Pross greeted him with a robust, “She ain’t here you depraved lowlife animal...I always told her you were scum...she never wants to see you again.” 

     
     “Look Mrs. P.,” he gently pleaded, “I know she’s there. Please, put her on.”

     
     She looked at her sobbing daughter and snapped, “You’re a lush. She’ll never go back with...”

     
     Rachel took the phone and croaked in a frail voice, “I’m missing an important day at school.”  She fought off tears and whimpered, “I’m too upset...”

     
     Milo cut her off and after some flowery nonsense said, “I love you, I need you, we’re great together, I’ll make it up to you.”

     Rachel removed the receiver from her ear and said to her mom, “Yaddy, yada.” Before interrupting his speech, “We’re finished!”

     Unprepared and desperate, Milo blurted out, “Last week I bought you a ring.  I really...” There was a pause as he gulped, “I really love you Rae. I was waiting for...er...um...Easter Sunday to give it to you...will you...” Milo cringed, “Um...er...will you marry me?”

     Rachel fired back, “After all you put me through, you have the fucking audacity to propose over the phone!” 

     Milo started blathering.  Rachel held the phone away from her ear again and mockingly gestured that he was babbling.

     
     Her mom irritably warned her, “Rachel Iris Pross, Don't lower yourself to his level.  Obscenities are for common folks.”

     Annoyed, Rachel nodded and hissed, “Okay.”

     
     Mom added, “He bought you a ring? I don’t believe it.  Tell that scheming liar to describe it.”

     Milo, without a reference point softly bluffed, “Well, ya know.  I uh, only saw it once.”

     
     “That tears it,” Rachel bellowed.  “When you’re at work, I’ll get the rest of my stuff.”

     
     Saddened, Milo hung up and sifted through the mail.  He stopped at the official looking envelope; it was from the Internal Revenue Service. 

     
     Dazed and achy he whispered aloud, “Must be a check.” 
     
     There was no check, only an audit notification for 1978 and 1979.  Milo with all his big-ticket possessions, never declared any tip income in his four-year craps dealing career.  

                     *

Milo dialed his accountant. The phone was ringing as he made a mental note to change his small bills into hundreds for the cocaine buy. 

     
     The audit notice angered his accountant, “Didn’t I tell you something had to be declared.  I told you about my client from the Dunes, the IRS got him for 17K plus interest and penalties.” 

     During the lecture, Milo’s mind wandered to placating Rachel.

     
     “Are you even listening?” demanded the accountant.

     
     Milo said, “Uh huh.”

               
     “Why do you have to be so headstrong?  Look, I’m going into a meeting now, I’ll call you.” 

     Milo hung up and contrived a shoddy plan to get Rachel back.  He had one foot out the door when the phone rang.  It was Sergeant Austin McKinley doing a routine follow-up for his report.

     During Milo's crosstown drive, the friendly conversation with the officer left him shaking.  He was convinced that McKinley was "double-sharp" and that he knew about the joint under Jack's body.  

     Milo wondered; it's natural for cops to look for more evidence. What if Sherlock snooped around the truck stop and found my shit in the garbage can.  

     The vision of Jack's cocaine kit, pot, rolling paper and roaches were indelibly burnt into Milo's psyche as he pulled into his mother's empty driveway. 



                *



In his mother's bedroom, Milo probed the furthest left-hand corner of her hosiery drawer. There he found a felt, cobalt blue Crown Royal bag. He pulled open the drawstring and sifted through her keepsakes.  Milo removed his quarry, refilled the contents and replaced the sack.



               *



Milo's next stop was the Gold Coast Casino. He bought in at a blackjack table for five-thousand dollars in twenties.  Without playing, Vesuvio cashed out the chips for hundred-dollar bills.  He repeated this process at other casinos until he had two, hundred-dollar packets of $10,000 and one of $5,000.



                    *



Milo left his car running in a handicapped parking spot next to a Hallmark store.  He selected the first card that read:  I love you.  Indiscriminately, he grabbed feminine gift paper and marched to the register.  He borrowed a pencil and scribbled similar hackneyed sentiments like the ones he told Rachel over the phone.  Milo flattered the cashier and she gift wrapped the tiny box in Japanese-themed plum blossom paper.



                    *     



Milo sped to drop off the "gift" with Rachel's mother.

     Through the locked screen door, Milo tried to display an erudite manner, "Guard this sacred object carefully.  When you present it to Rachel, tell her I love her."

     Mrs. Pross said, "Sacred object.  What's this crazy talk.  You already drunk at this hour?  

     She refused the gift without opening the door and took the opportunity to berate him.

     “B-but...” was all Milo could muster.

     
     Her lambasting continued, “You should burn in hell forever.” 

     Milo tried to persevere.  He used all his forced “sincerity,” but talked in circles.  

     She cried, "Beat it.  Or I'll call Metro."

     Milo kept ranting gibberish until he said, "How about I leave this on the ground and you bring it in the house after I leave."

     Just to get rid of him she said, "Okay."

     When he got to the curb, she unleashed enough harsh vulgarity to make the saltiest longshoremen blush.

                     *

Milo telephoned Vidál to confirm last minute details.  The Brazilian was surprised he was free-lancing without Jack and was shocked that with Milo’s collection of guns, that he needed to borrow one.  The “meet” was set for 5:00PM, behind Lone Mountain.

     
     In the northwest corner of Las Vegas, a mile after civilization ends, there is a free-standing, hundred-foot high, oblong rock formation, called Lone Mountain.  Uniquely set in the otherwise flat valley, it’s dwarfed against the backdrop of the nearby Spring Mountain Range.  The natural beauty of this landmark is spoiled because the local residents use it as a free garbage dump. 

SHOT FROM THE SPRING MOUNTAIN RANGE, LOOKING TOWARDS LAS VEGAS.   TODAY, THE ONCE EMPTY LANDSCAPE AROUND LONE MOUNTAIN IS SURROUNDED BY A NEW COMMUNITY.

Lone Mountain was only accessible by driving west on Cheyenne Avenue.  When the pavement ended, it was a dusty trek through the desert to get there.  

Stress, the bumpy road and endless string of abandoned appliances preoccupied Milo. Lost in thought, he didn’t notice what attracted photographers and tourists; an exquisite palette of pastels that the late afternoon sun projected onto the puffy clouds above the gray rocks and azure sky.

     In the distance, Vidál’s late-model beige Plymouth Duster approached. Milo focused on his dragging tailpipe and the sparks it caused. Vidál parked.  Three accomplices remained at the car as he met Milo and handed him a 38º.  

     During their conference, Milo checked the breach, spun the cylinder, removed the bullets and reloaded.  He looked through the barrel, clicked off the safety, tucked the gun into his jeans and fastened the bottom two buttons of his jacket.

     
     At 5:15, a beat-up, navy pick-up with Arizona tags appeared.  Two Hispanics ominously rolled past them.  Behind the colossal rock, they stopped next to a beat-up, avocado refrigerator.

     The driver remained inside as a squat, empty-handed passenger, in a bright yellow windbreaker approached.  His scowl and deliberate gait added to the tension.  From a comfortable distance, the principals stared each other down with Vidál’s henchmen standing in readiness, thirty-feet back.  Overseeing the situation, the supplier remained in the truck.

     The squat man called out, “Got dee moany?”

     Vidál growled, “Got the goods?” 

     The driver wearing a long winter coat, cuffed jeans and decrepit steel-toed motorcycle boots stepped out. Leery, carrying a sleek black attache, he advanced to a cracked toilet.

     He set the case atop the tank and barked, “Dinero.” 

     Inside the leather case, four clear rectangular plastic bags filled with the powdery, white commodity were revealed.  Vidál snapped his fingers signaling his second in command to test the product. 

     To get a better look, the Brazilian holding the cash lost his balance and lurched forward.  In a panic, the yellow-jacketed man brandished an automatic pistol and sprayed the three unwitting Brazilian underlings. 

     Simultaneously, the winter-coated wheelman produced a shotgun and screamed, “Throw down you guns.”

     
     Vidál cursed them in Spanish as a hidden, third Hispanic came out of the truck and shot him in the shoulder.

     Yellow jacket took aim at Milo’s face, “On you bellies!”  

     He rigidly marched to the original victims and finished them with a single shot to their temple.  In addition to the Brazilian’s money, he collected their weapons.  Milo glanced at writhing Vidál and was kicked in his ribs. 

     His assailant bellowed, “He’ll live.”

     The squat man in the yellow jacket patted down Milo, found his money and gun and yelled, “Vamanos!” 

     Milo peeked and saw the flash of a scruffy boot coming at his face.  Instinctively, he drew his hands up. He succeeded in deflecting the blow but suffered a broken right thumb.  

     The third Latino shot out a tire from Milo and Vidál’s car. The trio fled with $50,000 and the cocaine they brought in good faith.

     Luckily, Milo wasn't included in the human carnage. But he didn't come to work that night nor was he for the next nine weeks. 

                     *

Milo Vesuvio, in financial ruin was soon two months in arrears on his mortgage.  He liquidated his rental properties, sold off his sparse furnishings and every day feared his car would be repossessed.  Still, he hadn’t put a dent in his debt with friends. 

     His mother turned her back on him even though Rachel did return what she referred to as: the world’s smallest diamond ring. 

     Milo did face a tax audit and was overwhelmed by the fear that the police were secretly putting together a case against him.  While all this was going on, Jack remained his friend.  Inundated with guilt and pride, Milo didn’t ask for any monetary assistance...and Jack never offered.

     Vesuvio was back to work for several weeks when the Stardust changed the craps crews.  He had glimpses of greatness but never for a sustained period.  A pariah, his continuous parade of “satisfied customers” neither stopped to watch him deal nor waved as they passed.  Instead, his detractors neared 100%.

               *

Unrelated to Milo, after one month with my new crew, I (along with the other three dealers) were fired.  In the weeks that followed, my life spiraled downward as my daily aggressive routine of looking for a new job evolved into barely trying. 

     I fell from the pinnacle of my field and without hope, I floundered into deep depression. Out of boredom, I reached for the newspaper.  Inadvertently, I opened to the obituaries. 

     I had never read a death notice in my life and I joked to myself, “At least someone has it worse than me.”

     I was right, the first obit was for Emilio “Milo” Vesuvio.

                     *

A week earlier, at the gate to Milo’s community, his mom insisted that she be allowed in.  Together with a guard, they went to his house. She rang the bell several times until using her key. 

     Inside she was shocked to see the house unfurnished and the broken mirror glass on the floor below where the Victorian picture frame had hung. 

     In the basement, in the empty space where Milo’s antique roll-top desk used to be, she discovered her son.  His crumpled body was clutching his cherished ivory handled revolver. It seemed he had taken a self-inflicted shot through the heart.

     
     When the detectives arrived, they had trouble deciphering the illegible suicide note: Rachel, I believe and hope that I am not what many people say I am.

                   *

The priest (a stranger) delivered Milo’s eulogy to a small gallery that consisted of his mother, her friends, associates and Jack.  The kind words began solemnly with an ironic statement about Emilio’s value for life. 

     Midway through the tribute, in a somber tone the clergyman cited, “Man is not easily content.  First he finds things too easy and then again he is not contented enough but he must not talk about it but continue quietly on his way.”   

     Towards the end the priest pronounced, “We could never expect to truly understand the psychology of anyone’s attitude.  In retrospect, we can all imagine Emilio’s intense battle with right and wrong.  Where some of us might have been more resolute or resilient, he was torn apart.  Seeing only his present predicament, he couldn’t see or wasn’t willing to thrash out a clear path to the future.” 

     In closing, the priest reminded the congregation, “Let us not judge him.  Unconsciously we all see love as a means for survival.  Perhaps seeing that notion as a weakness, Emilio chose to resist the conformity of a formal, pure responsibility to others.  Ultimately with a skewed sense of love, he couldn’t face himself.”

     
     In the first pew, his mother lingered after everyone had left.  She had remained strong throughout the service but now openly sobbed. The priest allotted her ample time to meditate, before coming down from the pulpit to console her.  In a comforting manner, he gently put his hand on her shoulder.

WHEN ASKED OF THE BOY'S FATHER, MILO'S MOTHER SAID, "HE RAN OUT ON ME WHEN I BECAME PREGNANT.  STUPIDLY, I NAMED HIM VINCENZIO AFTER HIS FATHER.  THAT'S WHY I CALLED HIM MY HIS MIDDLE NAME, THE WORLD DIDN'T NEED ANOTHER VINNY."

   
     “Father,” she lamented. “Is there a place in heaven for dealers?”

     
     The priest wasn’t privy to Milo’s avocation so he responded in terms of the casino industry, “Even built on the strongest foundation, an emotional house of cards is likely to fall. Please believe me; people in far less noble professions have been ushered through the pearly gates.”

     
     Milo’s mom realized the confusion and chose not to clarify the matter. 

     
     Rather, she sunk her head and without any conception of Milo’s lifestyle said, “It’s almost strange he didn’t end his life even earlier than he did."

                     *

During the follow-up investigation, one of the detectives pretended to be transfixed on the vivid hues of the splattered blood and guts.  Mockingly, he held his fingers up to frame the gore. He reflected upon the previously sanitary white wall that had displayed the lithograph collection.  

     
     “Hey Lenny,” he quipped to his partner as he turned on the track lighting. “Look ultra-modernist.”



                     *



Be careful who you hate.  The world's worst jerks are probably willing to cut off a piece of their ear, to enjoy love and live your normalcy.

ROBERT E. LEE'S $500.00 BILL

"THE TONIGHT SHOW," starring Johnny Carson was a hit late night TV talk show from 1962-1992, (4,531 episodes). The format combined guest performances and interviews. To fill in gaps, the show produced its own comic segments. My favorite of these routines was, "CARNAC THE MAGNIFICENT."

Johnny portrayed the mystic, Carnac. The schtick was introduced by Carson's sidekick, Ed McMahon.  Accompanied by exaggerated applause, Carnac came on stage dressed in a flowing black robe and turban with a rakish plume. 

McMahon would hold sealed envelopes for the audience to see, hand them to the clairvoyant and say, "Carnac, these envelopes have been hermetically sealed and left in a mayonnaise jar on Funk and Wagnalls porch since noon today! Nobody knows the contents of these envelopes. But you, in your infinite wisdom will ascertain the answers to these questions without hearing the question first." 

Carnac's wry response would be something like, "That's right bean-bag breath."
CARNAC WOULD HOLD THE ENVELOPE TO HIS TEMPLE AND CONCENTRATE ON DIVINING AN OUTRAGEOUS PUN FOR AN ANSWER. I THINK THE BEST EXAMPLE WAS, "INFIDEL." ED McMAHON WOULD TYPICALLY REPEAT THE ANSWER AND CAUSE A SARCASTIC REMARK FROM CARNAC. THEN CARNAC WOULD SAY IT AGAIN, "INFIDEL." AFTER HE OPENED THE ENVELOPE, HE'D READ THE NOTE INSIDE AND ANNOUNCE, "WHERE'S CASTRO'S LIVER?"

I can't count how many dozen Carnac skits I saw in my youth but I was in college I looked-up; hermetically, in the dictionary. It meant; airtight. In practical terms to assure that something is airtight, you might want to use a sealant like hot wax. 

Other than Carnac, this hermetic sealing concept has only popped-up one other time in my life.



                                                      *



In my craps dealing days at the Stardust Casino in Las Vegas, my friend and coworker Robert E. Lee was a positive influence both inside and outside work. But nobody had more skeletons in their closet than him. In my 40+ years in the gaming industry--hell, in my entire life--Bob despite some hardcore eccentricities was the most universally beloved person I ever met. Few people had the talent and patience to defuse rabid degenerate gamblers, entertain and earn money for fellow dealers while also placating the most bi-polar, self-serving management stooges.

Seven eighths of the time, Bob was happy, funny, smart and generous. But upon a more in depth investigation, you'd discover he fought depression, his humor could be hurtful, he made tons of careless life choices and could be cheap and petty. So it might be disappointing to some readers that this piece barely scrapes Bob's hallmark; his addiction to sex.  Because the theme of this article will be a combination of his seldom seen negative qualities.
BOB LEE WAS BORN IN RURAL TENNESSEE. HE WASN'T RELATED TO THE FAMOUS CONFEDERATE GENERAL, BUT HE WAS NAMED AFTER HIM. MUCH OF BOB'S RICH PERSONALITY CAN BE TRACED BACK TO HIS MASTERY OF SOUTHERN CHARM AND HOSPITALITY.

I was (24) and Bob was (48) when we first met.  As I have discussed in previous stories his lovable nature was most noticeable because he was the unlikeliest babe hound.  Bob was small-framed, with kinky, graying hair and his wrinkled, leathery face that made him look older than he was.  Still, many times, I witnessed him literally charm the pants off women (craps players) regardless of age, ethnicity, marital status, body shape or looks.

In a similar fashion, his chatty, outgoing swagger and cute demeanor seduced customers and made him a legendary, tip earning magnet.

Bob took a liking to me and in a short time, he became my mentor. While never asking for anything in return, his beneficence in time and energy taught me important life skills plus; stock market strategies, real estate and other investment bonanzas as well as gardening, do-it-yourself home repairs, auto maintenance and so much more.

Still, I thought it strange that he gave me so much attention while not being involved with his own sixteen year old son and having little regard for his wife.  Far worse, it was discomforting to hear him bitterly rail against her.  Each time he and I met, he reminded me if I ever met Mrs. Lee, if she asked about our tip income, I was expected to cut the number in half.  Luckily, I never met her!

Unlike today's casinos, a lot of Stardust craps dealers took their daily tips (tokes) as undeclared income, (the I.R.S. caught up with many of them).  Bob didn't declare his and secretly kept his ever-growing cache from his misses.



                                            *



One night at work, Bob tried to turn me onto a penny stock. Lereck Oil was selling at twelve cents a share.

He said, "They're making a big merger announcement tomorrow and if we don't get in on the ground floor, we'll miss-out on the initial bump."

On less than four hours sleep, Bob was going downtown to be his broker's first customer of the day. I was intrigued but not enough to lose a night's sleep, to gamble, based on his say so, on a blind item.  I turned down the opportunity.

I CHOSE TO BELIEVE BOB.  BUT 38 YEARS LATER, I FOUND NOTHING ABOUT LERECK OIL ON THE INTERNET.  IF HIS CLAIM WAS ACCURATE, HE SIX-TIMED AN INVESTMENT OF $4,000, IN FOUR DAYS.

A week later, Bob came by my condo to show off the white, 1963, split window coupe Corvette he just bought for cash with the sale of his Lereck Oil stock.

He stroked the hood, "This beauty is an investment."

I said, "It looks like mental masturbation."

Bob said, "That's funny.  I gottta use that line.  But really.  This is original paint.  They call it ermine white.  And check out the red interior.  And those seats are real leather.  But what's really important is, I'm looking to retire in a couple of years.  So I take some chances but they're calculated chances."

BOB'S NEW CAR ALSO HAD "BE-BACK" VANITY LICENSE PLATES.  BE-BACK WAS A CATCHPHRASE (PLUS A TIME), HE USED WHEN TELLING THE WOMEN HE PICKED UP TO RETURN.

We wandered into my backyard garden that Bob had helped me cultivate. The former cement-like flower beds were now flourishing with vegetables and fruit. Had he not showed how to chop through the crusty earth, I never would have seen the moist soil, inches below the seemingly impenetrable desert surface.

Bob held up a stout zucchini and made sexual jokes about its length until saying, "After paying for the car, I added the leftover stock money to the stash I was telling you about. I now have over  30K laying around the house.  If my wife ever stumbled onto it, I'd be fucked."

I said, "How much did you invest?"

He ignored me, clawed at my soft, fertile soil and said, "You just gave me a great idea. I gotta go."

Two months went by. At work, I was trying to think of a way to ask Bob if he reached a solution to his hidden money dilemma. Those thoughts were interrupted when a player tried to buy-in on our craps game with a $500.00 dollar bill.

THE $500.00 BILL FEATURES THE PORTRAIT OF OUR 25th PRESIDENT, WILLIAM McKINLEY. IN 1934, THE U.S. GOVERNMENT, TO REDUCE THE RISK OF COUNTERFEITING AND SMUGGLING, STOPPED PRODUCING ALL BANKNOTES OVER $100.00. THESE BIG BILLS ARE SO RARE TODAY, THAT THE ONE I SAW THAT NIGHT IS THE ONLY ONE I EVER SAW IN CIRCULATION.

Before my immediate supervisor (the boxman) authorized the transaction, he stopped the game to examine the bill and confer with his boss (the floor person).  I'm sure they didn't know what they were looking for, as they resembled a forensic team searching for traces of plague. We remained at a standstill until our pit boss Chick Halversen was called over. He was perplexed too and paged the shift manager.

Bob said, "I'll take the chance Chick, I'll buy it off the game right now."

Halversen said, "It's out of my hands.  Let's hold it on the side, keep the game going till Pug, (shift boss Aldo "Pug" Pugliese) gets here."

Bob whispered to Don (another dealer), "I don't have enough.  Can I borrow a hundred off you?"

Don smiled, "Sure.  But what kind of collateral can you put up?"

"Collateral?  I'll give it back after we get our tokes."

Don said, "Last Christmas, remember you insisted on holding my $300.00 watch hostage overnight.  You called that collateral for forty stinkin' bucks.  Damn Bobby, what goes around comes around..."

Pugliese burst into the scene and met with Chick.

He took a scant glance and said, "I was having espresso with Donnie Steinmetz and you called me over here for this nonsense! Drop it and get a fucking roll."

The buy-in was completed but Bob called out, "Wait!"

Pug said, "Now what?"

Bob nodded at Don and said, "Can I buy the bill off the game right now?"

The big boss motioned for the bill to be plunged into the drop box and said, "Yeah but not here."

Bob said, "But?"

Pug said, "If you want it that bad, meet me at the casino cage with the money at 8:AM sharp! If you're ten seconds late, I know plenty of mugs who collect that kind of shit."

The next night I asked Bob, "Did you get the $500.00 bill?"

He said, "Yeah and its the best thing that ever happened to me."

"Why?"

"Because a couple of months ago, like an idiot, I buried that thirty grand under my rutabaga patch."

I said, "So?"

"You know when Carson does Carnac, right? Well, I stuck the whole business in a mayonnaise jar."

I shrugged, "Okay."

"Well I decided to dig it up to put the 500 bill in with the other money. I was shocked, a lot of the bills were in real bad shape. They were getting greenish-black from mold and the some of the edges were disintegrating."

I said, "Geez."

Bob continued, "Remember in the Carnac routine when Ed McMahon said the envelopes have been hermetically sealed...well that's what you have to do when burying paper. If you don't, when moisture seeps in, BAM, in no time, it fritters away to nothing."

I said, "You are lucky."

He said, "Its a good thing Vegas has a million casinos."

I said, "Why?"

"Because, I can't admit to the bank that my rotten, decaying money came from an underground horde that I'm hiding from thieves, my wife or the fucking IRS. But money grubbing whores like casinos, take anything, no questions asked...even if you wiped your butt with every bill."

I smiled, "You're right.  Wow, you tip-toed around a major disaster."

Bob sighed, "Yeah.  First I sold that $500.00 bill to the pawn broker off Ogden Street for $570.00.  But it'll take forever to 'launder.'  the rest. I have over three-hundred infected bills that need to be switch-out...one at a time."

"At least now you'll know to hermetically seal the next jar."

"Steve, are you nuts!  The only reason why I'm not burying money any more is...YOU'LL know.  I'm not saying I don't trust you.  But I DON'T trust you.  You see where I'm coming from.  Just knowing you know, will eat at me. How could I sleep at night, ever again."



                                                        *



About ten years ago, I met a man in Atlantic City who told me Bob Lee was still dealing craps at the Stardust, in 2005.  I'm guessing, something must have gone terribly wrong.  How ironic that a man whose second greatest passion was dedicated to finagling every angle to retire at (50) was still bent over a dice table at (73).   The poor sap, I bet the movie rights alone to that sad story would be worth a fortune.

DEALING CRAPS IN PLATFORM SHOES...BAD IDEA!

My 40+ years in the casino industry tells me, if I knew the way of the world when I started as a craps dealer in 1979,  I wouldn't have made it through one day.



                                          *



In the 1970's, during the height of disco era, platform shoes for men were in vogue.  There's only one reason why guys allowed themselves to be manipulated into such trendiness...meeting women!

True to my independent nature, I failed to make this obvious connection.  That meant, for the most part,  I remained on the sidelines as the sexual revolution danced slightly beyond my reach.

AT FIRST, THE DISCO SCENE AND ITS LOUD, CROWDED DISCOTHEQUES WEREN'T MY SPEED.

A major hint that I was missing out on something good happened during my Brooklyn College years.  I was playing basketball in the schoolyard when my reality-check light bulb finally went off.   Down the block, a close-friend was clumsily walking (yet confidently), in ridiculous, platform shoes.  At first, I only saw the humor of a tough jock going to his car like he had a cue-stick up his butt. Then I realized was picking-up his new girlfriend, to take her clubbing.  Far worse, it was Friday night and I was playing H-O-R-S-E with an eleven year-old.

By the time I broke down and bought two pairs of disco shoes; brown ones and black ones, the chic style was beyond passe and speeding towards OVER!.



                                             *



In January 1979 with a New York School of Gambling craps dealer diploma in hand, I landed in Las Vegas.  My hideous "frankenstein" footwear were not only in my suitcase but were my only dressy shoes. Still, regardless of this fashion faux-pas, we were taught that dealers HAD to wear black shoes so, I felt prepared.

TO SAY PLATFORM SHOES, WERE NEVER INTENDED FOR CRAPS DEALERS IS AN EXTREME UNDER-STATEMENT.

A gracious friend, Ciro the Hero, (way before he became Ciro the Zero), let me and three other transplants from our clique at school stay in his apartment until we got settled.

The low man on the totem pole was the floor dweller, John Heaverlo.  He was already apartment hunting.  John invited me to sleep on his sofa when he got a place, until his wife came out from Poughkeepsie.

During my first five days in town, I got caught-up in hanging-out, gambling and drinking.   Ciro correctly figured out that I was having cold feet, (afraid) of dealing.

To coax me he said, "You're welcome to stay at my place free! Forever!  But you gotta get a job."




                                    *



My group took advantage of our school's job placement service.  In November 1978 Ciro was set up as a craps dealer at the Slots-A-Fun Casino, in December, BB was sent the California Club, before me in January, JLUPY got his start at the Lady Luck and the day after me John Heaverlo was hooked-up with the El Cortez.

Like Ciro, I too was being sent to Slots-A-Fun.

THE SLOTS-A-FUN CASINO OPENED IN 1971 AND IS STILL ACTIVE.  HOWEVER, IT HASN'T OFFERED LIVE TABLE GAMES FOR SEVERAL YEARS.  DESPITE BEING LOCATED ON THE FABULOUS LAS VEGAS STRIP, IT HAD THE REPUTATION OF BEING ONE OF THE WORST PLACES TO DEAL CRAPS.

I got distracted by having second thoughts and forgot I had a specific date to report.   Three days late, in full audition regalia, (white dress shirt, black slacks and black (platform) shoes, I showed up.

*Mr. Broderick O'Boyle the Slots-A-Fun casino manager looked like Roger Ebert's evil twin.

ROGER EBERT (1942-2013) WAS A FILM CRITIC, TV PERSONALITY AND JOURNALIST.

I was traumatized and felt intimidated as O'Boyle held my paperwork and peered over his glasses, "Weren't you supposed to be here Saturday?"

*Please note, Mr. Broderick O'Boyle was the only casino boss, in my 40+ years in the business who insisted on being addressed as, mister.  He also was the biggest prick I would ever work for.

I didn't tell Mr. O'Boyle I was so nervous that I could "crap" my pants at any second.  Or that I spent my extra time away carousing, to mask my doubts about ever dealing craps.  Instead I blithered some lame excuse.

Lucky me.  My school's reputation for quality students was so high that I was hired without the traditional audition (try-out). More importantly, the "fashion-police" didn't question my platform shoes. O'Boyle was so kind that he "let" me get my "feet wet" by working me forty minutes AND didn't even charge me for the privilege!

In that short opportunity to show my ability, I rumbled, bumbled and stumbled throughout my live-action practice session.   Maybe I was the only one there who knew how buried (god awful) I was.  Still, I was encouraged by O'Boyle and the staff.  At the time, I had no idea that they were always desperate for help because I soon found out that bust-out toilet had a revolving door for craps dealers.

O'Boyle patted me on the back, "Your shift will be 10:AM till 6:PM.  Be here tomorrow and be ready to do a good job."

Other than that first awkwardly pleasant meeting, O'Boyle was overwhelmingly a devilish asshole with a complete disdain for me, my coworkers and every loser, (customer) who walked in.

That night at Ciro's, John Heaverlo told me, he might be signing a lease for an apartment on Van Patten Street. I had NO IDEA where it was.

He said, "If I take the place tomorrow, while you're at work, I'll take your stuff over there.  Actually he didn't call my stuff, stuff, he called it shit.  Then he called his shit, stuff.  But I saw his stuff and I know shit when I see it, (Wherever you are George Carlin, I just gave you the proper footnote). 

GEORGE CARLIN (1937-2008) VISIONARY STAND-UP COMIC AND SOCIAL CRITIC.  MY MOUNT RUSHMORE OF COMEDIANS WOULD INCLUDE HIM, RODNEY DANGERFIELD, EDDIE MURPHY AND JERRY SEINFELD.

You can almost say, every day in Las Vegas is bright and sunny. The next day (January 10, 1979) was no exception. It was chilly when me and my platform shoes got off the city bus at 9:45AM.  But at (23), without a jacket, I radiated in confidence and enthusiasm as if I had life by the balls, (soon, Slots-A-Fun would forever douse that sparkle in my eye).

Like any break-in (newbie) craps dealer, I sucked!  I was so terrible that my first shift would be a dreadful experience and the longest day in my life.  Storm clouds literally AND figuratively moved in. The disco shoes were annihilating my feet, the players, O'Boyle and his under bosses were MF'ing my ineptitude and at 3:PM, it started drizzling. Even without the rain, I was a soggy mass of confused perspiration and big blisters where killing my feet.

John Heaverlo walked into the casino. He witnessed Mr. O'Boyle's loud profanity, while belittling another dealer.  Seconds later, O'Boyle "inspired" me to succeed with a harsh, obscenity-laced tirade that was designed to be "needed" constructive criticism. I was mortified.  John rolled his eyes and  looked away to hide his grin.

On my break, John shared less humiliating, yet similar "impatience" at his job too.  Stupidly, we both accepted this practice as the "nature of the beast."  But, NOBODY should be treated that way.

John just wanted to tell me about his apartment, give me a key and leave. I was delirious and felt the shame of inadequacy. I probably didn't listen well to his hasty instructions.

He said, "I took the apartment and it's in walking distance." He told me the address and continued, "Across the street, up Riviera, left on Paradise, to Karen Avenue. Its near the "big" Hilton.  You can't miss it."

                                    *



I left work at 6:PM, in a misty rain. At first, the near-freezing temperatures felt good on my sweaty body. But in a short time, my long sleeve shirt was damp and I was shivering. The cross street after Riviera was two "city" blocks away. Each step in those awful shoes further aggravated my blisters.

At Paradise Road, in front of me to the right, was the Hilton International Casino's property. It was rimmed by a huge vacant lot. Along its left side, I saw the Karen Avenue sign. The monstrous size of the Hilton dwarfed Slots-A-Fun and held my attention so that when I got to the next street (Joe W. Brown Drive that led to the Hilton's back entrance), I walked in that direction.

Being NEAR the big Hilton and turning down a street John didn't mention, are two different things:

First, had I been more observant and gone straight on Karen, I would have seen several residential streets in a row, with Van Patten being the third.

Secondly, across from the Hilton was the impenetrable (walled-in), Las Vegas Country Club.

Thirdly, I went past the Hilton without asking for help.

Curvy, Joe W. Brown Drive snaked on a 45 degree angle which for some reason led me to think I was getting close. Before reality set-in, I turned to see the Hilton already in the distance, behind me. I was screwed. Then I was screwed worse when four bombs fell on me; it started to pour, my foot blisters erupted, I had to pee and the sidewalk had been broken up, (there was no sidewalk on the Hilton side and despite only a occasional car, the frequent blind spots prevented me from walking in the street).

Too bad a good Samaritan didn't stop his car to see why some schmuck in clown shoes was hobbling in a steady rain on a desolate street without a coat.  It was a miracle that I didn't turn an ankle in those clod-hoppers as I kept painfully tip-toeing through the broken cement and mud.

MY EPIC WALK STARTED ACROSS LAS VEGAS BOULEVARD, (to the left of the "R" in Riviera).  THREE BLOCKS TO THE RIGHT OF THE STAR ON KAREN AVENUE WAS VAN PATTEN. INSTEAD,  I WENT ON JOE W. BROWN DRIVE, (diagonally down and to the right),  TO DESERT INN ROAD, (at the bottom of the map), UP MARYLAND PARKWAY (the right hand border), BACK TO KAREN AND FINALLY TO VAN PATTEN.

I was back on solid pavement at the next cross street; Desert Inn Road. I kept walking around the perimeter of the country club. At the gate to the club, I told my situation to a security guard.

He said , "It's much faster to walk through the golf course. But I can only let members in."

I said, "Is there a restroom I can use?  It's an emergency."

The guard said, "Sorry."  He pointed to Maryland Parkway, "Make a left at Karen and there's an Arco station with a clean bathroom there."



                                     *



I was unprepared for this unnecessary leg of my journey which added over an hour to my longest work day. When John saw me, I was a broken, wet, frozen, limping, tired and depressed man...in muddy, platform shoes.  Thankfully he drove me to a department store.  I never dealt craps (or wore) those disco shoes again!



                                  *



Slots-A-Fun was one of the worst craps dealing jobs in Vegas.  If it wasn't Mr. O'Boyle, it was one of his underlings, the awful working conditions, the caliber of the clientele or grossing $170.00/week. To tolerate such a hostile environment just goes to show how ignorant I (we) were back then.  I wonder if that shithouse ever had a Human Resources Department?  Either way, I'm reminded that someone once told me; you can't appreciate the good that life has to offer until you understand suffering.  I didn't see it his way then but I appreciate his wisdom now.  Certainly my feet would agree.