If it wasn’t for the sameness, odd hours, repetition, harsh working conditions, redundancy, customers, coworkers, management and doing the same things over and over and over again...casino work wouldn’t be so
bad.
The article below is dedicated to the rare breed of casino lifers who persevered for decades, to make an honest career out of the easiest job you'll ever hate.
The story focuses on my last Las Vegas job, downtown at The Golden Nugget, (1982-1984). Its deeper message combines the joke above with the advent of the gaming industry going corporate and the hostile work environment it amplified. This step in the wrong direction sped-up my disillusionment, despair and feeling of being trapped until irreparable, full-blown burnout set in.
*
I was (27) when I was hired at the Las Vegas Golden Nugget. I had dealt craps at six other casinos for four carefree years when the first inkling of discontent struck me. This negativity grew. Soon I put my condo up for sale with the intention of getting out of the business and moving back east.
The housing market was depressed so the process took over a year. This waiting period became tedious with each day being increasingly anticlimactic.
 |
| DOWNTOWN CASINOS WERE ALL BUST-OUT DIVES COMPARED TO THOSE ON THE STRIP. WHEN I WAS HIRED AT THE NUGGET, (AUGUST 1982), IT WAS IN THE TOP THREE JOBS ON FREMONT STREET, (ABOUT $40/DAY IN TIPS PLUS $3.00/HOUR IN SALARY). |
In a dark corner of the seedy Western-themed Nugget, my crew was standing dead, (open with no players), on the high-limit (five-dollar minimum) craps table.
To pass time, we were gabbing-away when we got stuck on who composed the soundtrack for the, “Good the Bad and the Ugly.”
 |
| "THE GOOD, THE BAD AND THE UGLY" (1966), WAS PERHAPS THE GREATEST "SPAGHETTI WESTERN," (A SERIES OF INEXPENSIVELY PRODUCED COWBOY MOVIES MADE IN ITALY). THESE FILMS PUT CLINT EASTWOOD ON THE FAST-TRACK TO SUPERSTARDOM BUT ITS HAUNTING TUNE WILL REMAIN ICONIC FOREVER. |
Mateo Archuleta (42) our stickman said, “Yeah he did TV themes too...it's on the tip of my tongue. I think he died last year."
Mateo was valuable because he had a connection inside the Nugget's executive office. This unidentified ally provided confidential information to him which he shared with us.
His influence (juice) was so strong that for a year and a half, he was overpaid fifty dollars a day. He was finally called upstairs when payroll caught-on that he was being paid as a boxman.
He plead ignorance and mixed a dollop of truth into a colossal lie, “I'm broke and live off tokes, (tips). Because of my divorce settlement, my whole check goes straight into my ex’s account. I get no salary.”
Mateo wasn't asked to re-pay any of the estimated twenty thousand dollars. His hourly wage was adjusted to dealer pay and there weren’t any other repercussions.
Our conversation continued as I scraped a black speck off a wafer-thin casino chip with my thumbnail and said,
“What is this shit?”
Antony
Francis our heavy-set floor supervisor rasped, “We were talking about the music...” He stopped in mid-sentence and growled, “Stop playing with the checks, (chips).”
In
his late forties, Francis, a Las Vegas
native had a medium to dark complexion.
He was a savvy craps supervisor, (floorman) whose expertise, finesse and
wit saved many dealers during confrontations with players.
I ignored his sternness, scratched off more dirty dots and said, “No really, look, they're everywhere.” I set it down, picked
up another but it was stuck to a third chip.
“See, this goop glues ‘em together.”
He
motioned me to stop.
I
said, “C’mon Ant. You never looked at this crud and wondered what it was or
how it got there?”
Antony looked at the boxman and said, “Don’t show
off your bad habits in front of the F.N.G.”
Rosy
cheeked B. P. Garton, our immediate supervisor was about my age. A stranger to us, this was his first night on our shift. According to Mateo, he had been shipped-off from day-shift for being intoxicated on duty. Rather than firing him, he was punished by getting sent to swing-shift.
Terry
Ferris another dealer on my crew said, “Let’s ask him. Hey B. P., you know the guy who wrote...”
B.
P. didn’t seem drunk just preoccupied and unhappy.
He
looked up like he couldn’t be bothered and moaned, “Hugh...something or other?”
Detoxification or rehabilitation
programs for employees were unheard of back then. If you seemed under the influence and your performance suffered, you were fired. Garton fit into an old casino adage; those who can’t deal craps, sit box. It suggests that the position is a sanctuary for incompetents or an “old-man’s job.” So being outstanding,
like B. P., meant nothing. He was probably kept on because of mitigating circumstances or he too had juice.
Like
his response to our trivia question, B. P. kept his non-game related comments short all night.
*
Nick Tucker our unofficial crew captain returned from his break.
He golfed with upper management and did favors for a lot of people including them. Nick was a golden-boy with a license to do as he pleased. Due to this sway, our four-man crew was kept together on the high-limit game and exempted from the randomly chosen teams for the other five tables. Many dealers were jealous of this special treatment because we stood dead a lot and fooled around.
Nick tapped-in and Mateo greeted him with, “Who wrote the music
for all those spaghetti-westerns?”
He shrugged.
I said, "Garton thinks the guy's name was Hugh...”
Nick
perked-up, “Oh yeah, Hugo Fuckyourself!”
We exploded in laughter.
Our outburst
turned heads so Antony Francis despite being part of the festivities was obligated to go through the pretense of telling us, "Cool it."
Nick was universally loved. I
had met him in 1978, at dealer school in Manhattan. We had a four-year gap until reunited at the Nugget. Through his leadership skills, he had an uncanny way
of bringing groups together and making people feel good about themself. Yet off-duty, he led a mysterious, hermit-like
life.
Later,
I was daydreaming about going back to New
York. Between doing
simple craps procedures, I cleaned more grit off the chips until a player
rushed up to our table.
The
dice were in mid-air as he threw down a clump of fifties and shouted, “Six
hundred no five!”
Caught
off guard none of the dealers responded.
B. P. raised out of his stool, pointed at the cash and yelled, “Bet!
Five-seventy, no five, eleven dollars change!”
“Geez,”
I moaned.
Antony
Francis remarked, “We got superman here.”
B.
P. didn’t respond.
Later, Terry asked about his game knowledge and math proficiency and B. P. said, “The composer was Hugo Montenegro.”
After
work, my clique went to the downstairs bar at Binion’s Horseshoe
Casino. We ordered a round of Amstels as B.
P. staggered by without acknowledging us.
He sat at the far end and Roy the bartender automatically brought him a draught.
B. P. took a long slug and stared down at the bar. A minute later he sat up, sucked the mug dry and resumed his morose posture.
“Hey
Roy,” I called
out. “Send the brown suit an Amstel.”
B.
P. remained slumped as Roy
whispered something to him and gestured our way.
Roy
looked at us with an empty expression, shook his head and took back our token of fellowship.
Terry
Ferris said, “That scumbag refused our drink.”
Mateo
called Roy over
and asked, “What did he say?”
“He
mumbled something like, ‘I’m taking a warm bath with my toaster tonight.’
What’s that supposed to mean?”
One of the other Nugget craps dealers, an arrogant pest named Mike “Meat-Bone” Feischbien butted-in, “I heard the whole thing. That Garton is a funny fella...yous pissed him off and he made joke. The thing of it is, he likes Bud...a lot of Bud...and only Bud!”
Thirty-three
year old Meat-Bone coincidentally grew-up two blocks from me in Canarsie; my old
neighborhood in Brooklyn. But I never knew him.
Nobody at work liked him. Far worse, he was taking an aggressive, mercenary approach to weasel into our inner circle.
His oppressive personality stemmed from being sharply handsome as well as a
competitive body-builder. But on the job, he was lazy, condescending towards
other dealers, sassy to the supervisors and bullied inadequate tippers or other
players whose style of play wasn’t up to his standards.
Nick said, “Beat it!”
The
egotist wouldn't be shunted aside, “Did you know Garton and his kid brother were in a head-on crash with some space-case goin' the wrong way on West
Sahara? There was a fire and they needed the
‘jaws of life’ to get his ass out before the explosion. He was in a coma
for weeks. When he came-to, he found out his brother was already burnt alive before the car blew up.”
Meat-Bone
sat down and addressed Nick, “Hey Nickel-Ass, Garton's been goin' to a shrink? But he’s
still miserable. So he OD's on Budweiser everyday.”
Nick ignored being called Nickel-Ass, “Give the man what he wants. Send him a Bud.”
Roy brought one to B. P. He held it up as if to say cheers and gave us a half-smile. We waved him over. He grudgingly came.
The
lost soul squelched a burp and slurred, “I’m n-not a fucking new
guy. I’ve been at the Nugget three years and...I didn’t like that F.N.G. crack!”
Nick
Tucker said, “We know that now...and dude, that ‘570 no 5’ was amazing.”
B. P. shrugged and I said, “He don’t want to talk shop.”
“That’s
right, Bart,” Meat-Bone said to B. P. “How much stock in the 'king of beers' you got now?”
Life came into B. P.’s far-away eyes.
I
said, “Bart? Are you a Bartholomew? I never met a Bartholomew.”
He
inhaled another beer and loudly belched, “Actually...I-I’m a Barton.”
Antony
Francis said, “Really. Then you’re Barton Garton...”
I
interrupted, “If you’re always this gassy, you’re Fartin’ Barton
Garton.”
B.
P. broke out into a broad smile, “I don’t know what my
parents were sniffing but if you think that’s bad, check-out my middle name.
It’s Parton! AND my brother’s name is...”
His voice suddenly trailed off, “I mean WAS, Martin...Carton...Garton...”
B.
P. shutdown. Seconds later, he stood and stumbled away.
Meat-Bone
chased him down but was given the brush.
Meat-Bone returned, “I’m burnt-out too but at least I can
pick-up a ‘floozie’ any time I want. That poor bastard got nuthin’. I didn’t mention it but after
he came out of the coma...because of his boozin', Bart’s wife divorced him and took their kid back to Kansas, Nebraska or some such place.”
*
The
next night B. P.
was off. While standing dead, his name came up and we decided to offer him a membership into our country club.
Later,
I got our conversation back on the black crud on the chips. We debated the issue and concluded that; filth
and dust combined with humidity, sticky liquor or perspiration produced the
grimy muck.
The volume of our silliness got loud as we speculated about other precious bodily fluids that
our clientele might use to dampen the chips.
Antony
Francis encouraged us to quiet down so we softly listed sickening health
habits we had been exposed to.
Mateo
mused, “We should wear rubber gloves.”
Antony picked the dice bowl off the top of the table’s chip bank
and examined it.
 |
| DICE BOWLS IN ATLANTIC CITY ARE MADE OF A CLEAR ACRYLIC. IN LAS VEGAS, THE BOWLS ARE ALSO PLASTIC BUT COVERED WITH A THIN BROWN, RUBBER VENEER. |
“Look,”
he said. “These sticky specks have infected the bowl too.”
Terry
Ferris sneered, “We’re like modern day coal miners. Instead of ‘Black Lung Disease,’ we should
worry about catching beriberi, the pox or fuckin' leprosy.”
Antony chimed in, “Hell, it wouldn't take an earthquake for this rickety old
rattle-trap of a building to cave in.”
Nick Tucker was returning from break as I
said, “We should work in an airtight bubble and make payoffs through
a transom.”
Mateo saw the small pile of debris I had scraped off the chips and said, “Look
at all that shit...”
“Forget about it,” Nick
declared, “I got something hot off the press.”
We
listened as he quietly added, “I heard we're not only getting new chips...” To emphasize his point he looked around the
shadowy sawdust joint before whispering, “But major changes to this toilet are in the
works.”
*
B. P. Garton refused our invitation to meet-up with us outside work.
He also said, "I'm okay. And don't worry, I'll wait till I'm alone when I pull my own head off. So please don't ask me again."
Despite being serious and robotic, we liked working with B. P. He never bothered us and only came alive when we needed him to handle complex problems. At least around us, he was more perky.
*
Nick’s inside scoop was accurate. A week
later, property-wide mandatory meetings were conducted by the President. These assemblies detailed the physical changes to the casino, discussed new marketing strategies
and were designed to overhaul the mind-set of all employees. His big catch-phrase was: We want to bring the strip downtown.
The casinos on the strip attracted the rich and beautiful from every corner of the earth. These expansive properties had plush suites,
exquisite dining and state-of-the-art entertainment complexes.
The storefront dumps on Fremont Street had little to offer beyond generic gambling and cut-rate food specials. So our dung heap rivaling big-time resorts seemed far-fetched.
At my meeting, a cynical buzz was heard when the President said, "We are poised to be a world-class hotel and global destination of the immediate future."
I
overheard a chef scoff, “They can jazz-up this joint and give us new
uniforms but they can’t change the address.”
A hostess behind me crowed, “These animals'll spit on Tuscan marble just as easy as this ugly, worn-out carpet.”
In
the farthest corner, I noticed Clifton and
Lester “Boo-Koo” Jefferson. These identical-twin craps dealers segregated
themselves from the predominantly white staff.
Clifton
was an excellent dealer but he was unapproachable and militant in nature. Brother Boo-Koo
was a spontaneous clown. He had great
stories and I liked spending my breaks with him. But he drank on his breaks and nobody liked working with him even when he was sober.
Clifton cried out, “Bullshit! Just mo’ money for ‘the man.’
Some of us reacted to his statement and saw them slap hands. Boo-Koo drifted behind a pillar and was unaware that a lot of people witnessed him take a mini Dewar’s bottle from his pocket and down it.
The speaker promised pay
raises. Dealer salaries would increase immediately. This bump reflected seniority and ranged from 12c to 37c per hour. I was unimpressed as others voiced their displeasure.
The room hushed when the dealers were singled out, “You are our blood and guts. Play-ball with me, and tokes
will double in six months.” He let the positive vibe linger until adding, “To do this correctly, we all must be on the same page. So to get every department's focus onto a higher
level, we’re making you all partners.”
Based
on tenure, we were each given a bonus of Golden Nugget stock. The holdings I later received were worth
$250.00. I returned to my crew and relayed the
information. They were all skeptical, expect for Nick Tucker.
*
The
Nugget's metamorphosis started as workmen erected scaffolding and hung gigantic plastic
dust protectors.
"PLEASE PARDON OUR APPEARANCE," signs sprung up amid drilling, hammering and sawing as the table games and slot machines never slowed.
Walls were removed, ceilings were opened and the tiny next-door slot parlor,
the Friendly Club was bought out.
 |
| BY ABSORBING THE SHORT-LIVED FRIENDLY CLUB (1978-1983) , THE NUGGET OWNED THE ENTIRE SOUTH SIDE OF FREMONT STREET BETWEEN FIRST AND SECOND STREET. |
Ground was soon broken on a second hotel tower as the existing rooms were systematically gutted and
renovated. In a maneuver without precedent, a portion of adjacent Carson Avenue was purchased from the city
to further accommodate expanding the back of the building.
 |
| DEALER UNIFORMS WERE ALSO UPGRADED TO INCLUDE; AN EMBROIDERED VEST, WESTERN TIE, FRILLY JABOT AND A SLEEVE GARTER. |
Craps table maximums rose to an incredible $100,000.00 and five times odds were
implemented. The ancient threadbare, gummy chips were replaced and the dimly lit
rustic interior gave way to a bright, beige and white Victorian motif.
Those of us who grumbled at the President’s projections were proven wrong as the caliber of the gamblers improved. More importantly, in less than six months, our toke income more than
doubled.
The Nugget
had blossomed into a highly-sought, trendy, elite, strip-like job. But bundled into the equation, like our Atlantic City brethren, we went corporate.
One of the first memos generated by the new regime
concerned “Performance Evaluations.”
Such ratings were designed to assure management that the staff had
incentives to reach higher levels of productivity. Those that weren’t fulfilling their potential
were to be “written-up.” This documented reprimand was the first step in the newly installed concept of
“escalating discipline.” Historic evidence would now rationalize dismissals.
The problem was our administration never
specified when this program was going to be instituted. So, influence brokers who anticipated a boon used their authority to arbitrarily create space for their cronies.
Favoritism is unfair...unless the partiality benefits you.
I never lost sight of that notion because I needed juice to get in the Nugget when decent folks were still wiping their feet before going back outside.
*
Boo-Koo Jefferson was cited for being intoxicated on duty and without warning was the first to get cut loose. Brother Clifton
ranted about bigotry for days.
Every spare moment he had, he preached about racial
persecution. Suddenly, the radical became apolitical as a rash of indiscriminate terminations, for flimsier reasons shuddered the Nugget.
The whole gaming staff realized the situation's gravity after the casino manager paid an impromptu visit to graveyard shift.
He
gathered the shift-boss and a blackjack pit-boss together and said, “Everyone
to my left is fired!”
Nine
dealers and two floormen were randomly discharged.
Despite the improvements, the "heat" was stifling. My brighter attitude stood out because I was willing to give up the whole mess as soon as my condo sold.
*
The next night, I was excited because a realtor was showing my place in the morning.
My optimism didn't last. The first prospective buyer in months came in but wasn't interested.
Dulled by disappointment, two days later I saw the onslaught of ridding chunks
of personnel, in the newly installed Asian table game, Pai Gow. Utilizing (32) black lacquered tiles resembling dominoes,
hordes of curiosity-seekers gathered to watch this elegant, high-limit
game.
 |
| PAI GOW IS A MAINSTAY OF CASINOS TODAY . IN 1982, IT WAS RIPE FOR SCAMMERS BECAUSE IT WAS AN UNKNOWN COMMODITY, RUSHED INTO ACTION. |
Our two Pai Gow tables were dealt,
supervised and played exclusively by Orientals. On a break, I went over. Everything was being said in Chinese; I had
no idea what I was looking at.
I read a new floorman's name tag and stammered out my best
politically correct pronunciation of PHUC, “Excuse me FOOK.”
He peered over his bifocals and said in perfect English, “It's pronounced Foo.”
In
my mind I impersonated Maxwell Smart and thought; Ah yes, the old silent “C” trick, I always fall for that one, as I
said, “Sorry Foo. What’s the object of this game?”
To match his deadpan expression he droned, “Are you familiar with the
intricacies of international championship caliber chess?”
I
said, “Heh?”
“Well,”
he stated, “this is even more complicated.”
Inspired
by Terry Ferris, I growled under my breath, “A pox on you and all your
ancestors.”
My curse came to fruition because on the
third day of operation, those two tables lost a quarter million dollars in one
shift. The game was
removed and anyone who ever dealt or supervised it, was canned.
*
In an atmosphere
where solid employees were getting picked-off by nonsense, it was shocking that Mike “Meat-Bone” Fleischbien never
altered his negative approach. Instead of taking a
lower-profile, he stepped-up his harassment campaign on our lead floorman (relief pit boss) to be on our crew.
Terry Ferris and several others were fired for
pattern call-outs. Nick Tucker approached all his bigwig buddies on our friend's behalf. But nothing in their powers could stop the casino's crusade. To make matters worse, Meat-Bone became Terry's first replacement.
Meat-Bone thought he was God’s gift
but with a body builder competition later in the week, he was especially full
of himself.
In the early part of our shift, Meat-Bone was admiring his fresh manicure as he said, "At least I'll know my ass from a hole in the ground when some schmuck bets $100K...like that's ever gonna happen."
Antony Francis cut him off but Meat-Bone said, “Shut up!”
Unchecked, his deluge of self-importance continued until I got a sudden urge to end the monotony. I called over two
girls to open our game.
I was explaining the rules when Meat-Bone started lecturing me, “I gotta tell yuh Sonny; this ain’t a ‘table
for table’ gig. I’m gonna make the same
scratch whether I work or not...so; let’s not.”
It
pissed me off that he called me Sonny but it killed me that I didn't have a snappy comeback.
Other
players bought-in as Meat-Bone ragged on, “I’ll have to teach you how I ‘look-off players.’”
The action developed and a Hawaiian couple joined in. Hawaiians stood out as pleasant, easy to please and generous tippers. Nick was overt to welcome them.
Meat-Bone interrupted Nick and blared at me,
“Kid, I’ll explain what you did wrong after I ‘thin out the herd.’”
Taboo comments
like that should never be said out loud. We made distorted faces behind Meat-Bone's back and he disregarded the dirty looks
we let him see.
I was setting up bets and Meat-Bone tapped me with the stick, “Listen! When you're on break, you ain't one of the those morons who stops to give jerks directions..."
I said, "Heh?"
"Look," he said, "Um here to help. Even you understand that. When I get us standin' dead again, I’ll straighten you out.”
We
were all entertaining the Hawaiians...except Meat-Bone. His antics were
especially irksome to the woman. Antony
Francis stepped in to distract her from Meat-Bone’s
abrasiveness but failed.
She
read his badge and grinned, “Come on Mike, don’t be such a downer. Smile, you only live once.”
“I
gotta bad cold.” To encourage sympathy Meat-Bone embellished his symptoms and
nasally barked in his Brooklyn accent, “I
shudda stayed home.”
She said, “Then you should've stayed home. We came here to relax. This is no place to be miserable.”
“Yuh right. But our new attendance policy is strict." He extended his open hand and added, "For two-hundred, I’ll go home right now.”
Her
face lost all its cheerfulness but before she could counter Meat-Bone glared at
me and spat, “See what you started.”
Mateo returned from his break and Meat-Bone rotated over to deal to them.
Before
Meat-Bone tapped-in, Antony
intercepted him, “I’m not kidding. Get with the program or I’ll write you
up. And the way things are going around here, it could cost you your
job. I don’t want that and you don’t...”
Meat-Bone scoffed, “Yeah.”
Simultaneously,
he flexed all ten fingers, made a fist and outstretched his fingers again. This was his common idiosyncrasy when being
criticized.
He said, “Yeah!” He repeated his tell and snarled, “Do whateva
yuh gotta do.”
B.
P. Garton relieved our boxman. Mateo and
I greeted him with his new mantra by humming the Budweiser jingle. B. P. smiled.
A
cocktail waitress came by to deliver drinks and B. P. crowed, “Get me a Budweiser long-neck with a hemlock chaser.”
It
made me feel good to think we made a difference in lifting B.
P.’s spirits. In a low-key way, he supported our
efforts to charm the Hawaiians.
The
Hawaiians were champs yet Meat-Bone either remained aloof or
growled at their irregular place-bet pressing pattern. He also found it fit to keep hammering me for opening the game.
The
wife defended me, “If you’re sick, you’re sick. But you don’t have to be mean. Leave that guy alone.”
The
husband added, “Brudda, you need to chill out.”
Meat-Bone countered, “Chill out? I already
told ya, I’m friggin’ dyin’ ova here!”
“Up
in my room I have some paco-lo-lo,” the man whispered, “that’ll put a smile
on your face.”
“Look
bub,” Meat-Bone snapped, “I don’t need no drugs tuh feel good.”
Antony was having trouble finding the new
“Disciplinary Action Forms” because the Pendaflex hanging folders hadn’t been
labeled. At the same time, Meat-Bone
was staring down the Hawaiian man when he exploded with a thunderous
sneeze. A two-foot long
string of mucus dangled from his nose.
We all took silent joy in his travail. The Hawaiian couple laughed. Meticulous Meat-Bone had no way to save face. Mortified, he gathered
the mess in his left hand and demanded to be relieved.
B.
P. caught eye-contact with Meat-Bone and dryly snickered, “That’s the funniest
thing I ever saw. You must be as
embarrassed as all hell. Wanna come with me when I jump off the
roof.”
Everyone
was now laughing as the Hawaiians howled, finger pointed and repeated the same
phrase, “Homni-budda, Homni-budda.”
This commotion sidetracked Antony from the write-up
form.
Meat-Bone
was angry, but craps procedure forced him to remain at his station.
In
desperation he obnoxiously cried, “Francis, get me a goddamned Kleenex!”
Antony hated being called by his surname and
bitterly grabbed them. Teasingly, he held
the tissue box just out of the impatient patient’s reach.
Unflinchingly Antony demanded, “Well.”
“Well what?”
“How were you brought-up? You never say please or thanks or apologize
or...”
“C’mon a-ready.”
Antony maintained his upper hand and didn't care our game was at a complete halt. B. P. grinned like never before as Antony bled every second to prolong the humiliation.
“Say please," Antony said, "and there
better be a thank you too.”
“Please. Thank you. Thank you with a cherry
on top!”
Antony stared him down until Meat-Bone smiled in defeat.
He did his finger flex routine and conceded,
“Yeah, I’m an ass-hole. Now, please
give me the damned tissues.”
When things calmed down I asked the couple,
“What were you saying when you said ‘homni?’”
“You mean homni-budda?” the husband asked.
The chuckling wife said, “We don’t
have a real word for it because we don’t catch colds.”
I shrugged as she turned away and
blushed.
Through budding laughter the husband cried,
“Homni is the Hawaiian word for nose and budda is...butter.”
He looked at his wife and they wailed, “Homni-budda is snot!”
Everyone, including B. P. was hysterical,
even Meat-Bone.
*
An hour later, another floorman informed Antony about a big money player coming to our game.
Antony approached, “Mr. F., how you doing? Welcome to table-five.”
“I'm hangin' on like a hair in a biscuit. And forget that Mr. F. shit,” he broadcast in a strong southern accent. “The name's Farquharson, Charley Farquharson. I’m from L.A.”
From his pockets Mr. F. sifted through marker receipts and set more than a hundred, black, hundred dollar chips in the rail.
He said to B. P., “Let’s up the ante and
bet a thousand on all the hardways. But
don’t color-up my bets.”
The game resumed with a ten-high pile of hundred
dollar chips, on each of the four hardways.
“No problem, you got a bet Mr. F.,” Antony said.
The high-roller smiled, “I want y’all to call
me Charley.”
Antony
reflected on Mr. F.’s “L.A.”
gag and decided to play straight-man.
“Geez
Charley that’s funny. My in-laws are
from Pismo Beach and you don’t sound like
them. You sure you’re from Los Angeles?”
With a friendly slap on the back he yelped, “Sure as shit boy,
I’m from L.A.”
In a normal voice he added, “Lower Alabama
that is.”
Antony
froze-up. He summoned all his self-control and resisted confronting
Charley. Despite his skin pigment,
Caucasian features and conservative nature, Antony was a black man and hated under
any circumstance being called, “boy.”
Charley got on a losing streak and was too
involved to notice Antony’s
indifference.
“I’m tired of piddlin’ with these ‘roots.’ They’s
wearin’ out my pockets. Go see if y’all’re
too scared to raise my hardway max to 5K?”
Charley motioned toward the two full stacks of
over-sized orange thousand-dollar chips (the bankroll’s highest denomination)
and said, “I wanna bet them giant pumpkins.”
Antony groaned, “Piddlin' with roots? What do you mean roots?”
Charley
blasted, “Big guy, what's this, y'all's first rodeo.
Roots...blacks...get it.”
Antony remained coy.
Charley
looked around first and softly said, “I got too much class to call ‘em N...”
He cut Charley off and scowled, “DON’T say it Mr. F., we run a respectable place. There’s no need to insult anyone.”
Antony
stormed off to the pit-boss. He relayed Mr. F.’s request and lingered nearby as the shift-boss was phoned. Antony
got the thumbs-up sign and returned to inform Charley.
Charley gestured at the pit-boss and mocked,
“Your boss over yonder is a-feared a me. Goin’ over the limit ain’t no
big thang. Hell, he looked like he was
gonna shit a litter of lizards.”
Charley made five-thousand dollar bets and
proceeded to lose another $85,000.00 with us. At 3:00AM, Mr. F.’s losses for the day were $140,000.00. He switched
tables.
*
Twenty minutes later, I saw Charley walking towards the elevators as the casino thinned-out.
During Mike Fleishbien's break, we were annoyed that the other crews had been sent home early with full pay. Nick, Mateo and I ranted about Meat-Bone's rudeness and
blamed him for making us stay till the end, (we overlooked our privilege as the designated high-limit dealers).
Two drunken fleas, playing the $5.00 minimum were on our game. Between the dice rolls, I scraped off the
waxy black dots from old chips that had strayed back into my working stacks.
I
was so rapt that I didn’t notice Antony
springing to attention until he alerted us with a sharp, “Ahem!”
Two men around fifty, dressed in expensive suits came through the main entrance. Antony scrambled to advise the pit-boss. The
pit-boss notified the shift-boss and they conferred with Antony before welcoming
them.
“Hey
Mac,” said the shift-boss, “what’s
shaking?”
“This
here is Mr. S. He’s in from Tallahassee,”
Mac said as handshakes were exchanged. “He’s a good player."
“Absolutely,”
the pit-boss nodded. He turned to Antony and said, “Give
them whatever they want.”
Mac
scanned the new décor and said, “I heard you made changes; this is
magnificent.” He turned to two
gorgeous black women who had sauntered in behind them, “Ladies, maybe we’ll take a
shot here before going back up to Caesar’s.”
These
statuesque young women were both dressed in short, tight, black
skirts. One wore a gold sleeveless sequined top, the other's was the same but silver. To accent their outfits, they each had a
small gray mink covering their shoulders.
While the men contemplated gambling, the girls spoke quietly and rubbed
their faces into their furs.
Antony told us, "That's Monte McQueen, the lounge performer." He pressed his nose to one side and added, "Mac's very connected."
The casino manager came by with the pit-boss and whispered to Antony, "Mr. S. is a 'whale,' treat him like royalty."
Like a kid in a candy store Mr. S. pointed at our table’s sign and sighed,
“I can bet a hundred grand here.”
“Yeah,”
Mac said, “this place is double sharp.” He turned to Antony, “Looks like we’re going to do more
than window shop. Bring us a bottle of Dom and four glasses.”
Both
men were empty handed when Mr. S. called, “Sixty-thousand each five and nine."
Our
game screeched to a stop. Even B. P. Garton
didn’t know what to do. But Antony Francis took control.
In
a well-choreographed manner he said respectively to Mr. S., Mateo the base
dealer, B. P. and Nick the stickman; “You have a bet, set him up, mark-up
$120,000.00 and get a roll.”
 |
| AT THAT TIME, A “NO CALL BETS” NOTIFICATION DIDN'T EXIST ON VEGAS CRAPS LAYOUTS. MOST CASINOS SUBJECTIVELY ALLOWED PLAYERS WITHOUT VISIBLE CASH OR CHECKS TO "CALL" A BET. HOWEVER, AT THE SUPERVISOR'S DISCRETION, THIS COURTESY COULD BE ACCEPTED OR REJECTED. IF ACCEPTED, THE BOXMAN WOULD SET ASIDE A CORRESPONDING AMOUNT OF CHIPS. AT A TIME DEEMED NECESSARY BY THE CASINO, THIS "FRONT-MONEY" a.k.a. "TABLE-MARKER" MUST BE REPAID. |
The
problem was, our chip bank only had two stacks, (forty), one-thousand dollar chips and nothing larger. The casino administrators
were so anxious to improve the club’s image that it hadn’t solidified its
new policies and procedures. This lack
of foresight resulted in ultra high-limit games being ill-equipped to handle
the essence of their existence.
A helter-skelter attempt was made to set-up this action.
Nick's first stick call was, “Nine, center field nine."
Our game ground to a halt again. There
weren’t enough chips to place the bet and none to either mark-up the action or make the $84,000.00 payoff. The pit-boss
scurried off and returned with some turquoise-colored, laminated
buttons that were unadorned except for an imprinted; 10,000.
“Lammers”
are the same shape as casino chips but about half the size. They are mainly
used to alert the eye-in-the-sky when markers are taken out.
“Use these,” the pit-boss said, “until the
fill gets here.”
Despite the approval, Mateo knew his (our) jobs were jeopardized by this blatant broach of protocol. Mateo weighed the penalty for insubordination if he refused to follow instruction, (make payments with ersatz chips). After a brief hesitation, he set-up six
of these buttons each, on the place-bet box for the five and nine.
B. P. followed his directions and used
twelve more to “mark-up” the call bet. Mateo grit his teeth and paid Mr. S. with four, thousand-dollar chips and eight laminated buttons.
Meat-Bone was returning from break. Antony ran to head him off in the aisle before relieving the stickman.
While the pit-boss rationalized the emergency use of the lammers to Monte McQueen, Antony made Meat-Bone swear to be on his best behavior.
Meat-Bone was on stick for three insignificant rolls until he called, “Nine, nine field nine.”
The same method of payout was used. B.
P. informed Antony,
who told the pit-boss that there weren’t enough lammers to cover another
winner. The pit-boss ran to the baccarat
pit and returned with the shift-boss and a Baggie full of turquoise lammers plus shrimp-colored
ones, labeled 100,000.
Mr. S. covered
the table with lesser bets and over the course of twenty minutes managed to win
more than he lost.
When the shooter sevened-out Mr. S. crowed, “Let’s get out of here.”
First, the table-marker was settled. Next, we followed the pit-boss’ directions and “colored him out.”
 |
| THERE ARE DIFFERENT REASONS TO "COLOR-UP" BUT IN GENERAL, IT'S A CONVERSION FROM A HIGH VOLUME OF LOWER DENOMINATION CHIPS, TO A SMALLER AMOUNT OF CONVENIENT, EASY TO TRANSPORT BIGGER CHIPS. |
B. P. counted out
$272,000.00 in winnings. Under the shift-boss' scrutiny and the pit-boss' authorization Mr. S. received: two shrimp-colored
lammers, five turquoise lammers, twenty, one-thousand-dollar chips plus four
purple five-hundred dollar chips.
The shift-boss said, “Gentlemen, the cage is ready for
us. I’ll walk you over to make sure everything runs smooth.”
Mr. S. asked Mac, “What should I tip the dealers?"
Under
these extreme and unusual conditions, we feared for our jobs. But our work was flawless...even Meat-Bone was
polite. Mr. S. was an ideal player and
responded to our hospitality with kindness.
Big numbers danced through our heads as Mac
grunted, “Fuck the dealers.” He pointed
at the two original players and said, “Give them something and let’s go get
laid.”
Mr.
S. tossed Meat-Bone the four purple chips and said, “Give those guys a thousand
each.”
Meat-Bone
cursed the lucky recipients who in turn, laughed in his face. He aimed his frustration at Mr. S. but
the entourage was out of earshot.
A sommelier, in a red velveteen jacket, pushing a cart with
Dom Perignon on ice, turned the corner.
Mac
grabbed the bottle out of the bucket without losing stride and called out,
“Sapphire, Ruby one of you guys ‘duke’ him a fifty.”
The
girl with the brassier complexion didn’t want to give anything up.
She reached under her skirt and produced a wad of bills and said, “Tsk,
shee-it.”
She muttered more obscenities and surrendered a five-dollar bill. Bewildered, the speechless wine
steward indignantly waved his unsigned paperwork as they strode away.
At 3:50AM, the first wave of graveyard dealers were sleepily coming on duty as the fill with a million dollars in five thousand
dollar chips arrived. We gawked at
these over-sized, glittery gold beauties because, we had never
seen such high value chips. Our admiration came to a halt as a new craps crew relieved us.
Outside,
as we crossed Fremont Street
to have a drink at the Horseshoe I said, “Those five-thousand dollar chips kinda looked like golden nuggets.”
Nick said, “Did you notice the little flecks of red, white and green stripes on the
edges...it’s no coincidence, the flag of Italy has those colors.”
Meat-Bone blared, “Nickel-Ass who gives a shit! That
bastard shudda gave me that two-grand...”
Mateo
roared, “We just broke every rule in the book with those stupid lammers. I’m glad we got stiffed. When heads roll, at least they’ll know we got nothing out of the deal."
Meat-Bone flexed his fingers and said, "We don't have to sweat our jobs. 'Cause on the way to the cage, if the CM has half a brain, a few of those lammers are gonna slip outta that bag and into that jerk-off's hand. Shit, he don't want anyone over-thinkin' those buttons. We'll be swillin' fuckin' beer and playin' 40c keno in a minute but the CM's gonna be drinkin' champagne, doin' coke and eatin' caviar outta them whores' navels when they lay him off twenty grand."
"Only you think that way," Nick said.
"That's right Nickel-Ass," Meat-Bone said, "all the bosses are the salt of the earth."
*
The
following night Antony
was supervising us and our recurring nightmare Meat-Bone was on our crew again. We were standing dead when the recently fired
Boo-Koo Jefferson came in, drunk. To my
left, he wanted to show Clifton
something but his brother’s table was too busy. They agreed to meet at 2:00AM when his shift was over.
Antony said, "Yo Boo, you working?”
“Work? Work’s for saps, Holmes,” Boo-Koo
bellowed. From his back pocket, he
removed three haphazardly folded, sloppily scribbled, spiral notebook sheets and
bragged, “Man, check this out. It's my life story.”
He handed over the papers, spun in place ala
James Brown and loudly proclaimed, “Woo-oo-oo!
The movie rights alone’ll be worth a hundred-twenty-five grand.”
The material perplexed Antony. He glanced at me, arched his brow and was giving it back as the casino manager and shift-boss stormed into the pit. They were followed by a pit-boss and a floorman
from blackjack. An impulse of fear shuddered my body.
Behind me, Antony and our pit-boss were questioned about
Charley Farquharson. Apparently, Mr. F.
got hot on graveyard. He won enough to
pay-off all his markers and left the casino winning $108,000.00.
“This Farquharson fellow," the shift-boss asked Antony, "he a good friend
of yours?”
“No sir,” he replied, “far from it.”
The casino manager asserted, “Then why did you let him go
over the hardway max?”
Antony
had no idea the pit-boss didn’t go through the proper chain of command. While the two “perpetrators” stared at each
other, the pit-boss gently squinted and gave a minute head shake. Antony
understood the “dummy-up” signal but opted to tell the truth. Once he “fingered” the pit-boss, they were
both led away.
Antony
and the pit-boss were fired.
*
The rest of our shift was a drag. At 1:30AM, the
game behind us closed. They replaced Clifton
Jeferson’s crew who went home. The
new dealers stood dead for thirty
minutes.
A
light game started and their boxman B. P. Garton said, “What's under the bowl?”
The
stickman looked underneath and saw that because of the gummy filth on
the chips and equipment, a black $100.00 chip was stuck to the bowl. The stickman thought nothing of it and slid it towards the bank. B. P. discovered the short stack and replaced what he termed the “missing
tooth.”
B.
P. grinned and told his floorman. The floorman considered the
rash of firings, and to prove his conscientiousness and to protect himself, he
ill-advisedly passed that trivial morsel onto the substitute pit-boss.
The next day, we heard a new term: Suspended
Pending Investigation. Even though
nothing was stolen and there was no history of theft in a similar mode,
thirteen people weren’t permitted to clock-in the next day. This group included the eight dealers, (both
crews) that had worked that table, B. P. and the boxman before him, two
floormen and the pit-boss who reported the “impropriety” to the shift-boss.
To coax confessions, snitching or to unearth an organized plot, the “informal private
interviews,” upper management painstakingly gave each suspect amounted to the “third
degree.”
When this exercise-in-futility failed, to justify their
actions, an independent agency was hired to conduct polygraph tests. Mateo's source in the President's office told him that the results were useless but were termed; inconclusive.
He also paraphrased from a letter sent to corporate: to minimize the possibility of a culture of deceit within the organization, we are “compelled” to layoff all potential conspirators.
There were no covert
activities and management knew it. This "investigation" was a farce. Remove the fluff and all that's left was an excuse to purge a mass of employees, in order to “juice” in more friends.
*
The “Gummy Conspiracy” signaled the
end of the Nugget’s “reign of terror.”
Three
weeks had gone by without any firings when Nick said, "I was told 19% of all the dealers were axed.”
His thought was cut short when we watched on another table, “Meat-Bone,” getting chewed out by one of the new floormen.
Meat-Bone
flexed his fingers and roared, “Yeah... but I shouldn’t have to deal to pricks
that lick their chips.”
Mateo quipped, "Even when he's right, he makes an asshole out of himself."
Nick shook his head, “Decent people like B. P. lost their job for no reason. And that slug slipped through the cracks?”
*
A week after Thanksgiving 1983, Nick Tucker never returned from a vacation. His private life was always veiled in secrecy so we guessed Nick was overwhelmed by burnout
and left town. Others speculated that he might have harmed himself. The casino labeled it: job abandonment.
Mateo's juice upstairs had no answers.
I joked, "We need Nick, to find out why he isn't here."
*
Our morale continued to soar in the revamped Nugget. The excitement rose higher when corporate headquarters announced its latest venture, the Mirage was to be built on Las Vegas Boulevard. Earmarked to compete with the stalwarts of the strip, my fellow dealers recognized the possibility of being transferred there as a vital investment in their future. I knew I wouldn't be around to take advantage of it but I was happy for my friends.
 |
| THE MIRAGE OPENED ON NOVEMBER 22, 1989 WITH A WORLD'S RECORD, 3,044 HOTEL ROOMS. DESIGNED TO JUMP START SAGGING PROFITS IN LAS VEGAS DUE TO NEW CASINO VENUES, THE POLYNESIAN-STYLED RESORT BECAME THE FIRST OF A NEW WAVE OF SWANKY, THEMED CASINOS. |
In January 1984, I suddenly sold my condo. Despite my career prospects being on an upswing, I was thrilled to resign on my own terms and return to New York.
Mike
“Meat-Bone” Fleischbien's last words to me were, “I can’t possibly guess what you
could do in the ‘city?’ You’ll be back here diggin’ ditches with me before you know it.”
I
remember thinking; he’ll never change.
Years later Mateo
Archuleta phoned me when the Mirage opened and said, “A lot of us old-timers got sent up. The work still
sucks but it’s the best job in town.”
Mateo was catching me up on gossip and said, "Oops, I almost forgot, Meat-Bone
was left behind. He's angrier than ever.”
I laughed, “What goes around, comes...”
“Hey," he interjected. "You
remember B. P. Garton?”
“Of
course. Nice guy once you got to
know him. Before I left, I saw him; he
was having trouble finding another job. Did he catch-on at the Mirage?”
“No! On Christmas Day, he blew his brains out.”
*
Casinos going corporate led to more hypocrisy. Its formalization suggested greater job security and benefits for the common worker but...at what cost?
Entitlements and favoritism remained common and if they wanted to fire you...they found a way.
In better houses, the money became its own trap. Those who were burnt-out or discontented and wanted to switch professions, found it difficult to earn a comparative salary overnight.
New properties make bold promises and infrequently follow through on the initial hype.
Corporations sole responsibility will always be to satisfy stockholders. Which means the analytics that govern their fiscal health and best interests, (other holdings), are lumped into a single priority, ...thus watering down aspects of the total entity.
Accountants and other lay people dedicated to profits become decision makers. Cuts are made. Benefits, working conditions and equipment suffer. Soon, the frontline Joe is just a body on the floor and a nameless number on a spreadsheet.
The result is, long-term casino employees survive by not getting too high or too low. This might be practical in the short term but eventually, it breeds mediocrity, complacency and a staff rife with sarcastic complainers.
The hollowness of corporate gaming is obvious because they profess requiring qualified individuals with upbeat personalities but contradict themselves by hiring obedient lemmings to work weekends and holidays, miss special events, tolerate smoking, brave dangerous weather and even risk exposure in a petri dish that supports contagious diseases.
Yes, I've made the best of a dicey situation but I'm not proud of my staying power. It just proves that in 41 years, I haven't had a better idea worth following through on.
Looking forward, I would expect the position of casino dealer to become as obsolete as a blacksmith. A new generation of computer savvy gamblers have already arrived. In growing numbers, they prefer playing off-site with virtual dealers. Online table games will take a huge chunk out of brick and mortar casinos and eliminate humanity for the sake of the bottom line.
In the meantime, I hope casinos outfit their robotic supervisors with Kevlar vests and their indifferent dealers in full body condoms. Of course they won't because saving lives doesn't come cheap.
DILFER HAD MORE DOWNS THAN UPS AS A PLAYER DURING HIS CAREER. UPON RETIREMENT, HE BECAME AN ARTICULATE ANALYST FOR ESPN UNTIL IN 2019, BECOMING THE HEAD FOOTBALL COACH, AT THE LIPSCOMB ACADEMY. 
THIS NATIVE AMERICAN TREASURE, DROPPED FROM A LEDGE...WITH OR WITHOUT A STOUT BARREL CACTUS INSIDE...COULD'VE BEEN LETHAL.
