ERIC THE GREAT'S BRIEF, CASINO SHEPHERDING MISSION

The story below is taken from my 2004 short story, "RIDEOUT, WHITE-OUT AND RIGHT-OUT." It's theme was; successful, long time casino employment through; the mastery of people, equipment and following directions. 

Spoiler alert!  You'll soon see, how I managed (by accident), to follow the right path, while my Hotel Fremont coworker Eric "Eric the Great" Crossley, months later, failed miserably at the Stardust Casino.

To conform with my 40th anniversary in casinos blog series, this piece has been shortened and modified. 



                                *



In the pre-dawn shadows of a Las Vegas early morning, I felt like a burglar as I opened the creaking, unlocked apartment door.  Inside the one-bedroom unit, my eyes struggled to get used to the empty living room's strange red glow.  Elvis Presley’s “Blue Christmas” was playing in the background which added to the inappropriateness because the holiday had passed.

My eye was attracted to three, stubby jasmine-scented candles.  The candle in the center was the tallest and the one on the left was unlit. Further, on the side wall, I saw a single artificial log burning in the small fireplace. Eerily, the flame had a strobe-effect off a limp, unadorned, “too big for the room” Christmas tree. Barren and flaccid, there was nothing joyous about this symbol of happiness. 
Perpendicular from the hearth was a worn, two-seat vinyl sofa with a black bearskin rug in front of it. Above the fireplace, perched on a narrow mantel, eight fancy picture frames with metallic edge-work shimmered in the scarlet murk.  Adding to the gloominess, the photo’s images were blackened by the lack of light.

To the left of the tree, she mystically appeared. Her face glistened as she provocatively posed in the doorjamb of the bedroom. Our eyes met as the cassette of holiday favorites changed to Johnny Mathis’, “Sleigh Ride Together With You.”

She closed the door and her enigmatic Mona Lisa-like expression phased into a seductive gaze.  She approached.  I marveled at how the dancing flames reflected on her skimpy, fuchsia kimono.  I glanced past the robe's short hem and took-in her supple long legs.  When my eyes returned to her face, her full smile blossomed. 

Her delicate hand slid down her robe’s lapel and her slender fingers undid the sash.  The lyric, “a perfect ending to a perfect day,” filled the air as she exotically shook her head. With a whimsical fluff-up of her tresses, all but her upper arms and shoulders were exposed.

I stammered to say something but before I could udder a word, she placed her index finger on my lips. We came together in a light embrace. Tiny pecks and gentle caresses led to deeper kisses and more purposeful squeezes.  I kissed her satiny neck and cupped her breasts. She guided my hand below her abdomen.  Soon, she began fondling my genitals.  We were pleasuring each other this way until she undid my dealer pants.  She followed my trousers down and rubbed her face into my jockey shorts.  Through the material, she nibbled me and then took minute, loving bites until she paused to pull off my shoes. 

I was led to the bearskin rug where my pants and underwear were removed. She reached into her robe’s pocket and withdrew two, oblong, gel tablets and handed them to me. 

She smiled, “Sweetie, you’ll love these.” 

Against my better instincts, I swallowed them. 

In one continuous lick, she teasingly traveled from my chest to my feet.  She took off my socks and massaged my feet.  Her touch was so sensuous that a luxurious calm came over my whole body. I was shocked she was doing it, but on the other hand, I was more surprised that it didn’t tickle.

This wonderment improved when her tongue darted between my toes. My arousal intensified as she sucked each individual digit. 

At that moment, I became sidetracked by the realization of how sweaty my feet were from dealing craps all night. My uneasiness doubled, when the unknown effect of the pills I had taken began to gnaw at me. I think these distractions helped prevent me from prematurely exploding.      

Suddenly she stopped!  Without warning, firmly with both hands, she grabbed the sides of my right foot.  She bent my foot inward.  It cracked like a knuckle.  I felt an impulse of excruciating pain but it phased gently into euphoria.  I was never so turned on in my life!  I was on my back as Burl Ives’, “Holly Jolly Christmas,” came on, as she straddled me.

A short time later, the climax of, “Come Oh Ye Faithful,” was playing when she dismounted me...in time to intentionally take my “money-shot” across the bridge of her nose.  I watched her tongue strain to collect the droplets and was amazed how she scraped the unreachable excess with her pinkie before erotically inserting that finger between her lusty lips. 

In a tight embrace, we basked in the after-glow when I became disquieted by the thought that I would start hallucinating from the pills.  I forced myself to think of something else. 

My excitement grew until I amorously looked at her and whispered, “Ready.” 

She recoiled and coldly remarked, “You can send in Johnny now!” 

Emotionless, she re-tied her obi and turned on the lights. 

She blew out the other short candle and said, “I need a few minutes to freshen up. Tell Johnny to come up, after I turn off the lights. You and Mark can leave, Johnny’s spending the night.” 

At a loss, I muttered, “See you at work.” 

On my way out Dean Martin was crooning, “Baby It's Cold Outside,” when I noticed the photo array on the mantel.  All the images were of a little girl and a man.

                              *



When Johnny left the car I casually mentioned to Mark, “Eric missed a great night.” 

He sneered, “Eric isn’t into IT!” 

“He’s gay?” 

“No, no, no.  He’s a Jesus freak.” 

I never noticed. Eric and I were hired a day apart but in our four months at the Fremont, these past few shifts were he first time we worked together.

Mark began ranting how much he dislikes Eric especially when he calls himself Eric the Great.

To change the subject I blurted, “Mark, how do you feel?”

“Creepy. Those pictures of her dad were intense.”

“Heh?”

“That was her dad in the photos over the fireplace.”

“What do you mean?”

“I thought everyone knew...her mom died in child birth and she was brought up by her dad.  He was killed by a drunk driver when she was twelve...it was on Christmas Day.”  He then speculated, “I guess that’s why she does the ‘gang-bang’ thing during the holidays.”

I felt dirty.

After a long pause I asked, “But...how do you feel physically?”

“Great,” Mark responded. “Why?” 

“Did she give you anything?” 

“Nah.  It was just wham-bam thank you ma’am. Hell, she didn’t even offer me a beer.” 

I didn't mention getting my toes sucked was the greatest thing that ever happened to me and said, “Yeah, me too.” 

We were turning onto Boulder Highway at the Silver Dollar Saloon when Mark remembered, “Well now that I think about it, she gave me jellybeans.  We were tradin’ ‘em back and forth while we sucked face.” 

In an unimpressed manner I chirped, “Really,” as I tried to mask my relief and naiveté.

                       *

Downtown at Hotel Fremont the next day, our craps crew was standing dead when Eric said, “Mark told me about your sinful night.” 

Caught off guard, I innocently shrugged. 

We were both twenty-four but Eric shook his head and said to me, “Son, you should be ashamed...didn’t you recognize her vulnerability? Have you no respect for her, the job or yourself?” 

His eyes became glossy and as if to shun me, he turned away.

Later, I was the stickman when a player made several bets for the dealers. On the first roll we lost them all.  Out of frustration, I grumbled obscenities. Eric gave me a dirty look and I felt the wrath of his condemning leer. 

Between dice rolls, I said, “Sorry.” 

Eric flippantly said, “You shouldn’t be worried about me.”  He pointed upward, closed his eyes and pontificated in a holier than thou manner, “Perhaps, you should worry about Him?” 

                                                                             *




Our pit boss, Tulio Encanarción was a cutthroat little Cuban with a big, raspy voice.  He was not only famous for demanding payola from craps dealers on big toke (tip) days but he’d threateningly assign entire crews or individuals tasks that were unrelated to our job description.  One such chore was designating random amounts of Girl Scout Cookies or some such item to be bought from his daughters. 

     The backbone of Tulio’s clout was his authority to promote.  Through his recommendation alone, craps dealers were sent to the casino’s mother property, the Stardust. He relished this responsibility and used it as a springboard to extort layoffs, (bribes). 

To get his point across he’d privately say, “You wanna go up to the Stardust?” 

If you said yes, he’d tell you where his burgundy, late model Buick Riviera with the vanity license plate, “WIMPY” was parked and add, “I’ll leave the car window open a crack, just wide enough to slip in an envelope.” He’d finish by saying, “Now, we’ll see how much you want to go.” 

The prestige of dealing on the strip was enough of an incentive but at the Stardust you could also count on doubling your toke income.

Tulio interrupted Eric's sermon by saying, "The other day Mikey V. got a nice Christmas present, 'they' sent him up to the Stardust.  Who knows maybe if one of you lumps keeps his nose clean, 'they' might make 1980, the best year of your life.  And by the way, while you're at it, let's make Hersh's first day, an easy one."

INTERNET PHOTO OF AL CAPONE.  ON THE AFTERNOON OF NEW YEAR'S EVE 1979, HERSCHEL "HERSCH" SCHTIERMANN WAS OUR  BOXMAN (IMMEDIATE SUPERVISOR).  IT WAS HIS FIRST DAY EMPLOYED IN A CASINO, AT ANY POSITION.  THIS NEAR CATASTROPHIC (TO ME) STORY IS NOT RELEVANT TO THIS EPISODE BUT CAN BE FOUND IN THE DECEMBER 9, 2018 BLOG, "TARGETED BY HERSCHY'S KISSES."

          

Three months passed. In that time, I never lost sight of the miracle of surviving the Herschel Schtiermann incident. Still, hardly a day went by that I wasn't spooked by the thought of him. 



                             *



On a random day in early March, I was going on break and Tulio intercepted me. Ever since the problem with Hersch, I had projected a persecution complex onto myself. So out of a fear of Tulio firing me as an after thought, I kept a low-profile and avoided him.  
Tulio’s dour expression looked past me as he silently led me to the quiet side of the pit. My throat burned after a surge of bile gushed into my mouth. The only hope I had was this being a false alarm.  Maybe he was only going to weasel me into buying some shit from his kids.  Hell, I was so tense, I probably would have gladly washed and waxed his stupid Riviera on my next day off.  

My eyes were fixed on the ugly red casino carpeting at my feet when he finally squawked, “Hey man, you wanna go up to the Stardust?”
Beyond the Hersch issue, I only had fourteen months experience. Plus, several other dealers were more polished and had seniority.

     In a stupor of confusion, I hid my joy and mustered, “Yeah!” 

Tulio reminded me where his car was, its color and his, “WIMPY” personalized plates. 

He added, “I’ll leave the window open a crack, just enough to slide an envelope through!” 

I rushed off and used the sixty-one dollars in my pocket to buy, the newest, crispiest fifty-dollar bill the cashier had.  At the hotel’s front desk, I got an envelope.  I ran down an alley off Ogden Street where pit-bosses had reserved parking. I found Tulio’s old burgundy Buick and the passenger’s side window was indeed opened just a crack. When I slid my envelope in, I noticed there already was another on the seat.

     Later, Tulio handed me a letter of introduction to the Stardust and rasped, “Hey man. Make me proud!”

                         *

The next morning, I waited to be processed inside the Stardust’s employment office. Soon, Eric came in.  He was holding the identical paperwork as me. We hugged each other and triumphantly pounded each other’s back. 

Eric pointed upward, "He who looks into the perfect law..."  I knew what was coming and tuned him out.  The next thing I heard was, "and perseveres." I returned to daydreaming until he put his hand on my shoulder and concluded, "will be blessed."
I said, "Yeah, yeah.  Good things come to those that wait."
Soon, we were laughing about the “good old days” when I said, “What a coincidence.  We both started at the Fremont together...and now the Stardust.  Luck was on our side, to get on the strip with so little experience.”

Eric’s face turned serious, “He has pre-destined us.  There are no coincidences.  And luck had nothing to do with it either...remember, we were blessed.”

I wasn't going to let Eric ruin my mood. I forced an uneven smile over my grimace and didn’t tell him off.

                         *



Our first job status was called, the “extra board.”  That meant, Eric and I were on twenty-four hour stand-by, in case an established dealer couldn’t make it to work.       

During the short orientation, we were told that an extra-board assignment could be turned down without official repercussions.  However it was implied unofficially that if you turned down a day, you could “slip through the cracks” and never get another call. 

Regardless of the inconvenience, I accepted every call I received. On my fourth day, I bumped into Eric. He hadn’t worked yet and he came in to complain.

I said, “I can’t believe they haven’t called you yet.”

“Well, they did call me Sunday morning but it was just as I was leaving for church.”

"You gotta pair of brass balls,” I said. 

His face contorted because of my brash language.

I plowed on, “Refusing your first chance probably wasn’t a good idea.”

“No, no. They understood why I wasn’t coming in.” 

I said, “You don’t understand.”  I gave him my interpretation and suggested, “You should be more flexible, at least until you’re firmly established.”



                          *

Three days later I had arrived!  I was off the extra board and assigned a permanent crew on swing shift.  It was during my first regular day that I heard that Eric, later that night, was debuting on graveyard with his first of two, back to back shifts.        

Graveyard craps dealers held sway to a fifty-year-old bully named Billy O’Callahan.  Billy, since he was twelve, had a history of hooliganism dating back to his poker and blackjack dealing days in South Boston.  By the time he was a teenager, he “ran numbers” until getting “jammed up.” After serving time, he moved west. He was now a twenty-year Las Vegas craps dealing veteran.

O’Callahan was only five foot-six but he was animalistic in build and personality.  Some women found him attractive but he had nearly no forehead and a thick uni-brow that narrowly separated his eyes from his slicked-back, black hair. His deeply scarred face and discolored high cheeks personified his beastly image.  O’Callahan’s black eyes (the right one was slightly crossed) when combined with his other traits, added a touch of craziness to his fierce persona.

Billy routinely lashed out at both customers and coworkers.  His temper usually took the form of verbal abuse; however he was no stranger to brawling, even at work.

Eric took a collision course with Billy by introducing himself as “Eric the Great!”  By the time he made his third biblical reference, Billy had heard enough.  Still everything remained quiet until Eric transgressed O’Callahan’s number-one unwritten rule...refusing to hustle tokes!  Without any qualms, Billy ridiculed him on a live game.  

Eric’s snobby response to the belligerence was, “I don’t beg, borrow or steal. And neither should you.”

He was confident his words would quell Billy’s ill-temper and help him to see the light.  Billy boiled inside, but he chose to wait until after work.

At the Stardust, craps dealer’s tokes were kept in slotted, locked strongboxes that were numbered to correspond with each table. At the end of each shift, the crew would take their box of chips to the cage. The cashier would tabulate the contents and convert the proceeds into four equal piles of cash.  That night there was three hundred and seventy-two dollars to be divvied up. 

The cashier as usual asked, “How do you want it?”

Conventionally, that amount calls for four sets of ninety-three dollars. 

Billy smiled and crowed in his stereotypical Bostonian accent, “Doll, keep twelve dollars for yourself.” 

She was appreciative of the larger than usual tip.         Billy kept talking while leering at Eric, “We need three hundreds and three twenties!”

The other two dealers were handed one hundred twenty dollars each and Billy put the remaining one-twenty into his breast pocket. 

“Where’s mine?” Eric protested. 

O’Callahan stuck his right index finger into Eric’s face and blared, “We.” He paused to point to the other dealers and himself before continuing, “Work for tips. Today, you didn’t.  I really hope tomorrow you’ll do a better job and work with us, not against us!” 

Eric whined, “You can’t do this.” 

Billy mockingly sighed, “Hell hath no fury as a woman’s scorn.” 

He led his cronies away.  Eric followed behind as they entered the series of back of the house hallways that led to the employee entrance.  Over the loudspeaker, a Chopin polonaise was being pumped into the corridor as Eric, unsynchronized to the classical music, struggled to keep up. 

Outside the time office, in the warm noon sun, Eric demanded his tip money.

Billy, without animosity explained, “We don’t want to cut you out of the tokes.  Let’s see some results and we’ll give you tonight’s share tomorrow.” 

The trio marched off.  Eric had to run to get in front of them. 

While back-pedaling he reiterated, “I don’t beg borrow or steal!” 

Billy backhanded Eric across the face and shouted, “Beat it candy-ass!” 

Eric didn't back-down and followed them past the barracks-like hotel rooms behind the casino’s main tower. O’Callahan strode away from the direct route to the employee parking lot as if to elude Eric. He cut towards the rooms between a big delivery truck and a tall cinder-block retaining wall that housed trash dumpsters.  Unaware he was being lured into seclusion, naive Eric followed. 

Suddenly Billy stopped and turned to confront him, “I had as much of your shit as I’m going to take.”

Eric mustered, "Due unto...," as Billy sucker punched his face.  
He reeled backwards and righted himself by grabbing the truck’s running board. 

Eric took a step towards Billy and said, “Wait...” 

O’Callahan interrupted, “Who do you think you are, Mary Queen of fuckin’ Scots?”                                                His two toadies chuckled as Billy buried his right fist into Eric’s stomach.  

Doubled over, he careened backward in agony as Billy ordered, “Grab him guys!” 

The accomplices took Eric by the arms and straightened his hunched torso.  Billy punched him three more times in the belly until Eric temporarily wriggled free.  O’Callahan tracked him down and connected with an uppercut wallop to the chin that sent him to the pavement.  Dazed, bruised and battered, Eric was left lying in the gutter. 

In the near-distance, they were laughing as Eric gasped, “And if thine eye offends thee, pluck it out.”

Eric’s immaculate one-day-old dealer shirt was streaked with automotive grease and dotted with blood as he resolved to report the incident.  While dusting himself off, he realized that his right knee was scraped and his pant leg was torn.  Eric staggered to his feet and limped back to the casino. 
He was dabbing the abrasion on his cheek and tasted the blood from his split lip as his pit boss, Rex Dolan came out of the building. He saw Eric’s condition and realized what had happened. Eric began rehashing how he was victimized but had no way of knowing that Dolan and O’Callahan were close golfing buddies, for ten years.  Further, Dolan gave all the graveyard dealers a “license to steal” and his “efforts” were regularly rewarded by Billy.

Dolan’s stoic facade masked his indifference as Eric ranted on. Even if Dolan was objective, Eric’s use of biblical passages in his nagging tirade quickly became tiresome. 

Eric finished by demanding satisfaction.

Dolan feigned concern and assured Eric, “I will thoroughly investigate this matter.”

When Dolan went on his way, Eric knew he had been brushed-off and sought a higher authority. He went back inside and looked for casino manager, Aldo “Pug” Pugliese.

Outside the baccarat pit Eric found the boss.  
Pugliese seemed sympathetic after hearing the story and responded, “First, you’re absolutely correct to come to me.  Hustling tokes has never...and will never be tolerated!”  Pug made a “V” with his fingers and said, “Second, nobody should be forced to do anything they don’t want to do.” 

Eric energetically nodded in agreement.  He took a deep cleansing breath, smiled conservatively and became more at ease.  He voiced his appreciation and closed with a reference to David and Goliath.  To seal the deal, Eric extended his hand. Pug didn’t respond.

In a stronger less polished manner Pug added, “Of course, sometimes you DO have to go with the flow, CAPISCE!” 

Eric’s grin faded. 

“Kid, you realize this business ain’t for everybody.  I’m sure you did uh-adequate job at the Fremont but this is the strip. You’re in the majors now.  You probably ain’t got a care in the world but these guys got family pressure, mortgages, car payments, child support...” Pug looked at his watch in mid-sentence and said, “Geez, I’m late.”  Without further explanation, he abruptly left.

Eric followed him to a black glass door labeled, “PRIVATE.”

From inside, Pug turned around and said, “YOU axt for it. YOU ought’nt’ve fought while on the property.” 

After Pug disappeared inside, Eric pulled on the door but it was locked.

The next morning Eric entered the time office ready for work at 3:45AM.  He had difficulty finding his time-card so he asked the timekeeper for assistance. 

“Name,” the septuagenarian said brusquely without looking up from his TV Guide.

He forced a smile, “Crossley sir, Eric Crossley.” 

The old-timer mumbled incoherently as he shuffled some papers atop his disorganized work area. 

Awkwardly, he sadly muttered, “Oh,” as he discovered a blank sheet of typing paper.  The paper had Eric’s time-card as well as a pink slip stapled to it.  The timekeeper was nervous and had trouble separating the papers. 

The old man looked over his glasses, handed the termination notice through the transom and said, “Sorry.” As Eric turned away the timekeeper growled under his breath, “Goddamned slacker.”

Eric went into the casino and tracked down the graveyard shift boss, Anton Narcotti.  Narcotti took a glimpse at the paper and shoved it back to Eric. 

“Pug signed it,” he said. “Take it up with him.” 

     On his way out, deflated Eric looked towards the craps pit. 

He caught eye-contact with O’Callahan who obnoxiously waved and mouthed, “Bye-bye.”

Eric went home and waited till 11:00AM to return.  Although he didn’t anticipate getting his job back, he wanted to confront the man who fired him one more time.  In the expectation of taking auditions at other casinos, he wore a generic white dress shirt rather than the sky blue Stardust dealer uniform shirt.

When Eric caught up with Pug, he said, “I’d like to talk to you about my job Mr. Pugliese.”

Whether or not Pug recognized him was uncertain but he reacted as if Eric was a prospective applicant, “We aren’t hiring. Try the Fremont.” 

“Sir, I’m Eric Crossley, I spoke to you yesterday.”       Preoccupied, Pug focused on the distant casino activity.     

Eric held up his discharge notice and asserted, “You fired me, this is your signature and now you act like you don’t know me!” 

Composed, Pug pointed to the sunshine pouring through the main entrance. At first he spoke wryly, “Get out ‘Eric the Great.’”  Then, in no uncertain terms he snarled, “Get right out...right now...or I’ll make it tough on you!”

When Eric didn’t budge, Pug snapped his fingers and pointed at him.  Two burly security guards and an angry-looking undercover officer in a business suit appeared from nowhere. Eric was abruptly ushered out. 

Eric Crossley’s one-shift career at the Stardust was over.



                         *



Two weeks later, I ran into Eric at a gas station.  
He shared his awful experience and said, "I returned my three dealer shirts and apron.  They wouldn't accept the torn, dirty and bloodied one.  My one day check had me owing them money."
I said, "That fuckin' sucks."
Before I could apologize for using such foul language he said, "It was my fault.  I failed Him.  I had faith that I could make a difference.  You know, raise-up the misguided in this den of iniquity."
I said, "Heh?"
"I wanted to work among you sinners and save some souls."  
I raised my eyebrows, "So, you're the savior?"
"Of course not. I took saving people as my personal mission and...I didn't succeed, not even once.  That was supposed to be what made me great."
I said, "I'm speechless."
Eric sighed, "When Satan reminds you of the past, remind him of the future.  You'll never see me in a casino again."
On my drive home, I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.



                        *



Throughout my forty years in casinos, these people find me.

In Eric the Great's case, I hope he found enough inner peace to lead a normal life because it looks like his stairway to heaven eluded him.  Otherwise, he could be a challenge to a mental health professional and/or be heavily medicated.  Either way, he never mastered people, casino equipment or following instructions.

THE SIX-WEEK LIFE OF THE MAFIA STAFF CAR

Isn't it amazing to look back at a pivotal, yet accidental good decision in our youth and see how it spawned our present success.

This blog concerns itself with personal independence, self confidence and a willingness to persevere. In 1979, energized by buying my first car, I looked beyond my cloudy, long term prospects of being a Las Vegas craps dealer, opted to trust my instincts and patiently waited for better opportunities. Of course that radical decision was made easier, by the fact that someone told me, "NO!"



                                                                           *




In the fall of 1978, at the New York School of Gambling, I gravitated to four guys in my craps class. They were around my age and like me, were Las Vegas bound.

Our little rat-pack, included three Italians. Ciro (before he was either Ciro the Hero or Ciro the Zero),  JLUPY and John Heaverlo.  Our enclave was rounded-out with BB, (a lush who drank his lunch at the Ireland's Eye Bar and chain smoked Merit menthol 100's)...and me.
 
In November, Ciro and BB were the first of,  "The New Mafiosa," (Ciro's nickname for our group), to graduate. They became roommates.  JLUPY, John and I were invited to stay with them when we hit town, (January 1979).  I arrived second, behind JLUPY.  He got to sleep on the sofa.  I was scheduled to have full reign over the floor but after New Year's Eve, BB took ill.

Stereotypes should be set aside but, BB was an ethnic mix of Irish and Native American. He was probably an alcoholic before coming to Vegas so the free, top shelf booze while gambling and 50c drinks at the casino bars made him like a kid, in a candy store.

On New Year's Day 1979, BB rang in the new year by being rushed to the hospital.  He was diagnosed with acute alcohol poisoning.  His life was in such danger that his mother and sister flew out to be by his side. In the mean time, JLUPY slept in BB's unoccupied bed and I was upgraded to the couch.

Two days later, John Heaverlo arrived and took his place on Ciro's floor.  The next day, John started dealing craps at the El Cortez and JLUPY was hired at the Lady Luck.  A few days later,  (January 10th), I started at the same casino as Ciro, Slots-A-Fun.

SLOTS-A-FUN WAS A TERRIBLE JOB AND AN AWFUL EXPERIENCE.  SOMEHOW I MANAGED TO KEEP ONE SOUVENIR...AND IT'S THE CHINTZIEST PIECE OF  CASINO CRAP, IN ALL OF NEVADA. 

A couple of weeks later, BB made a full recovery. By that time, John Heaverlo got his own place and sent for his wife. Soon JLUPY and I became roommates at the Fiesta Apartments on Harmon Avenue, (two blocks behind the Aladdin).

JLUPY quit his Lady Luck job and joined Ciro and me at Slots-A-Fun.  Unfortunately, all three of us, were on different shifts.

My roommate, JLUPY had a car.  He was generous with his rides during our off time together but I had to commute to work on my own.  It was a long walk to the bus stop.  Soon, I realized that if I walked in a diagonal path all the way to work, it wasn't much farther.

Being a New Yorker, I didn't mind the walk because it was always sunny and usually in the sixties.  By April, those morning strolls to work became tiresome, in 80+ degree temperatures.  During these hikes, my mind usually wandered to the futility of my shitty job. I was considering a move to Reno where my friend, the "Amazing Mr. K" said he had juice, (help me get a good job).

A few days before flying up to visit Mr. K., I was waiting outside Slots-A-Fun, for the city bus to go home.  A coworker from the change department named Dara (Da-Ra-Ra-Booms-EE-Ay) came out of the casino.

She said, "I saw you walking on Kovall Lane one morning.  I live near there.  Can I give you a lift?"

Dara had an overbearing personality, a big mouth...and a big everything.  Plus she had a loose reputation (thus earning her nickname). I wasn't interested in her...but a ride after another in a series of bad days was another story.

I was grossing about $170.00 a week in that toilet. Dara made less.  Her 1970, Datsun Sunny-140Y, was a rolling hunk of junk.  She said she only kept the piece of shit because the "D" logo badge in the grill, made her feel that the car was personally monogrammed.

DARA'S CHOCOLATE-COLORED CLUNKER WAS ACTUALLY IN SLIGHTLY BETTER SHAPE THAN THIS.

On the short ride in her stale cigarette-scented car, she lit up a joint.  She shrugged when I turned down her offer for a hit.

I was getting out when she said, "Aren't you going to invite me in?"

JLUPY's black, 1972 Buick Electra convertible was outside.

I knew I was safe so I said, "Okay."

To my pleasant surprise Ciro and BB were also there.  JLUPY handed Dara and me a can of Olympia beer. She guzzled hers down before I took my second sip.

Ciro said, "Let's make this a party."

JLUPY said, "I'll do a beer run."

BB said, "And a bottle of Jack Daniels."

Dara said, "Shit, I gotta go.  But definitely another time."  She took my phone number and added, "I like you and all your friends, I'll pick you up and drive you home whenever our schedules match."



                                                                        *



On my next day off, I flew up to see the "Amazing Mr. K."  He lived up to his nickname by showing me an incredible time.

During a lull in the action, I asked about his offer, to help with getting me a good job.

He said, "I never said anything about getting you a job."

If I moved without a solid work opportunity, Reno had nothing to offer. I decided to stay in Vegas.



                                                                        *



When I got home, my bedroom reeked of smoke.  On the nightstand, I found a half-full pack of Merit menthol 100's.

The rarity of those specific cigarettes led me to ask JLUPY, "Was BB in my room?"

He said, "Yeah.  Him and Da-Ra-Ra-Booms-EE-Ay, sorta spent the last two days in there...and if BB was telling the truth, you might want to turn the mattress."

I said, "Burn the mattress?"

He said, "No.  Turn your mattress...but you might want to do both."

It pissed me off that my bed was getting more action without me.  I confronted BB the next time I saw him.

Indifferently he grunted, "She was hurtin' for a squirtin'."

I said, "Yeah but..."

He cut me off, "She was groanin' for a bonin'."

I said, "No..."

BB smiled, "C'mon buddy.  You know, any port in a storm."

I was still nauseated but I couldn't hold back a smile.  When I factored in that he almost died, I let it slide.



                                                                         *



In the morning I told JLUPY, "I gotta buy a car."

I ran outside and pulled the classified section from my crazy neighbor's newspaper (Old Man McHugh, the accused cat poisoner).  I had $225.00 cash and was willing to spend the whole shebang to keep Dara out of my apartment and to not owe her any favors.  I soon discovered that there were no cars out there I could afford.  I was stymied and refused to sponge-off my dad from three thousand miles away.

JLUPY read my frustration and said, "You can get a used Vespa (scooter)  for under a hundred."

VESPA IS ITALIAN FOR WASP.  THE NAME COMES FROM THE BUZZING BEE ENGINE SOUND.

I said, "I don't want a scooter!"



                                                                             *



Around that time, I started seeing Mary, (a blackjack dealer from work).  Luckily, Dara kept her distance.

I left Slots-A-Fun for a better job, the Western Casino, (downtown). In early May, I quit after three weeks and got hired at the Holiday International Casino.  A pit boss Paul "Shag" Darrow knew I didn't have a car and wanted to spite another dealer, (Dale Marson).  So he manipulated Marson into picking me up a few times a week.

Marson was such an asshole that I began another car search.   That search led me to an ad for Supreme Motors, (a used car lot).  They had eight cars under $375.00.  The one that caught my eye was a 1971 Pontiac Le Mans for $339.00.  The caption read; looks sharp, runs great.

I detailed my visit to Supreme Motors in my October 29, 2018 blog, "SURROUNDED BY RETREADS AND SHARPIES."

Unfortunately, the only car on the lot under $500.00 was a dented, faded yellow, Ford station wagon. It was priced $399.00.  I had $370.00 in my pocket.  I was desperate so I took it for a test drive.  Later, JLUPY inspected under the hood and crawled underneath too.

He confided to me, "It's worth $399.00 but I bet you could chisel him down."

I bickered over the price and got the salesman down to a flat $390.00.  Still, JLUPY had to look in his glove box and under his car seats, to scratch-out three bucks in small change, (with fifteen pennies), in order to lend me the last twenty dollars.

I MUST OF STRUCK-UP THE BEST POSSIBLE DEAL BECAUSE THE WEASEL SALESMAN HAD NO SHAME AND ACCEPTED JLUPY'S PENNIES. 

The car might have been a bomb but it was the first one I ever bought and therefore a memorable benchmark in my life.

***INTERNET PHOTO***  MY CAR WAS AN EIGHT-YEAR OLD, FORD LTD WAGON.  TO COVER A RUSTY DENT, CIRO GOT ME A BUMPER STICKER THAT READ; MAFIA STAFF CAR.  BB REMARKED IN REFERENCE TO ALL THE OTHER BLEMISHES, "CIRO, YOU SHUDDA BOUGHT THIRTY OF THEM."

To celebrate my new found independence, I rounded up the New Mafiosa, (minus John Heaverlo) and the four of us went to a dumpy Mexican restaurant called, El Cholo, (or as Ciro called it, El Choko).

The beer and tequila was out-weighing the tacos and burritos when JLUPY said, "Let's see what your heap can do. Let's go up to Mount Charleston."

Forty miles later, lost in the midnight darkness, our excursion to the ski lodge bar was never realized.  However two conclusions were gained about the Mafia staff car; it drove well in mountains and the brakes worked perfectly.

I discovered the latter as I accelerated and JLUPY pressed his foot down on top of mine.

He yelled, "Let's see what this baby can do!"

Within seconds on the pitch black, twisting road through the forest, a herd of wild horses galloped across our path.  I slammed on the brakes as the last stallion scampered safely into the woods.

NEAR LAS VEGAS, ON SEVERAL OCCASIONS, I SAW WILD BURROS, (DESCENDANTS OF THOSE ABANDONED BY MINERS).  WILD HORSES ROAMED THE WILDERNESS TOO.  THE HERD I ALMOST HIT WITH THE MAFIA STAFF CAR WAS THE ONLY TIME I SAW HORSES.

On the Third of July, due to Independence Day, I had trouble parking for my 6:PM shift.  I ended up five blocks away, with the last spot on the roof of the Four Queens.  I was walking down Fremont Street when I was stopped by a scrawny, pimple-faced girl handing out coupons in front of the Friendly Club.  From inside, I heard my named called, it was BB at the bar, (still in his dealer uniform after his graveyard shift).

The bartender said, "What'll you have?"

I was shaking my head as BB got off his stool and muttered, "Any port in a storm."

He advanced on the coupon girl, offered her a Merit Menthol 100 and chatted her up.

The barman motioned me over, "Never saw anyone like your buddy.  He's been slamming bourbon and beer for five hours and he's not even tipsy.  Where does he put it?"



                                                                          *



My casino was busy for the big weekend so we had to work two hours of overtime.

On the way out, my friend and supervisor Dick Paynlewski said, "Let's go for a drink."  At the Golden Gate Casino, he swilled two double scotches before I was half-done with my draught.  He had a third drink in his hand as he said, "I'm gonna play me some blackjack...sit with me."

He downed that drink and ordered another before we sat down.  He was slurring his words when he bought in for eighty dollars (about his day's pay).  He had lost his first two hands when his fourth double arrived with a bottle of Lowenbrau.

He lost again, sucked the beer bottle dry and giggled, "Damn the booze is expensive here."

Paynlewski struggled but managed to pile the rest of his chips in the betting circle.  He belched with double-edged satisfaction when he hit to a six-card twenty.  The young Asian girl dealing to him was showing an ace. Then she turned over a second ace.

Dick smiled and yelled, "Paint, paint..."

But he sank in temporary silence when the dealer revealed a nine.

He was loudly cursing her heritage and stoic expression.  So I shushed him.

He grinned, "Lend me twenty till pay day."

I turned him down and added, "Let me drive you home."

He said, "I'll find Carmichael (his girlfriend), I'll borrow some dough from her."

He staggered a few feet into the keno lounge, collapsed into a seat and said, "You're a good egg...even if you don't lend me the twenty...but will you lend me..."

I cut him off, "No."

He was blithering nonsense until he said, "People can be such pricks. I hate all the Pollack jokes...even Carmichael uses 'em.  But I have an idea.  I'm going to legally change my name."

"To what?  Larry Paynlewski?"

"Don't be such a jack-off," he said.  "How does Richard Thomas Payne sound?"

I said, "It sounds like a good, strong name...and if you are really so annoyed...you should do it."

I re-offered him a ride home but he refused and said, "Steve, drive safe.  There's a lot of drunk assholes on the roads tonight."

Outside, maybe because of Independence Day, I was mulling Dick's proposed new name when the historic significance of Thomas Paine came to mind.

THOMAS PAINE (1737-1809) WAS A FOUNDING FATHER, POLITICAL ACTIVIST AND PHILOSOPHER.  HE IS MOST FAMOUS FOR INSPIRING THE AMERICAN COLONISTS TO REBEL WITH HIS (1776) PAMPHLET, "COMMON SENSE."

I laughed to myself when I considered Dick Paynlewski and the notion of "common sense" being used in the same sentence.  It was even funnier when I realized that he'd be changing his name to; Dick Paine



                                                                             *



At 4:30AM, on my way to my car, I was passing the Friendly Club.  I ducked my head in and was shocked to see BB passed out at the bar.

A different bartender said, "This kid is one hurtin' buckaroo.  He's been knockin 'em back since one in the afternoon.  His roomie (Ciro) was just here.  He's getting a cab to take him home."

I was curious to find out if BB got anywhere with the coupon girl but I was exhausted and left.  Moments later, in the Four Queens parking lot elevator, I figured, I'd swing by and see if Ciro still needed help with BB.

At that late hour, the Mafia staff car stood alone on the top level.  I stopped for a few seconds to admire the view of glittery Fremont Street.  Then in the opposite distance, I was happy to see that my route home on I-10 south was free of traffic. Those distractions made me forget about BB.

In the middle lane of the interstate, I had the road to myself.  The Lynyrd Skynyrd song, "FREEBIRD," came on the radio.  I was lustily singing along as I approached the Sahara Avenue exit.

1974's FREEBIRD, IS MY FAVORITE SONG AND PERSONAL ANTHEM.  CLICK ON THE LINK BELOW TO HEAR THE 13-MINUTE FULL VERSION.

http://www.lyrics.com/free-bird-lyrics-lynyrd-skynyrd.html

While pouring out the lyrics, I noticed in the rear view mirror, a car flying in the left lane.  He was about to whiz by when the driver veered towards me.  I cut the wheel right but it was too late.  I got sideswiped and lost control.  He sped off as I slammed the brakes. I skidded towards the exit ramp...and BOOM !  I hit a streetlamp and careened back onto the interstate.  I did a 180 degree turn and stopped, facing oncoming traffic in the center lane.

Hissing steam was coming out of my car's newly gouged V-shaped hood.  I tried the ignition... and nothing.  Dazed, I hobbled to the shoulder, sat on the neck of the downed street lamp and waited for the police.

It killed me to think that I was one of the few sober people out that night.  Then I flashed back and wondered...if just one of the oddball things that happened that night was different, I wouldn't be in my predicament, (working overtime, drinks with Dick, stopping at the Friendly Club, not helping Ciro with BB, walking to the Four Queens, admiring the view from the roof as well as every stop sign and red light).

My $390.00 heap was totaled. I was eulogizing the short life of the Mafia staff when true anxiety gripped me,  a throbbing pain in my left hand.



                                                                           *



It's crazy to think that buying the Mafia staff car and breaking my hand in the crash was a vital step in my eventual forty-year run as a casino dealer.  Instead, I feel it was the standing on my own two feet and resisting the temptation of Reno's lower hanging fruit, that paved the way to my future success.  The true hero of my life probably was the Amazing Mr. K. and the fact that he couldn't help me get a better job.

NICKY REALLY WAS A PRICK

On October 5, 2015, in the wake of Robin Williams' death, I wrote a blog intended to be a tribute to him, as well as the multitude of others suffering from serious mental issues.

Today, to conform with my 40th anniversary in casinos series, I have altered that piece.  This story will feature deeper details in the life of Nick Tucker.  I'm a layperson, so I'm guessing his problem was, bi-polar disorder.

The crucial, personal information I have gathered on Nick were made possible by two individuals, his friend John Crotty and our friend, Mateo Domingo.



                                                                               *



I met Nick Tucker (28), in Manhattan while attending a craps dealing course in 1978. Our superficial, fellow-student relationship never evolved into a friendship.  However, three years later in downtown Las Vegas, we were reunited as craps dealing coworkers, at the Golden Nugget.

Nick became an important friend.  My regard for him skyrocketed into believing that he was a fine respectable person. I once introduced him to my wife Sue (before we were married) as, a true gentleman.

Despite my man crush, I recognized that he wasn't perfect.  So it was natural to shrug off his flaws.

One of his shortcomings was to say to Sue, "Pardon my language but..."  And then he'd use the harshest profanity that would make a longshoreman blush.  He also thought it was funny to brandish a switchblade on people.  When he did it to Sue and me, I  cracked, "Are you a Shark or a Jet?"  His response started with, "Pardon my language but..."

NICK GOT MY REFERENCE TO THE 1957 HIT BROADWAY MUSICAL AND 1961 MOVIE, "WEST SIDE STORY." WHICH WAS INSPIRED BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE'S CLASSIC, "ROMEO AND JULIET." EXCEPT, THE DISAPPROVING FAMILIES ARE REPRESENTED BY WARRING STREET GANGS IN NEW YORK CITY AND THEIR WEAPON OF CHOICE IS KNIVES, SPECIFICALLY SWITCHBLADES.

In those two rare instances, Nick was clever enough to make his nastiness come off as cute.  But beneath the surface, Nick was an angry, twisted bastard who waited for the opportune moment, (sometimes for years), to hurtfully carry out vendettas against people who he perceived had slighted him.



                                                                            *



At the Golden Nugget, Nick Tucker was a hero, the whole time we worked together, (August 1982 to November 1983).  It was only after he abandoned his position that I received classified intel to piece together the mosaic of his perplexing, double life.

ODDLY, THE GOLDEN NUGGET LED A DOUBLE LIFE TOO. DURING MY EMPLOYMENT, IT TRANSFORMED FROM A DINGY, SAWDUST JOINT, TO A WORLDWIDE RESORT DESTINATION.  I FEEL FORTUNATE TO HAVE BEEN A PART OF THAT METAMORPHOSIS. 

At dealer school, I was drawn to Nick's whimsical, intelligent and humorous personality.  In the school's social strata, he hung out with the jet-set (elitists).  Tucker stood out as unique among his brethren of snobs because he was kind to everyone.

Tucker's running mate at school was John Crotty.  Crotty, was a narcissistic asshole.  Even in the early stages of craps training, his upward mobility mindset defined dealing table games as a "temporary, inconvenient  obstacle" on his way to upper management.

The heart of Crotty's self-proclaimed nobility was based on the Vegas connections he bragged about.  Therefore, he remained aloof, shallow and materialistic to the nobody's of the world, unless they could relate to interests (golf) or had tangible influence that could help his aspirations.  I was one of those nobodys.  At no point at school did he and I share a spoken word that didn't relate to our class.  The only worthy thing I ever heard him say was, "Never shit where you eat."

At school, Crotty's presence deflected any possibility of befriending Nick Tucker.



                                                                             *



In my five years in Las Vegas, I saw John Crotty only four times.  I ducked him the first two times but the point of this story centers around the last time.  However, first I must introduce you to Mateo Domingo, (I doubt Mateo and Crotty ever met).

I was hired at the Las Vegas Golden Nugget in August 1982.  Nick Tucker was already there and we became coworkers.  He took me under his wing and in no time, I was traveling in his inner circle clique, which included Mateo (42).

I gravitated to Mateo and the background he gave me supported Nick's, God-like persona.

He said of Nick's generosity,  "He helped so many people.  Like spending a day to drive to Utah, to help a dealer load a cement mixer into the bed of his truck and bring it back to Vegas. Despite the grueling time and labor, Nick refused any payment. Nicky also counseled a floor supervisor and introduced him to his priest.  Instead of the man disowning his pregnant, fourteen year-old, drug addicted daughter, the divine intervention may have saved their relationship and the baby's life.  There were other examples too but he never accepted any money or special consideration."

Mateo also told me of Nick's tendency to set up parties and other outings for our group, (oddly, he never attended them).  Despite being a social butterfly at work, nobody knew his phone number or address, (within our clique, his mysterious home was jokingly called; the Bat Cave). No one questioned these oddities which should have raised red flags to possible peccadilloes in Nick's character.

BATMAN (1966-1968) WAS A CAMPY, LIVE-ACTION TV SERIES BASED ON THE DC COMIC BOOK, "BATMAN." IN MY CHILDHOOD, IT WAS UNFATHOMABLE TO ME THAT NEITHER THE CROOKS OR GOOD GUYS EVER FOLLOWED BATMAN BACK TO THE BAT CAVE, (JUST BEYOND THE SIGN ABOVE).

Mateo ( a craps dealer), had juice in the Nugget's executive office.  So he had access to the employees personal information.  This influence was so strong that it arranged boxman pay for him.  The bean-counters didn't catch on to Mateo's bonanza, (an extra $42.00/day, for two years). His connection also saw to it that this "oversight" was swept under the rug.

In November 1983, Nick didn't tell anyone and went on vacation during Thanksgiving.  Nobody knew where he went and two weeks later it was apparent that he wasn't coming back.  That's when Mateo found out that in Nick's file folder, he used a post office box for an address and provided the casino with a phony phone number.

Two weeks later, a few days before Christmas, I bumped into John Crotty at the Meadows Mall..  He was wearing an expensive suit and had an unnatural orange glow from a tanning bed session.  I was afraid he was going to bend my ear about how set for life he is.

Instead John asked, "You still at the Nugget?"

I was impressed that he knew I was there at all, as I said, "Yeah.'"

He said, "Where's Nicky? It's like he disappeared."

I shrugged, "Dunno. Nobody does..."

Crotty started talking...and at no time did he speak about himself.

At one point his voice cracked, "I thought I had the best friend I always wanted in life...but Nicky was more skitzo than 'Skitzo-Al.'"  (Skitzo-Al was a regular guy from dealer school who hid the fact that he was deaf in one ear, resulting in an erratic personality).

Before long, I would hear the all highlights of John and Nick's friendship. Apparently Nick got to Las Vegas a couple of months before Crotty.  In that time, to minimize costs, Nick became roommates with a UNLV student.  When Crotty came to town, he and Nick got a place together.

Crotty said, "Nick's tongue really flapped when he was drunk."

John and I sat on a bench as he shared Nick's life story:

"First," he said,  "Nick's real name is Lonnie Orlando.  Nicky must have really fucked-up because he bought fake ID.  He wanted to go off the grid...and picked Vegas.  I bet whatever put him on the run was a combination of shitty circumstances.  Like being an only child.  He was about twenty, still living at home when both his healthy but elderly parents died a month apart.  He inherited their-turn-of-the-century house, in a beaten-down section of Newark...the back of his property touched the tall barbed wire fence that surrounded Newark Airport's freight terminal."

I patiently listened as Crotty continued, "Nick became a high school business teacher.  Which meant for $9,100.00 a year, he was stuck teaching non-college bound juvenile delinquents how to type."

"Soon he married a grade school teacher named Annette and she moved into that house.  They were broke, so he wouldn't let her refurnish or decorate the place to her liking.  Plus, it was the only house left standing on the whole block, in the middle of a slum.  They argued a lot because she hated being isolated without convenient shopping and never feeling safe.  In the name of love, she might have made do but Nick also had an insane phobia about going too far from home.  So forget romantic vacations, they hardly left Newark."

Nick life didn't seem so tragic to me.

When I pretended to yawn, Crotty spoke faster and his voice went up an octave, "Nick wanted to teach history but there were no openings.  He dedicated himself to instructing his misfits.  Through jokes, care and understanding, he got enthusiasm from dregs that usually don't give a rat's ass."

"Towards the end of March, Annette felt so neglected that she left him.  Nick told me, her leaving made him so depressed that he considered killing himself.  Then in June, he won the Teacher of the Year Award.  On the last day of the term during a fond farewell with his students, some silliness got personal.  He had words with his pet student and lost his temper. They cursed each other.  He was losing the battle of wits and felt the urge to physically attack her.  Luckily, he controlled himself.  But he quit on the spot, walked out the door without taking his best teacher trophy, clearing his desk or picking up his last check."

"Wow," I said.

Crotty kept talking, "I don't know if he ran because he did something to that girl later or if it was something else.  But your buddy Lonny Orlando saw a TV commercial for our dealer school and soon signed up as Nick Tucker."

I said, "That's crazy.  Did he go after his wife?"

Crotty said, "No.  She had already divorced him and Nick didn't even contest it. But did you ever notice he always took vacations at Thanksgiving?"

I didn't and shook my head as he forged on, "He picked that time of year because Annette and her family followed the same ritual.  So he knew exactly when and where she'd be.  Then he'd travel incognito back to Jersey and harass her."

I said, "No way.  He was such a great guy, he could never hurt her."

"Well, he felt betrayed by Annette.  Don't forget, while still mourning for his mom and dad, she wanted to remodel the only house he ever lived in...and, erase the memories of his folks."

"Financially, because of her, he screwed himself royally by turning his back on his career and giving up half of everything he owned, even that old house."

I said, "I can't believe it. Nick was so smart, he knew right from wrong, he went to church..."

John cut me off, "I NEVER saw him go to church out here!"

"Well," I added, "He was a funny man, caring, generous and so confident."

Crotty said, "I'm telling you, he snapped. Normal people can only be pushed so far.  The one's with deep-rooted shit, are capable of doing terrible things."

"No.  You don't think he killed that teacher pet's of his?"

He said, "I hope not.  But you can't rule out anything."

John said, "Nick got to Vegas before me and lived with a college kid.  Nicky told me they didn't get along.  Nick was dealing on graveyard at the El Cortez and wanted to sleep from eight at night till two in the morning.  But it was the student's apartment and he thought nothing of blasting music and partying all the time.  They clashed over the noise.

The kid had Thor, a parrot who could talk.  To really piss Nick off, he taught it to say, "NICKY'S A PRICK, NICKY'S A PRICK..."

AS A HOMAGE TO THE MONTY PYTHON, "DEAD PARROT" SKIT, THE KID CLAIMED THAT THE BIRD'S BREED WAS A NORWEGIAN BLUE. THERE IS NO SUCH  BREED. UNFORTUNATELY, THE KID'S DEAD PARROT JOKE WOULD BE PROPHETIC.

John Crotty sighed, "To get even, Nick doused Thor's birdseed with Tabasco Sauce. His shit was blood red for a couple of days...until he died.  I'm no animal rights guy but what Nick did was criminal. Whenever he told me that story, he included lines from the Monty Python sketch. It wasn't funny."

I said, "Parrots live like forty years..."

John said, "That's right.  It's like a member of the family.  So when the kid attacked him, Nick whipped-out his switchblade, kicked his ass, trashed the apartment and bolted."

"Did the guy get cut?"

"No."

I said, "But he pressed charges?"

"Maybe?  But apparently Nicky lived there under a different phony name.  And he quit the El Cortez, so he couldn't be tracked down."



                                                                    *



Seven years after moving to Atlantic City, (1991), my wife Sue and I had a Vegas vacation.  We telephoned Mateo and met him for lunch.

He told us about Nick, "Months after you left, my connection in the executive office let me read a Xerox copy of a November 1983 arrest report, from Ionia New Jersey.  He (Nick) had slashed the tires of his ex's new husband, broke into their house, trashed the place and smeared his own shit on wedding and honeymoon pictures.  Then on the morning of Thanksgiving, he broke into her parent's house.  He was holding his own crap and was about to do the same thing to that house when cops burst out of closets, the basement and attic."

I said, "Nick had no family or real friends so nobody would miss him?"

Mateo said, "You're right.  The police got his true identity from Annette and the application fingerprints, on his Nevada gaming license."

I sighed, "That boy needed professional help."

He huffed, "Nick had too much pride."

I said, "He needed to be on meds...sounds like he went off the deep end and could have become one of the assholes that goes berserk and drives up on crowded sidewalks and mows down strangers."

Mateo was shaking his head as I continued, "One of Nick's friends (John Crotty) was right, you shouldn't shit where you eat."

Then I shared with him a lot of what Crotty confided to me.

When I finished with the parrot story I said, "Nicky really was a prick."



                                                                     *



I have sympathy for those with mental problems. Whether or not Nick Tucker/Lonnie Orlando was clinically sick in the head, we'll never know.  I just hope, wherever he wound up that he got enough help that would allow his universally appreciated side to blossom...and stay in bloom .  If not, he was the lowest, low-life scum.