NEVER SHIT WHERE YOU EAT

I always thought people illegally changing their name was a convenient plot twist in crumby spy movies.  But my "friend" Nick Tucker wasn't who he said he was.  His life was so shrouded in mystery that now, I can't tell if I was his friend, a strong acquaintance or he even an insignificant background person.

In 1982, I introduced Nick, to Sue (my future wife) as one of the few gentlemen I met in the casino business.  Years later, I found out how acutely wrong I was about him. Hell, his name wasn't even Nick Tucker.



                                            *



I met Nick Tucker at the New York School of Gambling.  In early October 1978,  we had our first one-on-one meeting.  Our craps dealing class been dismissed but I decided to practice my latest skills after everyone left.  At the casino-like classroom's entrance, Phyllis the receptionist seemed to be guarding the door.

I passed her and she stopped cracking her gum to call out, "Nicky, I gotta run."

Tucker had a guilty look on his face as he stood next to the wide open seventh floor window.

I said, "That's dangerous, you could push a piano out that window."

He shushed and gestured me closer.  At his feet, there were many stacks of the school's practice chips that he was emptying into two burlap bank bags.

He stuffed Styrofoam packing peanuts and crumpled newspaper on top and said, "Go lay chickie for me."

I said, "Heh?"

Nick bound these bundles with plastic pull ties and said as he added thick rubber bands, "Go to the door and let me know if someone is coming." 

I wasn't smart enough to realize that I was witnessing the craziest, stupidest, most unnecessary theft ever!

I was paralyzed by indecision until Nick snapped, "You gonna help or are you posing for Animal Crackers?"

ANIMAL CRACKERS ORIGINATED (1890's) IN ENGLAND.  THEY CAME IN A GIANT BARREL AND WERE SOLD INDIVIDUALLY.  IN 1902, AN AMERICAN COMPANY, (STAUFFER'S),  SOLD THEIR OWN VERSION, IN FIVE-CENT, SINGLE SERVING BOXES.  THE TERM, "POSING FOR ANIMAL CRACKERS," SUGGESTS THAT SOMEBODY ISN'T PAYING ATTENTION TO THE TASK AT HAND. 

Nick leaned out the window and made a military salute to someone at street level. 

I was confused.  Ten seconds later, he stuck his head out again and said, "Bombs away," as he released to the soon-to-be missiles.

OUCH!  THOSE BAGS HAD TO BE A COUPLE OF POUNDS EACH.  AND, I CAN'T IMAGINE THE UNDERTAKING CROWD CONTROL WOULD BE WITH THE CONSTANT FLOW OF INNOCENT PEOPLE COMING INTO THE TARGET AREA FROM ALL ANGLES.

Nick smiled, "Mission accomplished, I owe you."

I said, "Owe me for what...what just happened?"

He said, "John Crotty and Artie Cisco are downstairs holding everyone back and will retrieve the bags."

John Crotty never acknowledged me at school.  But several years later, he filled in the gaps that allow this story to be told.

AT MIDDAY, WEST 32nd STREET OFF BROADWAY, (the school's locale), WAS MUCH BUSIER THAN THIS PHOTO.  EVEN IF CROTTY AND CISCO USED YELLOW EMERGENCY TAPE TO CORDON OFF THE DROP ZONE, I CAN'T CONCEIVE HOW THIS IDIOCY (REPEATED SEVERAL TIMES BEFORE AND AFTER), DIDN'T GET THEM ARRESTED.

Nick brandished a switchblade.  If he intended on intimidating me from ratting him out, he succeeded.  He saw the blank expression on my face and used the knife to clean under his fingernails as he bragged, "Johnny built a craps table for us to practice on...and we're almost done filling the bank up with chips."

I said, "They're worthless...you can buy'em for a dime."

Nick sighed, "Yeah genius, but we need a thousand of them...you do the math."

I said, "Aren't you afraid the school will notice that many missing?"

He said, "Hell no!  Sif, (Phyllis the whore receptionist was nicknamed Sif-Phyllis), wants to get back into Artie's pants.  So he got her to steal them out of a storage closet.  These money-grubbing bastards never use 'em and won't know they're gone for years."

I said, "Those flying bags could kill someone down there.  Besides, won't it be safer and easier to stick the chips in your pockets or a lunch pail...and walk out like gentlemen?"


Nick shook his head, "Who are you, a front man for the friggin' Pope? And, what fun would easier be?"

Nick remained cordial to me.  Twice, he invited me to breakfast.  I never went because he, John and Artie Cisco drank their morning meals, at the Ireland's Eye Bar.

Nick and I traveled in different circles.  I didn't realized he graduated in early November.  I finished on January 3, 1979 and flew to Las Vegas the next day.

Vegas compared to New York City was a small town.  But even with tons of relocated schoolmates, it was surprising that I didn't bump into Nick until the following September, at a knock-off of the San Gennaro Feast.

THE ANNUAL ITALIAN-AMERICAN FEAST IN LAS VEGAS BOASTS ALL MY FAVORITE FOODS.  THEY LOOK AUTHENTIC BUT IF YOU KNOW YOUR SCUNGILLI FROM A HOLE IN THE WALL, YOU KNOW SOMETHING AIN'T KOSHER.

At the faux-feast, like ships passing in the night, Nick, (along side John Crotty) and I exchanged silent nods as I scarfed down a mediocre sausage and pepper sub. 

But I did overhear Crotty say, "The first thing they should teach new dealers is, never shit where you eat." 

His statement seemed random but years later, his prophecy came true.



                                                                  *



In 1982, (two years later), I got hired at the Las Vegas Gold Nugget.  What a great coincidence, Nick Tucker was already dealing craps there on my shift, (8PM-4AM).  He took me under his wing, introduced me to close circle of coworkers and made me feel at home.  Nick was quick to mention that the Nugget was unique in that it had no help's hall.  That meant two things; the casino didn't provide meals and it encouraged the staff to leave the building, (all other casinos penalize employees leaving during their shift).


On a tour of downtown, Nick showed me the best places to eat, drink and get in trouble.

Once I got to know him, I considered Nick Tucker to be the nicest person I ever met in the gaming business.  He showed great compassion for people and took a personal interest in coworkers.

A craps dealer named Scott had a gambling problem.  Nick brought this kid literature about Gamblers Anonymous, helped him in enroll in the program and drove him to the first meeting.  Scott wanted to take Nick for dinner but he didn't accept.

Lelani Campbell, a gorgeous Amer-Asian blackjack dealer was as dumb as a stump.  But she was smart enough to know she'd be better off home in Hawaii than in a dead end job, dealing cards.  To encourage her to follow through, Nick tutored her, a few days a week for over a month.  She passed her GED on her first try.  To thank him, she made overt sexual advances...but he turned her down.

A pit boss' personal life was spiraling out of control.  Nick gave him new direction by suggesting that he follow his passion.  Together the searched the classified ads until they found a small fixer-upper cabin cruiser, for fishing Lake Meade.  On several occasions, in the stifling heat of Southern Nevada, Nick went to this man's house, scraped, sanded, cleaned and polished that boat until it was seaworthy.  When the boss' dream was realized, he offered Nick money, special scheduling considerations and an outing on the boat. Nick said no thanks, to every offer.

Nick also organized parties for our clique.  On Labor Day, he put together a barbecue, at a park on East Tropicana Avenue.

Later in September, he used up favors to get the Horseshoe Casino's coffee shop to reserve its backroom, (at 2:AM) and provide free, hot hors d'oeuvres (as long as we paid for our drinks), for a boxman's retirement.

He also convinced us to wear costumes after our shift, at a Halloween bash he put together at Mickey's Appetizer, (a bar).  Oddly, other than brief token appearances at the events he arranged, Nick usually never came.

A month later, Lelani invited our group, to her apartment for an afternoon Thanksgiving.  On the Sunday before, Nick brought her extra folding chairs.  When he pulled up, she was outside, barefoot and in a giant white tee-shirt that she wore like a muumuu dress.

Nick had trouble untying strap that secured his car's trunk.  Rather than get frustrated, he whipped out his switchblade and sliced the cord.

Lelani joked, "Besides knives, you got any other surprises in your pants?"

Nick avoided the innuendo, "My neighborhood was so bad, even the Monsignor was good with a knife..."

She said, "Wait.  I thought you were an army brat..."

He ignored her prying and brought in the chairs.

Inside Nick said, "I gotta go but I want to tell you something."

She climbed up a three-rung step-ladder and said, "Okay.  You can tell me as I put up these turkey day decorations."

Nick spotted for her in case she lost her balance.  To protect her modesty, he pretended to be pre-occupied and looked away.  At the same time, Lelani kept glancing down hoping that he'd sneak a peek up her dress.

Lelani was losing her patience with Nick as she tried to figure out whether he was a saint or if he didn't like girls.  She went up and down the ladder several times and each time she was finished hanging a strand of crepe paper or attaching a pilgrim placard to the wall she asked, "How does it look."

Nick always grunted, "It looks great."

The last decoration was a HAPPY THANKSGIVING banner than stretched across the living room.  When Lelani was done, with Nick looking the other way, she hiked-up her shirt and said, "How does it look, now?"

He turned and found her clean-shaven vagina, inches from his face.

Nick smiled with interest, "It looks great."  He stepped back and shook his head, "I just can't."  He added, "Also, I wanted to tell you, I won't be coming here Thursday."

Lelani was used to having her advances refused.  She was hurt, embarrassed and confused as tears streamed down her face.

Nick consoled her, lightly pecked her cheek and whispered, "Please believe me.  I liked you for a long time but I can't complicate my life now..."  She interrupted, "Yeah but..."  Nick cut her off, "Remember, I never come to group functions.  He broke the brief awkward silence and said, "I gotta run but take this."

He handed her an airport locker key.

Lelani stared at it and read aloud in a murmured stammer, "N-n-number 2577?"

Nick firmly held her upper arms, looked deeply into her misty, hazel eyes and said, "If you don't hear from me in a couple of weeks, everything inside is yours."

She cried, "I don't want..."

"Don't worry," he said, "I'll be back for YOU...but...well...if not, we can say I helped you get back home."

Lelani sobbed, "You should come back to Maui with me.  You're so smart, you made my GED easy. I bet you could go to school and become a real teacher."

Nick was nodding as he muttered, "Maybe a man could lose himself out there..."

At work, Nick had requested the night before off, as well as that night.  He also didn't tell anyone that his vacation was starting the following day.  I never saw or heard from Nick Tucker again.

A couple of days later, before anyone realized that Nick vanished, I ran into John Crotty.  I tried to duck him but shockingly, he called out my name and hustled over to me. 

We exchanged Vegas histories until I said, "I deal craps at the Nugget."

He said, "Nicky works there, you ever see him?"

I said, "Yeah.  All the time.  What a great guy."

Crotty snapped, "Great guy, eh?"

I shrugged, "Yeah, of course.  Why?"

"You his friend?"

I said, "Yeah."

He said, "Where does your friend live?"

I said, "I dunno."

"What's his phone number?"

"Well, he leads a hermit's life.  You know private...I can respect that...besides, no one at work knows."

I knew John Crotty only as a narcissistic, unemotional, too cool for his own good, zero.

So I was caught off guard when his voice cracked, "I-I-I thought Nick was my brother and would be my best friend forever.  But somethin' about him ain't right.  The first thing he did out here was dump Trish.  Remember her from school?  You couldn't get anything better than her.  But Nick kept getting weirder...like every few days, he wouldn't come back to the apartment.  I asked but he never gave a straight answer.  Geez, we weren't out here more than a month and he disappeared the whole week of Thanksgiving."

I said, "That's funny, a real knockout at work who has the hots for Nick, is throwing a Thanksgiving party and he told her, he wasn't coming."

John said, "See.  I told you.  I thought I knew him..."  He sighed, " But once we left Jersey, he became a stranger..  One hell of a nice guy but a lost soul...if you know what I mean."

A week later, in the days after Nick's vacation, John's description of the lost soul came true.  Nick was a "no-call, no-show," at work and was fired for job abandonment.


I ran into John Crotty in December 1983, at the Meadows Mall.  He filled me in on details that he hadn't felt right about sharing the first time.  Primarily, after not seeing each other for months, he spotted Nick driving up Ogden Street.  Under the pretense of being owed a small amount of money and an explanation about Nick's peccadilloes, John followed him.  At a crumby apartment in North Las Vegas, Crotty knocked on the door.  Nick opened it a crack and John forced his way into the tiny efficiency.

Crotty said, "It was so messed-up, every inch of the walls, cabinets and refrigerator were filled with bent-up, yellowed, faded, candid pictures of his ex-wife."

I said, "Nick was married?"

He said, "Hey, I didn't know either.  And a lot of those photos included guys...new boyfriends I guess...but they were cut out of the shot or had their faces blacked out by magic marker."  John said, "Nick gave me the bum's rush.  Out in the street he said, 'I gotta be somewhere.'"  In a serious tone he added, "I never saw him again.  Then a couple of months ago, I got a disturbing letter from him."

"Disturbing?"  I said.  Then I perked up, "What happened?  Where is he?"

"Hell if I know," John said.

"What did he say?"

John Crotty said, "Nick claimed his real name is Lonny Orlando and that he had been a typing teacher at a vocational school in Newark.  Soon after both his elderly parents suddenly died in 1977, his wife shocked him by demanding a divorce, during Thanksgiving dessert.  A few months after the separation, he quit his job.

I said, "Wow."

His voiced tailed off, "It gets worse.  Before starting dealer school, Nick said he already was planning how to 'harm' his ex."

I gulped, What?"

Crotty said, "The wacko didn't explain.  But he did say, he went to dealer school under a false name and moved to Vegas under that new identity, to help get off the grid..."

I said, "What's off the grid?"

"Hey, I thought it was screwy too.  But our golden boy wanted to go 'underground' so his demented shit could get set in motion without looking over his shoulder."

TODAY, JOHN'S DESCRIPTION REMINDS ME OF TED "THE UNABOMBER" KACZYNSKI, (1942-PRESENT) WHO WAS A MATHEMATICIAN TURNED SERIAL KILLER.  AFTER HE PSYCHOLOGICALLY SNAPPED, HE WENT OFF THE GRID.  THEN FROM A REMOTE CABIN NEAR LINCOLN MONTANA, KACZYNSKI MAILED SIXTEEN LETTER BOMBS BETWEEN 1978-1995, KILLING THREE AND INJURING TWENTY-THREE.

John continued, "Nick claimed when every November rolled around, he couldn't get his ex out of his mind.  He went back to New Jersey under a different alias, Terry Something-or-other, to just 'harass' her.  But last year, the house he grew up in was bulldozed and far worse: his ex-wife was remarried.

I said, "Jeez."

He continued, " So this last time, Nick stalked her the whole day before Thanksgiving and followed her back to her new house.  Like a stake-out, he watched the place for hours until a Mercedes with "IDOC2" vanity plates drove up. The driver honked and she came out.  They were doing some heavy-duty necking before driving off.  Nick followed them to Pathmark.  While they were shopping, he punctured their tire with his switchblade.  Then drove back to the house and broke in.  Nick had walked through mud and dragged footprints all over before smashing fancy framed photos from their wedding and peed on them." 

I said, "No way!"

"The next morning, Nick hid in the woods outside his ex in-laws.  When they went to church, he broke in. Nick bragged about crapping on the kitchen floor and vandalizing their place. But this time, the cops were hiding in the basement, attic and closets."

I said, "That's crazy."

John said, "Hell yeah it sounded crazy  But even though I have no idea where this letter came from, I'm guessing, it was from a loony bin."  My mouth was gaping as Crotty finished, "Nick closed by saying, remember when you told me, 'never shit where you eat,' well get this, that's what the cop said when he cuffed me."

Thirty-five years later, whether John Crotty was right about Nick being institutionalized or not, we'll never never know.  But that possibility does add another variable to the incredible puzzle now known as, Nick Tucker.