SURROUNDED BY RETREADS AND SHARPIES

The downtown, Holiday International, (late-May-early September 1979), was a giant step forward in the early development of my casino career.

The Holiday also represented my first exposure to retreads and sharpies.  Those are Las Vegas terms for dealers or supervisors who lost good casino jobs (probably on the strip) and failed to get hired at a decent house, only to wind-up, at a bottom of the barrel dump downtown.  Both types are jaded and feel undignified having less status with a significant drop in earnings. But sharpies are more apt to be openly belligerent and try to take advantage of the naive. 

Today's melodrama stars sharpie Dale Marson, a fellow dealer.  I soon learn that he takes his frustrating life out on anyone who gets in his way.  Enter our pit boss, (a retread ), Paul "Shag" Darrow who before befriending me, put me in the cross hairs of  Marson's ire.  

The other cast of characters include sharpies: dealers Carlos and Lloyd, retread Dick Paynlewski, (my favorite boxman), the shift boss Del Harding and in a cameo role, a regular guy, my friend/roommate JLUPY.



                                                                       *




On the carpool's second day, the same stench of stale urine overwhelmed me as I settled into Dale Marson’s, dented, two-door, four-speed Scirrocco. 

     I said, “Hi. Thanks again for picking me up.” 

     The thirty year-old grunted, “Yeah right.  Hi.”

     I'm guessing, but it seemed as though our pit boss Paul "Shag" Darrow wanted to spite Dale by suggesting (demanding) that he be neighborly and drive me into work three times a week. 

Dale was an eight-year craps dealing veteran. I had five months experience so he considered me the stuff you scrape off the bottom of your shoe.  He didn’t like break-ins...and he especially hated chauffeuring them to work. The hatred took the form of the silent treatment and it began as soon as he pulled away from the curb.

     If I was a real man, I would’ve suggested a pine-scented air-freshener to mask the nauseating odor. But I decided to avoid sparking his testiness. Instead, I focused on not breathing for the next fifteen minutes.  When that plan failed in minute one, I wondered; Dale had no dog and his stepson was nearly five.

Marson’s crabbiness originated from working at the Holiday.  Retreads and sharpies recognized that it was a pretty bad job, even by downtown standards.

Still, the shiny year-old casino was the major leagues to me.  For Dale, who had been a four-year craps dealer on the “strip” making big money at the Tropicana, being there was sheer agony.

Dale tried to find a better job.  Unfortunately, weeks being stuck there turned into months. He was financially crushed by our twenty-three dollar/day tip average, tortured by its lack of prestige and bored by the meager and repetitious action.

We turned north onto Paradise Road and Dale over-accelerated.  He seemed undisturbed by the noxious pee fumes as he tried to scare me by speeding.  Dale wove through traffic and picked up the pace as he approached a double-parked jeep.  The idiotic driver waited until the last second until opening his door.  Dale slammed on his brakes.  The harsh metal on metal grinding of worn-out brake shoes muffled Dale’s blaring horn honk and obscenity filled rant. 

I couldn’t relax.  Seconds after the near mishap, an abrasive scraping sound rattled his Volkswagen as Dale shifted gears to speed-up.  
He startled me by jolting the steering wheel with his palm and screaming, “Hear that, you wouldn’t believe how much those bloodsucking bastards want for a rebuilt tranny.” 

Dale turned his attention off the road, glared at me and waited for a response.  I nodded as a woman jaywalked up ahead. Rather than use the time he had to adjust, this lunatic sped-up, honked his horn and gave her the finger as we unnecessarily and dramatically swerved around her.

Dale laughed, “Did you see the look on her face?”

“Are you nuts?”

He growled, “Look you piece of shit.  My tires are all retreads, my transmission is a mess and my brakes...”  I tried to stammer out an apology but he cut me off, “This heap could crash and burn at any time.  Of course, if you’d rather take the bus...” 

I was too stunned to speak as he muttered about hating complainers.

A few blocks later, to lighten the mood, I asked about his stepson, “How’s Jarret?” 

Marson didn’t respond.

Several minutes went by until I tried again, “How’s the job hunt going?”  

He again ignored me and pulled into a Union-76 station.  Dale slammed his door and pumped five dollars.  When he got back in, I tried to hand him a five. 

“Don't be a dick. I’m not that hard-up!”

Marson put the car in gear. It refused to move as the under-carriage whined, clunked and shook before surging forward.  He mumbled profanity while intertwining words like clutch, linkage and break-ins as we crossed the strip, onto Main Street. 

Suddenly Dale barked, “When did you say you were getting a car?” 

In my mind I was screaming “ASSHOLE!” as I softly said, “Soon.”

“How soon?”

I wanted to smack “Mr. Arrogant” as I said, “Very soon.  I’m already looking.” 

Nothing more was said.  

In the employee lot, Dale screeched to a stop and left his car parked at an awkward angle. He strode off ahead of me and pushed hard through the casino’s revolving door.

I was glad to be away from Dale because the Holiday was exciting to me.  But many of the other dealers shared Dale Marson’s negativity.

Despite its newness, the casino was a low-limit joint.  Management would have been better served with a less experienced, more enthusiastic staff. Instead, they hired mostly “retreads and sharpies.”   These embittered dealers only worked in such “toilets” until something better came along.

Dale attached himself to other discontents.  He liked to drone on that he was killing himself to get out.  Yet with all the influence he claimed to have in high places, he still slipped through the cracks.  Despite his anxiety about debt and a less dazzling lifestyle, Dale and his ilk complained and went about their work indifferently while drinking or getting high on duty.

                                                     *



What I liked best about the Holiday was my immediate supervisors likeboxmen Dick Paynlewski. They were all positive influences and each helped sharpen my skills in different ways.  The next level of supervisors; the floormen, were great too but the pit boss, Paul Darrow, (34), was the best of all.  Our big boss was shift manager Del Harding (50) who rarely came into the craps pit.

Paul “Shag” Darrow's looks and maverick demeanor, resembled a young James Cagney.  Despite being a retread himself, his friendly, articulate personality matched with a mischievous smile, deep, probing green eyes and wild curly red hair (like a shag rug), made him a joy to be around.  The staff confided in him because he was both a good talker and a good listener who rewarded his people with spontaneous and entertaining solutions to their problems.   

GETTING "SHAGGED" IS BRITISH SLANG FOR HAVING SEX.  IT IS AN APPROPRIATE COINCIDENCE THAT LADY KILLER, PAUL "SHAG" DARROW'S NICKNAME PRECEDED THE MIKE MYERS' AUSTIN POWERS SERIES, BY OVER TWENTY YEARS. 

Shag has a minor role in this play but he will soon be featured in his own story.

                                                          *

I wasn’t living a lavish Las Vegas lifestyle when I worked at the Holiday. But I was determined to speed-up my emancipation from “pissy” Dale. So my roommate JLUPY and I scoured the newspapers looking for used cars.  We soon discovered Superior Motors on Bonanza Road was advertising eight cars under $375.00. 

     I gravitated to a white, 1971 Pontiac Le Mans for $339.00.  I read the ad aloud, “Looks sharp, runs great.” 

Forty minutes later, JLUPY drove us onto the tiny, unpaved used car lot. A salesman in a broad, checkered sports jacket, a cowboy hat and a wooden matchstick dangling from his lower lip came out of a dilapidated trailer that served as the office.

He shielded his eyes from a dusty gust, mopped his brow with a red bandanna and said, “I'm Earl.  Hi y’all doin’?”

“I called you about the Le Mans, I don’t see it.”

He carefully re-set his sweat-stained Stetson on his head and said, “I just sold that ol’ Pontiac. But looky here.” 

He pointed to an ugly bile-colored Corvette with $1,999.99 grease-painted on the windshield.

To mask my color blindness I asked, “What is that orange or gold?”

He spit tobacco juice on the ground and then used his sleeve to rub a smudge off the roof and boasted, “Thisy here, is what they call champagne.  Wanna take it for a test drive?”

I recognized the old “bait and switch” routine and said, “I saw a bunch of other cars in the paper...” 

He cut me off, “With our low-low prices, nuthin’ stays on this lot long.” 

“I don't want a Vette, I’m looking for something less pricey.”

The salesman led me to a faded, yellowish Ford station wagon, (the only car under $500.00).

I HAVE NO PHOTOS OF THAT CAR. SO TRY TO PICTURE THIS 1971 FORD GALAXIE IN WORSE CONDITION WITH FADED YELLOW PAINT.

I took the heap for a spin. After chiseling Earl down, I still had to borrow a twenty from JLUPY, to scrape up $390.00.  It was a hunk of junk but I was gratified to be driving off the “Inferior” Motors lot with the first car I ever bought.

                                                                       *

I’m not certain what gave me greater pleasure, my new freedom or calling Dale to tell him that his services were no longer needed. 

When that night’s shift began, we were standing dead.  Dale was on break and the other two dealers, Lloyd and Carlos were discussing how they handle the boredom. 

Lloyd said, “Hey kid (me), ya know the motto of the Peace Corps...‘it’s the hardest job you’ll ever love.’”

I said, “Yeah.”

“Well, working here is; the easiest job you’ll ever hate.” 

Carlos said in a heavy Spanish accent, “Smoking weed or having a couple of shots across the street on your breaks...”

Lloyd, who looked just as stoned as Carlos, interrupted and hypocritically countered, “You should treat your body as if it were a temple. Only through positive karma and meditation, can one put themself on the road to a higher enlightenment and learn to value the being, more than the presence.”

I said, “Heh?”

“What I mean is; you dissociate from here to feel the tranquility of a secluded Hawaiian beach.” 

Carlos, the ultimate sharpie had already been fired from six downtown casinos snapped, “It’s a bunch of hoo-doo.” 

Lloyd ignored him and said, “First, close your eyes. Now, concentrate on breathing through your nose.” He demonstrated. “Now, focus your cosmic energy on the little hairs in your nose.  When you can feel them move...hum your mantra.” 

Carlos struck up a conversation with the boxman, Dick Paynlewski as I shrugged, “Mantra?” 

“Yes.” Lloyd’s spacey eyes flared open as he said in a soothing voice, “A mantra is an individualized sound that will deliver you to your ultimate transcendental state.” 

“Great Lloyd. What's your mantra?” 

“Kid, I can not reveal that, nor should you when you get yours.” 

Paynlewski laughed as Carlos butted in, “Amigo, ask how much his meirda is going to cost.” 

I never considered myself a customer and frowned at my would-be spiritual adviser. 

Lloyd focused on my name tag and smiled, “Steve.  You look dark and unhappy...we’ll need to meet for an hour, four times.”  

“How much?” 

“You don’t have to pay all at once,” Lloyd assured me.

Carlos egged him on, “Go ahead Gringo, tell him about the installment plan and your revolving charge card.”

“Shut up,” Lloyd barked.  He then told me, “One hundred and ten dollars.” 

I was disinterested but inadvertently uttered, “Wow.”

“Of course you realize,” Lloyd added, “there are some other...nominal fees...for books and study aids.” 

I said, “No thanks.” 

Carlos jumped in, “You did the right thing. He’s a bandito.”  
                                                                                                                                                              The next day after work, an anesthetized Carlos volunteered to pick up my tokes.  I couldn’t help noticing the envelope’s seal had been tampered with.  Anxiously, I opened it in front of him.  I was expecting to see thirty-one dollars (my all time tip high) but there were only eleven. 

     I said, “Hey...”

     Before I could finish, Carlos denied any wrongdoing and said, “You better check with the cage.”

     Dick Paynlewski and Dale were walking by so I asked them, “What should I do?  Carlos got my tokes, the envelope looked like it was messed with and it's short twenty bucks.”    

     Dick said, “Carlos is always broke.  Let’s see how much money he’s got."

     Carlos stepped back and chirped, “Fat chance.”

     Dale snarled at me, “Fuckin’ break-ins.”  Then he sighed, “Never let this Mexican piece of shit touch your money.”  

     “Fuck you!  I’m from Compton, Compton California.”       

     Dale exploded, “Fuck me? Fuck you!  Turn out your pockets!”

     Carlos smiled unevenly and caved-in.  Other than some personal items, he had exactly thirty-one dollars. 

     I was about to apologize when Dale fumed, “Back pockets too.”

     “Damn Dale, you’re worse than fuckin' Metro.”  

     When he hesitated, Dick said, “C’mon quit stallin’.”

     He showed that his back pockets were also empty and spat, “I can’t believe you assholes believed this prick over...”

      Dale cut Carlos off, grabbed him by the throat, slammed him down and barked, “If I find a twenty in your sock...”

     Dick said, “Yeah, he pulled that shit a couple a months ago.” 

     Dale was ready to kick him in the face when he sneered, “Give it up or I’ll fuck you up.”

     “Wait!” Carlos took my twenty from his sock and moaned, “I swear, it must have been an accident Bro’.  I took a ‘lude.’  I guess I forgot...”

     I thanked my rescuers and said, “Thanks for sticking up for me.  C’mon across the street, drinks are on me.”

The three of us took turns going through the revolving door as I thought how scary Dale’s temper was. Outside, a man wearing a navy nylon windbreaker approached us.                                           I noticed the white stenciled lettering on his back that read: “SHERIFF’S DEPT,” as he announced, “Dale John Marson, I have a restraining order filed by Arlene Rose Marson.”  Dale was handed some papers as the man continued, “This order enjoins you from returning or re-entering the premises at...”                                                                                                                                                 Dale scanned the documents and waved Dick and I off.  We were in the middle of Main Street as Dale screamed at the server.  The man ignored him, got in his car and drove away as Marson continued yelling profanities.  Dale was reading the material by the glow of the Holiday’s red neon sign as Dick and I entered California Club.
                                                                                                                                                              At the Redwood bar, we waited for Dale but he never came.                                                                    After Paynlewski chased two double scotches with a short beer I said, “You ever in Dale’s car?”          I was hoping to shed some light on the stinky car situation but he said, “No.”

Instead Dick detailed examples of Dale’s hostile past. 

He finished by saying, “Dale’s not a happy drunk and he's already wasted now. If Carlos would have said one more word, he would have put that peasant in the hospital.  And it’s a good thing that guy outside drove off because when Dale gets into one of his moods...and he’s definitely in one now...he wouldn't have thrown a punch and wound up in jail.”

I was nodding as Dick abruptly got up, staggered to a blackjack table and bought in. 

The cards were being dealt as he said to me, “Just before you got hired, our little Daley-Poo threatened to beat the shit out of a stiff.” 

Dick lost his five dollar bet and continued, “If Shag didn’t cool that flea down with a free buffet...Dale would have lost his job.”

I used my thumb to point across the street and asked, “You think Dale beats his wife?” 

Dick shrugged as he progressed his bets.  He lost $75.00, over a day’s pay, in four hands.

He was sucking the ice from his third scotch as he stood, smiled sadly and slurred, “Geez, the booze is expensive here.” 

At the bar, he ordered another double and a draught. 

“Steve,” he whined, “I’m sick of all the damn Pollack jokes.  What do you think of this idea?”  I gaped at him with my eyebrows straining upward as he continued, “I’m thinking of legally changing my name to Payne, Richard Thomas Payne.  You gotta admit; it has an elegant ring to it.” 

“If it bothers you that much, I think Richard Thomas Payne is a great name, a strong name.” 

He called out for the female bartender, “Where’s the drink stewardess?” as I thought of the historical significance of Thomas Payne, the author of the Revolutionary War pamphlet “Common Sense.”

Later, while driving home on I-15, I realized he’d be changing his name to Dick Payne.

                                                                                *

Dale was displaced.  He was looking for a place to stay and didn’t show up for work the next night.  I was wrestling with my busy craps game as Shag spoke with the future Dick Payne.  I was eavesdropping on their conversation and heard that Dale indeed had a history of domestic violence, dating back to his first wife.

Their chat ended when the shift boss Del Harding came into the pit. 

Del complimented Shag’s new slate suit, solid royal blue tie and matching puffy handkerchief coming out of his breast pocket, (the tie and handkerchief looked lavender to me). 

Shag graciously said, “Thanks,” looked at the manicured fingernails on his left hand and pouted, “Katie wasn’t in today, look at this butcher job.” 

Harding looked at Shag’s buffed nails and empathized, “Yeah I know...” 

Neither man was gay but their conversation was nauseatingly effeminate to me.  I glanced over my shoulder and the unshaven Harding sneered at me.  It was so out of character, I had never seen a single hair on his head out of place and there he was with a grubby, five-o’clock shadow. 

Stupidly I remarked, “Hey Del, it looks like you hit the skids.” 

His dirty look was so harsh that I always avoided him after that.

Harding turned away and bragged, “My bags are packed. I’m flying to Kodiak Island, Alaska after work.” 

Shag asked, “What’s up there?” 

“I’m hunting grizzlies me boy. The permits alone cost a fortune.” 

Shag feigned being impressed, “That’s so cool.” 

Before being called away Harding pantomimed holding a rifle and smiled, “Yeah, I bought a new Weatherby .300 Mag, can’t wait.” 

As soon as he was out of earshot Shag scoffed, “I’m a lover not a fighter.  Hunting is bullshit...” He paused to double-check that Del wasn’t around and winked at me.  He extended his pinkie to indicate something small and beamed, “.300 Mag? You know Elmer Fudd's compensating for something else.”

A CREATION OF WARNER BROTHERS AND THEIR LOONEY TUNES SERIES, ELMER J. FUDD (1940-2003) WAS ORIGINALLY NAMED EGGHEAD (1937). HE WAS BUGS BUNNY'S NEMESIS AND FAMOUS FOR CALLING HIS ENEMY, A "SCWEWY WABBIT" AND HIS CATCHPHRASE, "SHHH, BE VEWY QUIET, I'M HUNTIN' WABBITS."

I didn't why Shag connected Del hunting bears with Elmer Fudd but I smiled as though I did.

                                                                        *

My new car was a godsend.  It catered to my independent nature and allowed me to dissociate myself from sour Dale, thieving Carlos and conning Lloyd.  At the same time, a friendship with Dick Paynlewski developed.

One night Dick broke his nose at work, (that incident will be detailed in Shag's story).  Everyone laughed, (even Dick) but not Dale. His indifference further cemented how psychologically damaged he was.

The next night, Dick and I left work together and headed for Binion's Horseshoe Casino for drinks. I made him promise not to gamble. It was hard to look at his bandaged face and gauze-filled nose without laughing.
He handed-off his billfold to me as a sign of good faith, "Now I can swear I won't touch a cent from my wallet."

To honor his commitment, I looked into his bloodshot, puppy dog eyes and said, “Tonight your money is no good.”  I patted his wallet, buttoned my pants pocket and said, “I’ll get the drinks.”

We were talking about work as Dick stood and nasally said, “Most nights, Shag’s ‘wasted’ on coke...”  He then interrupted himself, “I gotta hit the head.”

Twenty minutes later he returned and groaned, “Three stiffs in a row.  That bitch dealt me a twelve and fifteen twice.” 

Dick had tricked me. I opened his wallet and felt like an idiot, it was empty. 

He continued, “Now I’m shootin’ forty see.  She has an ace up and I hit to a six card twenty.  Then, that cold hearted piece of shit turned over another ace and BAM! She pulls a fuckin’ nine.” 

Dick automatically nodded as I laid out my evils of gambling lecture.  I cut it short when I realized that he'd keep bobbing his head until I stopped talking. 

The second I did, Dick stuck out his hand, “Lend me thirty ‘til payday.” 

I couldn’t believe his audacity and said, “No.”

The reddened whites of his blackened eyes earnestly said, “Alls I need to do is win twice and...” 

“Dick, yesterday we had a nineteen dollar toke day.”  Thinking he would take the hint I said, “All I have right now is twenty-four...”

Dick chirped, “That’s okay Buddy.  Twenty’s good?” 

“No!”

“Lookit, with twenty all I’ll need to do is...” 

I cut him off and bellowed, “No.” 

He tugged on my shirt and childishly grumbled, “You know I’m good for it.” 

“Look,” I said as I checked the time, “I can’t help you.  It’s getting late, I gotta go.” 

I turned to leave and Dick said, “I’d do the same for you.” 

I didn’t answer and headed home.  That was the last time I went out with Dick after work. 

                                                                *

On the short drive home, I had Interstate-15 all to myself.  I was cruising in the right lane as I weighed Dick Paynlewski 's goofiness with Dale Marson's psychosis. My mind relaxed  asLynyrd Skynyrd’s “Free Bird” came on the radio.  My head swayed to the music as the instrumental opening developed.  Near the Sahara Avenue exit, I sensed another car behind me.  In my peripheral vision as I turned my head, I noticed a speeding car in the left lane.  Rather than pass me, it veered into the center lane, towards me.  I cut the steering wheel hard, but I was still sideswiped.  I lost control and in a flash, I hit a light post at the top of the exit ramp.  The impact knocked the down the streetlight and caused me to careen back onto the highway.  My "180" left my totaled, nineteen day-old car at rest, in the center lane, facing oncoming traffic.

I passed a sobriety test but it took two hours to convince the cops that it was a hit and run.  It was nearly 8:00AM when I got home.  I woke up from a short sleep in tremendous pain.  I went for X-rays and it was determined that I had broken my hand from its impact against the windshield.

I was off that night and JLUPY drove me downtown to the Holiday. 

I told Shag, “I’ll be in a cast for about six weeks.  I’ll go to the supermarket or somewhere and try to get a job. Will you guys re-hire me, when I’m okay?” 

The phone rang. Shag cupped his hand over the mouthpiece and signaled me closer. 

“Don’t leave, stick around,” he whispered. “There’s goin’ to be some fireworks here and then we can talk.” 

I was telling Dick my story as Del Harding and a blackjack dealer, plus two security guards and two plain-clothes security supervisors came into the pit.

In a well-choreographed manner, the dealer tapped-out Carlos and the guards positioned themselves at opposite ends of his table.  When Carlos turned off the game, the two supervisors detained him.  Del ordered him to empty his pockets...Carlos mildly protested before complying.  In addition to an empty wallet, some rolling papers, a lighter, a pack of Newports with two and a half cigarettes and a roach inside, they found sixty-five dollars, in stolen Holiday chips.

Carlos' hands were cuffed behind his back and the whole entourage including Shag paraded him twice, through every corner of the casino.

Shag returned thirty minutes later and I asked, “Was that ‘victory lap’ necessary?”

“Yeah.  That’s what security calls the ‘walk of shame.'  It's an embarrassing deterrent for other would-be thieves.”

“Oh.” 

Shag added, “That petty cockroach will never ‘swing’ with checks ever again.  Now, forget about Carlos, let’s talk about you.” 

“W-well,” I held up my cast and stammered. “W-will you hold my job until I can deal?” 

“Why can’t you work here?” 

Glumly, I said, “Work here?” 

Shag glowed, “Sure.” 

I was shocked and gushed, “I’ll do anything.  Big-six dealer...?” 

Shag bobbed his head, “Aren’t you a craps dealer?” 

I sensed that he was leading me and speculated, “Permanent stickman?” 

“Try again.”

“Boxman?” 

Shag smacked my back and said, “Craps dealers, deal.  I have complete faith that you can deal one-handed.  If there’s a problem, I’ll switch you somewhere else.”

                                                           *

I was fortunate, Shag hooked me up.  Because I’d never seen or heard of any other dealer, (any game) working in a cast.

THE ONLY PHOTO OF ME IN THE CAST, (JULY 3rd TILL SEPTEMBER 1st 1979).

However, without a car, my “luck” forced me back onto public transportation.  I had gotten spoiled so the long walk to the bus in over 100-degree temperatures was so dreadful that against my better judgment, I asked Dale to pick me up.  He couldn’t because he was now "temporarily" estranged from his wife and was renting an efficiency on nearby Gases Avenue.

                                                            *

A month later, I was not only comfortable dealing one handed but I had become over-confident.  I vowed to start taking auditions for a better job as soon as I healed.

Towards the end of another grueling shift, I was dealing to four older Caucasian men playing the pass line with some scattered place bets.  The monotony of their small bets typified what was so boring about the Holiday. 

On the other side of the table, Dale was dealing to a lone black man with a dollar on the don’t pass line.  He had a thin oval of long hair that lined his otherwise baldhead. Spiked upward like Don King’s, this hair formation resembled an atoll.

AN ATOLL IS GEOLOGIC TERM FOR A THIN RING OF LAND IN THE OCEAN.

Dale was going on break.  On his way out of the pit, he whispered to Shag.  Shag was always starved for entertainment and had a fetish for petulance.  He took Dale's information and stared at the unique hairdo until he confirmed that a cricket was hiding in this fellow’s tresses.

When it was the man's turn to roll the dice, Shag joked to the other players, “Look he’s shootin’ from the ‘don’t’ and he has a cricket on his head.  That’s bad luck!” 

I’m positive that Shag was NOT trying to incite a race riot.  Nonetheless, with malice in their hearts, the white men yelled racial epithets and spontaneously advanced like a lynch mob towards the unsuspecting soul.  He felt so threatened that he left eight dollars in the rail and fled. 

That man was a guest of the hotel. The next morning, he submitted an angry, formal, written complaint. Shag had already been orally reprimanded due to his cocaine habit but this time Del Harding had no choice but to suspend him for three days.  Also, it was documented into his work history that one more act, detrimental to the company, would cost him his job. 

Shag returned to work a “mere shadow” of his former blithe self.  A broken man without any prospects for upward mobility, he handled his responsibilities during the next few weeks in a sterile and methodical way. 

                                                                  *

My cast was removed on September first. Two days later, before my shift at the Holiday, I marched up to the craps pit at the Union Plaza ready to take a professional, quantum leap forward.  My plan was dashed when I discovered that I couldn’t differentiate the red chips from the green.  I was disgusted that my color blindness had finally caught up with me.  Outside, I looked down Fremont Street and decided to try at least one more audition before going to work..

     Kismet led me to Hotel Fremont. In the right place at the right time, I was granted an audition and passed.  They offered the job to me with the stipulation that I had to be ready for work in thirty minutes. 

     The entire fate of my career, (and life) changed when I accepted the job.  In the short term, my tip income was greatly boosted.  In the long term, the Fremont was the sister property of the Stardust...and the Stardust got all its new dealers exclusively from the Fremont. Six months later, I would stand at the pinnacle of success, I was a Las Vegas strip craps dealer.

The Holiday had been good to me.  I felt that I owed them some loyalty and found it hard to rationalize quitting without notice. 

I drifted over to the Holiday and waited outside in the parking lot.  I saw Dale.  He’d been killing himself for a year to get out of there.  I told him my situation.  Instead of guidance, he verbally assaulted me.  He got so angry; I thought he was going to hit me, so I walked off. 

From the distance he bellowed, “Goddamned break-in, you can’t even fucking deal and the Fremont hired YOU?” 

A stranger witnessed this exchange and held one of the standard doors into the casino for me.

Racked by guilt, I went in to face the consequences.  At the blackjack pit, I crossed paths with Del Harding.  As usual, we avoided looking at each other. 

I told Shag my predicament.  He was great.  He filled me with compliments and reviewed the procedures regarding resignation. 

He told me how to get my last check and concluded on a personal note, “If you’re ever stuck, find me.  I’ll do whatever I can for you.”  He then asked; “Did you tell Del?” 

“No.  He hates me since I made fun of his stubble.” 

“Hate YOU?  No way! I didn’t let you deal in the cast, he insisted.” 

“I thought you did it because Carlos got fired...” 

“Look its ten to eight. You better get over there.  Just find Del and thank him.” 

I didn’t seek out Del and hurried to the Fremont.

                                                     *

In March 1980, the Fremont transferred me to the Stardust.  I considered my limited experience and lack of “juice” and basked in the glory of being (24) and a Las Vegas strip craps dealer, (of course there was no way of knowing that in less than two years, I too would be a retread working back downtown).

A couple of months after I started at the Stardust, they required all dealers to have their names embroidered into our uniform shirts.

IF YOU STRAIN YOUR EYES, MY NAME IS STITCHED ABOVE THE POCKET.  P.S. LAS VEGAS HAS GROWN IN THE LAST 39 YEARS.  ALL THAT EMPTY DESERT LAND GOING TO THE MOUNTAIN, IS NOW FILLED IN WITH HOMES, BUSINESSES ETC.

                                                                                                                                                             While waiting for the tailor to do my shirts, I browsed through a sporting goods store.                           A bald man holding a shot-gun turned from the counter and said, “Hey, Steve how you doing?"    The voice was familiar but I couldn’t place the face.                                                                                     “I’m sorry I just got hired.  It’s hard to remember everyone."                                                                     “No, no.  It’s me Del Harding, from the Holiday.”  He scratched his head and continued, “I guess you never saw me without my ‘piece’ on."                                                                                                     “Wow.  Hi.  I’m at the Stardust now.”                                                                                                        He said, “Hey that’s great.  How's your hand?”                                                                                        I said, "My hand is fine," as the salesperson offered him another gun.                                                   Right after saying our good-byes, I regretted not asking him to say hi to Shag.                                                                                                                                                                                                    On my way home, I laughed because I never understood why Shag referred to him as Elmer Fudd but now it made sense.                                                                                       
                                                                                                                                                        I pulled into the Union-76 station on Paradise Road as I reminisced about the Holiday. While gassing up, I pondered how the shades of red and green at the Union Plaza led me to the Fremont and ultimately to the good life the Stardust.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        I was about to drive off when I heard the unmistakable thumping of a flat tire.  Behind me, a beat-up Scirrocco limped to a stop. Dale Marson, in a Holiday dealer shirt got out.  He was examining his shredded rear, driver side tire, as he started an obscenity laced tirade.                                                                                                                                                                                                                    In my rear-view mirror, I saw a woman get out from the passenger side.  She came to Dale's side.  Immediately, a violent argument started.  Then BOOM!  The weasel sucker punched her face and then in the side of her head.  She fell to a knee and stumbled around to the other side as their screaming continued.                                                                                                                                       She pushed back the seat and cried, “C’mon Jarret hurry.”                                                                  They were both in tears as they scampered towards me.  I saw her bloodied eye as she twisted her wedding band off.                                                                                                                                           The woman stopped to throw the ring at Dale’s car and screamed, “It’s over you crazy bastard, I’m getting a divorce.”                                                                                                                                            Jarret kept running until he was in front of my car.  He began gasping for breath.  The boy focused on me as his asthmatic fit intensified. Suddenly his expression of helplessness faded into a look of absolute humiliation. When employees from the filling station came to intervene, I noticed that an expanding dark circle was dampening the crotch of Jarret's shorts.



                                                              *



Casinos don't have an exclusive on oddballs and melodramatic work environments.  However, in the case of smaller casinos, you are stuck, (surrounded), in close quarters, for long periods of time.  Luckily for me, as green as I might have been, I didn't get swallowed up by their negativity.  Instead, I found small strains of entertainment from these knuckleheads.

WHERE'S MIKE MAMOUKIAN?

Thou shalt not steal.  We all know the Ten Commandments but what Mike Mamoukian took, made him hero to those who knew the truth...and a target to his victim(s). 

In a knee-jerk reaction, cloaked in darkness, Mike together with his ill-gotten gains, drove aimlessly through the wee hours of the morning. Until he decided to head west.  To his favorite vacation destination...Las Vegas.  Mike pictured himself as a craps dealer.  There, he expected to bleed in with the locals and live a normal life.

Unfortunately, even years before the Internet or the GPS, Mike wasn't smart enough to know that vengeful criminals where willing to pay any price to their people, even private detectives,  to recover their property and make an example of the perpetrator.



                                                            *



In May 1979, my friend Ciro the Hero, (thirty years before he became Ciro the Zero), got hired at the "Holiday," (Holiday International Casino).  To celebrate his emancipation from Slots-A-Fun and stepping over the poverty line, he suggested the bowling alley bar, at the Showboat Casino.

The hotbed of horny redneck chicks Ciro expected, didn't materialize.  On our way out, we bumped into two craps dealers from his new job.

Bobby and Mike were on a double-date so I didn't want to intrude but they were so welcoming that we hung out as they bowled. I gravitated to Bobby and his fiance.  They were both my age (23) and earthy.

Mike was friendly too but dull.  He was eight years older than me and seemed fifty.  Plus, he wasn't too bright and his wife Maria was weird.  She didn't bowl and remained disinterested while staring off into space.

Bobby was saying he was from the tiny town of Brocton New York when Mike proved his dopiness by interrupting, "I was a bouncer at a topless joint in Niagara."

Ciro said, "Looking after strung-out whores.  That's gotta be a great job!"

Mike's face went limp, "I don't want to talk about it."

When Mike turned away, I saw a big Buffalo Bills tattoo through the dense black hair of his forearm. He went to comfort Maria when I noticed a thick five o'clock shadow couldn't camouflage his heavily scarred face.

Mike was also clumsy with the bowling ball because he didn't put his fingers in the ball.  That's when I noticed his mangled hands and was reminded of NFL Hall-of-Famer Chuck Bednarik...whose fingers had been twisted and broken as a result of dirty tactics during his career, (1949-1962).

HARD-HITTING CHUCK "CEMENT CHARLIE" BEDNARIK, (1925-2015) WAS THE LAST NFLer TO PLAY FULL-TIME  DEFENSE (LINEBACKER) AND OFFENSE (CENTER).  A MEMBER OF THE PHILADELPHIA EAGLES WORLD CHAMPION TEAM IN 1960, HE IS BEST REMEMBERED FOR HIS CLEAN HIT THAT KNOCKED FRANK GIFFORD OUT OF FOOTBALL FOR A YEAR AND A HALF AND SHORTENED HIS CAREER.

Ciro privately found out from Bobby that Mike's fractured, fingers, knuckles and hands were grim reminders of how mobsters use hammers to rectify transgressions.

Bobby then mentioned to Ciro, "Mike got so deep in gambling debts that he didn't owe those bloodsuckers...they owned him!"

He also told us that Mike's gorgeous but silent wife Maria was an illegal refugee from Estonia.  This blond bombshell (19) spoke little English , (I never heard her voice).  Maria didn't bowl or socialize.  Instead she clung to Mike every chance she got. When left alone, she balled-up into a fetal position.  It was obvious that something wasn't right.  Even on our way out, she didn't acknowledge us.  When I got a better look at her, I saw her deadened eyes and figured she was sick.

                                                                     *



Two weeks later, Ciro called to tell me how his new job was going.  I asked about Bobby and Mike.

Ciro said, "Bobby is cool but get this, they made Mooks a pit boss and sent him to grave."

"I said, "Mooks?"

He said, "Oh yeah Mike's last name is Mamoukian, he's Armenian."

I said, "That explains the uni-brow...hey, wait a second, did you say pit boss?"



                                                                       *



The next day, I went to the Holiday, scheduled a craps audition and was hired on swing shift.

After getting processed, Bobby spent his break with me. I asked about Mooks.

He shook his head and said, "Mooks couldn't add two and two.  And his hands are so screwed up, he can barely hold the chips.  Even if he knows a payoff, he makes a messy adventure out of the simplest shit.  Now we know he's not a heavy thinker...but I guess the big shots see he's such a great guy with a warm heart.  So they told him that his future was in management.  To start, pit bosses get eighty a day."

I mused, "That's like a million a year."

"On Mike's third shift, some filthy, shivering, pregnant girl came in out of the rain wearing dealer black and whites.  She wanted a craps audition but they were only giving on day shift. Mike couldn't help her but she looked so hard-up in her dirty, wrinkled and torn clothes that he offered her coffee and a sandwich.  She wanted scotch.  He was called away.  A minute later, Mike looked up and she was gone.  Mike's a good guy.  I think if he had a chance, he would have tried to arrange something for her."

We were walking back to the craps pit when I asked, "What's the story with his wife?"

"You know the're not really married," Bobby said. 

I said, "No?"

He continued, "Mooks made it sound like he rescued Maria from the mob.  The wiseguys took money from her family in the old country, smuggled her into the states and got her hooked on heroine.  They made her into like a slave or something? And to survive, she danced nude, turned tricks and...whatever."

MIKE AND MARIA WEREN'T MARRIED.  HE THOUGHT THEY WOULD BE HARDER TO TRACK-DOWN THAT WAY...ESPECIALLY BECAUSE MARIA HAD NO IDENTIFICATION.  MORE IMPORTANTLY, MIKE WANTED A SYMBOL OF HIS DEDICATION TO HER, SO HE BOUGHT MATCHING WEDDING BANDS.  SHE WORE HERS BUT BECAUSE OF MIKE'S GNARLED FINGERS, HE KEPT HIS RING IN THE TOP DRAWER OF HIS NIGHTSTAND.

I said, "Geez."

"So Mooks, who's already their slave...he made it sound like they made him do nasty shit for them...has a soft spot for Maria.  One night he gets so fed up, it's like he kidnapped her.  So to free her and himself, they split in the middle of the night. He's convinced they want her back and him dead."  I couldn't believe my ears as Bobby continued, "Sometimes I think I'm a moron to be seen around him, in case whoever is after him has bad aim."

I murmured, "Wow."

"If that's all true, it won't be too hard to hunt him down...he tempts fate all the time...remember in the bowling alley how yelled out his was a bouncer from Niagara.  And that stupid Buffalo Bills tattoo on his forearm, is one hell of a distinguishing mark."

THE TATTOO WAS THE ORIGINAL BUFFALO BILLS "STANDING STILL" OR IN MIKE'S CASE, SITTING DUCK LOGO.  HE WAS ASKING FOR TROUBLE BECAUSE, HE MAY HAVE RIPPED OFF HIS BUFFALO BILLS BUMPER STICKER, IT WAS STILL HIS SAME CAR WITH NEW YORK LICENSE PLATES.

Bobby continued, "And I don't care how hot Las Vegas gets, to hide it, you'd think that idiot would at least wear long sleeve shirts."

I said, "Yeah."

"Give Mike a little credit, his phone number is unlisted.  Of course the dummy didn't change his name...or nickname...and we all know there aren't many Mamoukian's running around."

Bobby's craps game was standing dead so while he was on duty, he was able to whisper more info, "Maria never leaves the apartment without him.  She can't read English or understand the shit on TV.  Luckily Mooks found Jude."

"Jude?"

"Oh.  Jude, like St Jude, the Patron Saint of Hopeless Causes, is the disheveled, starving kitten he found at his apartment complex.  It was drinking Jacuzzi water so he brought it home for Maria to care for.  Together with the hairball, a radio and Mooks , she copes with pain and loneliness of going cold turkey.

"And Mike?"

"It gets worse.  A lot worse."

I said, "Heh?"

"This morning," Bobby whispered so low, I strained to hear, "the shit hit the fan."

"The mob caught up with him?"

"No.  But almost as bad.  Let me tell you what he just told me.  I'll start in the beginning.  Mooks took to being a big boss well.  He ate like a king, loved the respect and rock star status.  On graveyard, there's little activity except when his under bosses handed him papers to sign.  It seemed natural that during the wee hours that cleaning and maintenance was done.  He felt important authorizing the floor waxing unit to be on the casino floor, signing the exterminator invoice or a initialing a memo about new dealer aprons."

"By the third day, he was scribbling his name because he was bombarded with similar trivialities.  But Mooks wasn't sharp enough to realize that a fill of casino chips, to replenish a craps table's bank would arrive when he was doing other things.  On one occasion, Gary the floor supervisor (an under boss) said, 'I see you're busy,' as Mooks tried to decipher an intentionally obtuse memo about the overhead light bulbs.  Then Gary generously said, 'Just sign here and I'll put the money on the table for you.'"

Bobby continued, "Fills came each shift. This morning's came as he was signing his meal ticket, struggling to fill out the master attendance sheets and completing a D. A. N. (Disciplinary Action Form) for a boxman who fell asleep on his break.  Gary as usual extended the clip board with the fill slip on it and said, 'Take care of your important business.  Just put your John Hancock here and I'll take care of this nonsense.'"

"Later, at 6:00AM, Mooks was in the coffee shop basking in the sweet life.  While inhaling a broiled veal chop, a double order of cottage fires and a squash medley, he decided to create his own memo to allow dealers to sit during lulls in the action.

"Suddenly a young craps dealer approached and said, 'Gotta minute?'  Mooks didn't want his dinner disrupted and tried to give him the bum's rush.  Instead, the dealer plopped into the booth next to him and whispered, 'I might be wrong because I'm reading everything upside down...'  Mooks looked away and asked the waitress for more onion rolls."

"Mooks acted surprised that the dealer was still there and said, 'So?'  In a lower tone the dealer said, 'Today was the third time...'  He hesitated, looked around and added, 'Today was the third time that a fill came for the wrong amount...a lesser amount.'  Something clicked in Mooks' mind and he said, 'So, in other words...'  The kid's voice was barely audible, 'Each of the last three days, a fill was short five hundred dollars...in nickels.'"

Mooks ripped off the napkin that was childishly stuffed into his shirt and over his tie.  He marched into the shift boss' office and without comprehending the implication or scope of his accusation, explained his discovery of the daily chip theft ring.

The shift boss arched his right eye brow as he thought; this imbecile is smarter than he looks. After Mooks disclosed his source, he was fired when the boss accused him of being a co-conspirator.  Mooks was shocked.  He tried to defend himself but was repeatedly cut-off.  While the shift boss was mulling how he and his band of sharpies, (Gary the floor person, the boxman and cage manager). were going to recruit another stooge for their money siphoning operation, (projected to $32,000+ cash, each, per year),  he said, "I am sincerely disappointed.  Such a fine young man on the outside...if I didn't like you so well, I'd call the police and you'd serve time.  And when you got out, you'd be black balled in every casino in the goddamned state.  Now get the hell out of my sight.  Or I'll have your pathetic ass thrown out into the gutter!"



                                                           *



Mooks was out of work for months. He was such an awful craps dealer that he couldn't pass an audition.  He also made the mistake of including his nine-shift stint as a pit boss on applications.  That strategy backfired because potential employers don't want to hire a jaded retread (sharpie) who might covet their job.  At other casinos, his management experience resulted in a barrage of administrative questions that Mooks wasn't qualified to handle.

The Mamoukian's had their backs to the wall.  While Maria slowly kicked her addiction, she remained physically, intellectually and emotionally unemployable.  Mooks' meager life savings were evaporating.  He feared betrayal from family and friends back home so he stubbornly sought to redeem himself.

A few days before Bobby's wedding, Bobby reluctantly offered to take the Mamoukian's in.  But Mooks got hired at the Lady Luck Casino as a less challenged blackjack dealer.

BACK IN THE DAY, THE LADY LUCK WAS ON PAR WITH SLOTS-A-FUN AS THE WORST TOILET TO WORK IN.  THE DIFFERENCE WAS, WHEN I WAS GROSSING $170.00/WEEK IN MY SLICE OF HELL, I WASN'T WEIGHED DOWN BY THE ADDED EXPENSE OF A DETOXING ADDICT...AND A CAT.

Bobby was kind enough to invite Ciro and me to his wedding. On our way to the church, Ciro got a flat tire.  We missed the whole ceremony but made it to Bobby's apartment, in time for the eats.  The party was small with family members from both sides, coming great distances.

Ciro and I were forced to talk to each other, stuff our faces and drink alone because Bobby and his wife were the only people we knew...and they were busy.

Bobby breezed by and we apologized about being late.

He said, "Where's Mike and Maria? I called their apartment but no answer.  So I sent my brother over there..."

At the same time, his brother burst in and said, "There was no answer, so I used the key you gave me.  The sick girl inside was scared shitless and wouldn't come with me..."

Mike Mamoukian was never seen again!

Bobby returned from his two-week honeymoon and went directly to the Mamoukian's apartment. He expected to see Mike.  Instead, he saw a ghost-like Maria.  He moved her and Jude into their place.

Bobby went to the Lady Luck and asked the blackjack pit boss about Mooks.

The pit boss said, "That Saturday, (the day of the wedding), Mike was a 'no call, no show' and every day afterwards.  A week later, he was terminated, for job abandonment.

Bobby went to LVPD and filed a missing person report. He thought it wise to avoid mentioning Maria.



                                                                  *



A year later, Bobby told Ciro, "After a couple of weeks, I brought Maria to a Russian Orthodox Church.  I told them the full story and added that I thought Mike was murdered. They took her and Jude in, taught Maria English and enough basic skills to make her employable."

Ciro shared this information with me and said, "If the wiseguys caught up with Mooks, they probably tortured the shit out of him...and being such a stand-up guy, he never gave-up where Maria was.  I bet not wearing that wedding ring also helped shield her.  Plus, he was smart enough to give the Lady Luck a fake address.  So it's a safe guess he got whacked. Unfortunately, there's a big desert out there and it's impossible to find the hole they dug for him."



                                                                  *



Perhaps the most obvious commandment, "Love thy neighbor," isn't so apparent in Las Vegas.  Mike Mamoukian was a sensitive, gentle man.  He was a better person than most transients but in retrospect, it would have been a bad idea to (metaphorically) turn your back on your wallet with him around.   

The town was full of people like him and a major reason why I didn't want to raise my family in such an environment.

On my last Vegas visit, (2009), Ciro the Hero cemented his metamorphosis into Ciro the Zero when I recognized that despite living there thirty years, he had become one of them.  

Before going our separate ways, I asked if Mike ever resurfaced. The question must have been absurd, he looked at me like I had two heads.  But he did say that Maria was a pit boss in some tiny, dive casino on Boulder Highway.

DEBBIE DOTSON

"Skitzo" Al Muñoz once told me that Las Vegas is a sanctuary for the lunatic fringe.  I found his point to be spot-on and it became a familiar theme in my writings. 

He felt tons of lost souls move to Vegas for the wrong reasons like; a quick fix to escape an undesirable situation back home or expect to lead a permanent vacation lifestyle.  When these dreams don't materialize and their money runs out, desperation sets in.

Taken from excerpts in my short story, "SANCTUARY FOR THE LUNATIC FRINGE," this blog is set at the Western Hotel, (my second craps dealing job).  It's dedicated to the first person I met who fell into the trap of coming to town with high hopes but without a plan.

                           *

The thrill of being a Las Vegas craps dealer loses its luster when you gross a hundred-seventy dollars a week. So working in a hell hole like Slots-A-Fun makes you want out, at any cost.     

                            *



I ran the last half-block back to my apartment. I wanted to call my friend from dealer school Ciro the Hero, (well before he became Ciro the Zero), and tell him about my first day at the Western Casino.  

.

THE WESTERN WAS THE LOWEST RUNG OF THE JACKIE GAUGHAN LOW-ROLLER EMPIRE AND ONCE BOASTED THE WORLD'S BIGGEST (1,020 SEAT) BINGO HALL.  IT WAS LOCATED AT 899 FREMONT STREET, ON A STRETCH OF DESPAIR THAT TOURISTS SELDOM SAW BECAUSE THIS BUG-ZAPPER-LIKE BEACON ONLY ATTRACTED THE BROKE AND NEARLY BROKE.

    

     I said to Ciro, “The Western is much better than Slots-A-Fun.”

I had escaped my three-month prison sentence there but Ciro was still stuck, going on five months.

     “What’s the tokes?”

     “They had a forty-one dollar day yesterday.”

     “Forty-one!  Are they still hiring?”

     “There’s only one way to find out.”  After a short pause I added, “But they average eighteen...”

     “Not much of a difference.  Are they at least nice to you?”

     “Oh, yeah everyone is great to work with...”

     Ciro said, “Even the bosses?”

     “They’re great. Compared to Mr. O'Boyle, working for Charles Manson would be a plus. But check this out, we stood dead almost all day.  They get so little action there, that they keep track of the cash drop in five dollar increments.”

     “That sucks.”

     “Maybe it perks up at night.  But with all that down time, we socialized nearly the whole shift.”

     “Any nice lookin’ women there?”

     “There’s a few in blackjack, but I dealt with one...”

     “A broad dealin’ craps?”

     “Ciro, it's 1979; get your mind out of the Stone Age...women in craps are the wave of the future.”

     Ciro yawned, "Sounds exciting."

     I said, “Speaking of excitement, on my way in, I bumped in to Spanish Al...”

     “You mean Skitzo-Al...”  

     I said, “Al, congratulated me on the new job.  He deals craps at the Lady Luck and he made it sound just as bad as Slots-A-Fun.  He also said, 'Downtown is like the friggin' wild, wild west.'" 

     “Bullshit! Skitzo-Al is from the South Bronx. Vegas should be a goddamned paradise to him."  

     I said, "Al is perceptive.  And he's from Riverdale not the South Bronx."

     "Whatever.  Anyway, why are you so scared of downtown?  That asshole Willard was murdered on the strip and you're still worried that the cops will interrogate you...”

     I interrupted, “Al told me that there was a shooting at the El Cortez last night...”

     “You want to change the subject, eh. Well that little bastard was right, a drunken old man in a wheelchair tried to squeeze into a craps table and when no one let him in; he pulled a gun.  He got off three rounds; one lodged in the ceiling above the bar, another hit slot machine and the last one hit the far wall. Luckily nobody got hit.”

     “Why didn’t you tell me?”

     “It’s no big deal.  Shit, in January at the 'Shoe,' (Binion's Horseshoe), a pissed off loser threw a brick through their keno parlor's new stained glass window.  Two security guards came outside, held the drunk down and a third guard shot him through the head.”

     “Dead?”

     “Dead!”

     “Weren't there witnesses?”

     “Probably a few. But it was four in the morning.”

     “No way!”

     “It made the papers but Vegas don’t like to tarnish it’s image...it was buried on page twenty-something and forgotten.”

     I said, "Wow."  

     Ciro said, At Sluts-R-Fun, (his pet name for Slots-A-Fun),  we’re all break-ins but now you’ll be around sharpies...”

“Sharpies?”

“Yeah, retreads."

I said, "Heh?"

"Back-stabbers...savvy pricks who have been around.  Guys that get stuck in shit jobs until they find something better. They'll take advantage of raw recruits...like us.”

“Really?”

“It don’t matter.  Just watch your ass or somebody’ll take it or kick it.”

     “Oh?”

     “Anyhoo, I’ll drop by after your shift on Friday.  This way I can scope-out the joint and then we’ll hang-out.”

*  

On Friday, at the end of my shift Ciro came into the Western.  I introduced him to my new coworkers and a bunch of us advanced to the casino bar.  At the end of every shift, the employees were given two free drink chits.  In so doing, upper management hoped the staff would loosen up and gamble. 

The bar was crowded with local businessmen on their way home, so we were forced to stand.

 I called out to the bartender, “Yo Rock, a Budweiser for my friend and a Tom Collins for me.” 

Rocky pretended to look through the all-male clientele and growled, “A Bud and a cunt-drink?”  He scratched his head and squawked as if thinking aloud, “But there ain’t no cunts here.” 

Everyone was laughing so I added, “No, I said two Buds.”

The bar roared again when Rocky twisted his pinkie in his ear and croaked, “Oh, I must have shit in my ear!” 

We were leaving as Ciro said, “I can’t believe you weren’t embarrassed back there.” 

“I was, but after Slots-A-Fun and Mr. O'Boyle, I can handle anything.” 

He punched my shoulder as we walked along Fremont Street and said, “You’re all right.”

Up the road from Las Vegas High School, we entered Choo-Choo's, a fast-food dive.
Ciro said, "There were more guys at the bar than players in your whole casino."
"Yeah it sucks.  The Western is so hard-up that they give out 'fun booklets.'  And there's a coupon for five free nickels.  All day, the scum of the earth come in to collect."
He said, "Those are hobos, like in the movies.  Behind the Union Plaza (casino), there's a hobo Shantytown.  I bet there's ten times the bums there than on the fuckin' Bowery."

Ciro bit into his hard shell taco and it disintegrated.  The table was a crumby, gooey mess. I laughed.

He muttered obscenities and then spat, “Graveyard is killing me. I gotta get out of Slots-A-Fun.  At least you get to stand dead at a decent hour, plus you’re making as much tokes as me and Skitzo-Al put together.”

     I waved my “murder-burger” at him and said, “Trust me, there’s no future at the Western.” 

     When the greasy cheese patty and salads slipped through the bun onto my lap Ciro crowed, “He who laughs last...”

I was scraping ketchup off my slacks as we commiserated our stifled casino careers and vowed to take auditions for better jobs.

*

The next day at the Western, we were standing dead when a pretty blond took an audition.  Debbie Dotson was so personable and perky that despite an empty table, Buzzy our white-haired, senior citizen pit boss volunteered to place bets for her. 

     Up close, I saw that Debbie was unadorned by make-up. I was impressed because her complexion was so pure that it reminded me of a Dresden doll. 

DRESDEN GERMANY  HAS BEEN FAMOUS FOR MAKING DOLL FIGURINES SINCE THE 1700's

I was so enamored by her natural beauty that I didn’t notice her scrawny body or her baggy pants.

     
Debbie’s audition didn’t go well.  She claimed three months experience at the Lady Luck Casino, but was “buried.”  
     Debbie's lame excuse was, "I'm not used to the quarter game(twenty-five cent chips)."  

In reality, she had no concept of game procedure, couldn’t handle the chips and didn’t know anything beyond the simplest payoffs.  Even worse, she couldn’t follow the most basic instruction; she was as dumb as a stump.

The next day, I was shocked that they had hired her. Debbie stood out because she wore an off-white cowgirl shirt.  This custom tailored blouse was skin-tight. And even though there were two breast pockets, her unharnessed erect nipples sharply protruded through both plies of the tight, thin material. Despite being flat-chested, everyone transfixed on Debbie’s chest. 

Hours later, Buzzy the pit boss was gawking at her as the casino manager advised Debbie, "Wear a brassiere in the future. Our dress code also calls for a simple white dress shirt.” 

Instead of a standard "okay," she moaned, “Geez, it’s the Western Casino isn’t it...western shirt, get it...duh.” 

     Debbie further riled him, by suggesting vests for the male dealers and beaded Indian shirts for the females.

     
During one of our prolonged lulls, Debbie told us her life story.  She was twenty-three and had an eight year-old son living with her mother back in Roseberg, Oregon.  Debbie listed the Christmas gifts she sent but confessed that she hadn’t seen her family in a while.

Later, we were playing twenty questions when Debbie baffled us with Jellystone Park, from the Yogi Bear cartoons.  We all agreed it was funny that she “got” us with a pretend place.   But she got offended, insisting it was real. The disagreement ended when Buzzy came by to flirt with her.  
She retold her history including her parental résumé.  This time, Debbie added that she was unattached.  
He said, "Maybe we can continue our conversation over a cozy lunch."
She smiled, "I have to warn you, I eat a lot."
Buzzy craned his neck to check-out her posterior and said, "You don't look like you eat much..."
Debbie said she was four months pregnant.  Then cringed when she realized that it wasn’t a good idea to mention it.  Buzzy took that information and made a hasty retreat to blackjack.

*

                                                        
Towards the end of Debbie's uneventful first shift, a reeking hobo sauntered over to her end of the table.

He stacked five; five-cent pieces on the pass line and through a toothless grin barked, “Gimme da dice.” 

From across the near-empty casino Buzzy said, “It’s like getting a free shill...let him to shoot.” 

The bum couldn’t lose and branched out to a couple of long shots and won again.  Soon, he built up to fifteen dollars in place bets, fifty-cents on all the hardways and had five dollars in the rail.  His original twenty-five cents in nickels remained on the pass line.

The casino manager happened by and asked the boxman, “What’s this piece-a-shit in?” 

Before he could get the first word out of his mouth, Debbie pointed to the nickels and chimed, “He’s in twenty-five cents from the coupon.” 

The casino manager said, “Take everything down, color him up and send him packing.”  Nobody reacted so he yelled, “I told you to get him the fuck out of here.”  After storming away he came back and shouted, “We're now a 75c minimum and no more chump change!”

A tipsy old man heard the tumult, came over and bought-in for thirty dollars.  His eyes were riveted on Debbie’s chest.  After three rolls, it was her break. 

He frantically questioned us, “Is she coming back?  When is she coming back?  Is she coming back here?”  
The old-timer folded his arms and refused to throw the dice until she returned.  When she did, he picked up his chips and moved beside her. 

He had a nice run of luck and started praising Debbie, “I like craps but I usually prefer BJ if you know what I mean.  But when I saw you, I knew I had to come over and give you a shot.”  
Debbie said, "Uh-huh."
The drunk started ranting about her wholesome radiance and finished by saying, “We can have some wonderful times together...”

She said, “I’m flattered but no...”

“You would if I was ten years younger.” 

I laughed to myself and thought; if he were thirty years younger, he’d still be old enough to be her father. 

He won about a hundred dollars and was still gaping at her pointy nipples when he said, “Miss Gorgeous, I’d like to give you a five-dollar tip.” 

“That’ll be very appreciated sir,” Debbie’s said. 

The man held out a red chip and said, “I’ll give this to you if I can put it in your pocket,” (Craps dealer tips are kept in stickman's pocket and later put in a larger tip box).  

Debbie looked at me. 

I shook my head and thought; this is definitely not in the job description. 

She shrugged, “Go for it sir.” 

Deliberately, he inserted his hand into her right breast pocket and said, “You don’t have to call me sir, please, call me Alfie.” 

It was disturbing to watch the movement of his perverted, nicotine-stained fingers as she strained to look away.  After ten long seconds, Debbie cleared her throat and with one last emphatic caress, the lecher withdrew his hand. 

He pivoted to leave but she blurted out, “Wait!” 

     The man riddled with guilt, sheepishly turned and avoided eye contact as Debbie said, “Hey Alfie, I have two pockets.”  
His excited eyes rose. 
      She pantomimed adjusting her bosom and cooed, “Do I look uneven?”

     Alfie crossed behind her and ravenously jammed another chip into her left pocket.  

The process lasted twice as long as he seized the opportunity to more purposefully squeeze and fondle her.  Whether it was team spirit or stupidity, Debbie’s act netted each dealer in the place less than twenty-cents.

Afterwards at the crowded casino bar, I was standing next to Debbie.

She was giggling as she slugged down a scotch and told Buzzy in a less than private voice, “Let’s get a bottle and a six-pack and get outta here.”

A minute later as they left, I saw Buzzy grab her bottom.                               

                             *

At ten that night, Ciro phoned.

“Steve,” he declared.  “I got a new job at the Holiday International. I start Friday, on day shift.” 

“That’s great.  What do they make?” 

“They average twenty-three.  Now I can start living the life I’d become accustomed to, back in Bensonhurst.”

I said, "Are they still hiring?"

Ciro said, "There's only one way to find out."  

                             *                          

The next morning, Debbie showed up ten minutes late for her second day.  Her tardiness had nothing to do with her getting fired. 

She came to our empty table and held out her pink slip, “What does ‘change of personnel’ mean?” 

The boxman said, “That’s what they write when they don’t want to hurt you...” 

Before he could finish she sniffled, “Job performance, FAIR?” 

The boxman said, “They put that down on everyone’s...”

     Debbie stormed off and from a distance called back, “I never did a FAIR job in my life.” 

We all laughed when Buzzy leaned in and said, “You know why she never did a FAIR job?  Because she’s a moron; she should take FAIR as a goddamned compliment.”  Under his breath he added, “Well, at least she’s good at some things...”

Through the grapevine, we found out that Debbie hunted down the casino manager and proposed giving him oral sex any time he wanted, if she could have her job back.  When he refused, she grabbed his crotch.  He pushed her down and threatened to call LVPD. 

                            *                         

Debbie Dotson came into the Western a week later to beg for her job back.  Her hair was a mess, there was a small pimple on her immaculate cheek and her glossy eyes made her look exhausted.  Debbie’s plain white dress shirt looked like it had just been pulled out of a car’s glove compartment and her black slacks were tattered.  In her back pocket, the top of a copper hip flask was peeking out.  However, her single most obvious new development was that she was now “showing.” 

The casino manager said he couldn’t help her with a job.  He saw her puffy tummy and insisted on buying her lunch; she refused and left.

*

I was in my third week at the Western when Al Muñoz came in to take an audition. He passed and I spent a break with him.

He said, "I got fired from the Lady Luck.  I told them I was deaf in one ear.  They suggested I get a hearing aid."  He concluded with, "I'm a new man."

I wanted to say that hopefully I'll be a new man at 6:30 because I had an audition after my shift.  I didn't bring it up, in fear that he'd get there ahead of me.

                              *                            

From the Western, it was a short walk along Fremont Street, then Main Street, to the Holiday International. My heart was beating out of my chest when I approached the craps pit. 

I might have been tortured at Slots-A-Fun but through rapid fire repetition, I did learn a lot on my own.  In my three weeks at the Western, I learned nothing.  Other than making standing dead into an art form. So I was nervous that I would be rusty and blow this excellent opportunity to improve myself. 

Two of the four tables were open.  On the slower game, I saw Ciro and his friend Bobby, (Ciro had recently introduced me to Bobby and his buddy Mike "Mooks" Mamoukian. Mooks will be featured in my next blog).  

     I approached the pit boss and said, "I have an appointment for an audition."

     He found my application, gestured to the busier table and said, “Take out the stick.”

     I was perspired before I started. Somehow, I managed to get through fifteen minutes without embarrassing myself.  When I came around to deal, I got off to a rough start.  I was hoping for guidance or at least some moral support from the old-timer boxman (Ernie).  But he just sat like a statue on his frilly, hemorrhoid pillow throne. 

     When the geezer finally spoke, he pointed at his wrist and said, “Look, my cuff links are pistols.”

The craps game was loud, chaotic and intense.  I worried that I wasn't keeping up a decent pace.  Here was my big chance to work in a "real" casino and Ernie, this senile, brain-dead guy who was supposed to help, was a distraction.

During a ten second breather Ernie yammered, "Did I tell you?  My cuff links are guns and they really shoot bullets..."

The action picked back up. 
     I was wishing I could tell Ernie to shut-up as he said, "Don't worry about these cockroaches."  His statement temporarily relaxed me until he started toying with his cuff links and said, "You know why I can't shoot'em no more?  'Cause I lost all the ammo."               A player in a white dress shirt yelled, “Where’s my hard ten?” 

I froze and looked at Ernie.
The old fart quietly sneered, “Fuck him. That kid’s a dealer.  He sees enough fleas to know not to act like one.”

I looked up for a second and saw Ciro and Bobby, they were laughing at me.  
I smiled until Ernie whined, “Ronnie the slot mechanic got mugged...” He kept talking as I went through my next procession of payoffs while thinking, who’s Ronnie?  When I was done, Ernie was still blithering “...so if you remember just one thing I tell you about downtown kid, stay out of the alleys.”

Between rolls, I was reminded of what Al Muñoz said about the dangers downtown and of Ciro’s sharpies.  Just as I was feeling comfortable, the audition was suddenly over. I was sent to the pit stand.

I was demoralized by the austere look of the pit boss and was convinced that I had failed. 

He read from the audition form without looking up and said, “You did fine.  Can start Saturday at eight on swing shift?” 

I was so thrilled that I stammered, “Y-Yes.”

                              *

Bobby's friend Mooks had just been promoted to craps pit boss on graveyard, at the Holiday International. At five the next morning, he had just ordered dinner when Debbie Dotson stumbled in from a misting rain. Wet and shivering, she headed to the bar.  When Debbie found it was empty, she advanced to the craps pit. 

Debbie's white dress shirt was soaked, shabby, stained and torn.  The seat of her loose, wrinkled black pants was soiled and the bottom of her left pant leg was frayed.

From the distance, Mooks saw Debbie coming and noticed something wasn't right. 
     Despite suffering from malnutrition and sleep deprivation she summoned her bountiful charm and said, "Are you giving craps auditions?"
Mooks' eye gravitated to the dark purple, dime-sized lesion that had formed on her now ashen cheek.  He surveyed the waif's matted-down hair.  Then pity tore at his heart as he spied her bloated belly.
     "Sorry hun."   To camouflage the lump in his throat, he coughed and forced a smile, "Auditions are only given on day shift." Mooks tapped both hands on his stomach, "Besides, you gotta take care of your bundle."  When disgusted Debbie turned away he said, "Can I get you something."
     Debbie's disoriented face lit up, "Yeah some scotch would warm me up."
Mooks picked up his cricket and clicked for a cocktail waitress.
     "Miss," he said as he looked at her bulging abdomen, "I don't know about booze in your condition.  But I'll get you orange juice, a coffee and maybe a sandwich..."
     The craps floor supervisor sidetracked Mooks with a work-order to replace an overhead light bulb and said, "When you finish reading this, sign here and initial here, here and here."

Before Mooks read the second sentence, a chip fill to replenish some of the craps table's bank arrived.  
The floorman tried to hand Mooks the fill's paperwork but said, "I see you're busy.  Just put your John Hancock here and I'll take care of it for you."
     The fill was being set in place as Mooks returned to Debbie and said, "Not for nuthin' doll, but nobody's gonna hire you..."
     When his voice cracked Debbie patted the unborn child in her womb and sobbed, "Nobody?"
     The floorman said, "Sorry to interrupt but it's a good time to show you how to complete the master attendance sheet."
Ten seconds later, Mooks looked up and Debbie was gone.



                              *
     


I was uneasy coming into work the next day.  My managers at the Western had been good to me and I was afraid they’d be sore that I was abandoning them after three weeks.  I saw Al Muñoz ready for his first day as I sought out the casino manager.

When I informed the boss that I was starting a new job on Saturday, he congratulated me and said, “The Western has been a stepping stone for a lot of people. I know you’ll do well.”  He shook my hand and continued, “I hope you’ll stay with us today, tomorrow and Friday.  That’ll give us time to fill your spot.” 

Energized, I used all that standing dead time to chat with the newly bespectacled Al Muñoz.  First, I reminded him that he picked me up on his Vespa scooter and took me to my Slots-A-Fun audition. 

He said, “It looked like you were going to crap your pants.  You didn’t want to go, did you?” 

“Yeah, plus I had already waited a week before I mustered the guts to go at all.”

Al became philosophical, “Most of the people I’ve come across out here are escaping bad lives somewhere else.  Some vacationed here or heard stories and didn’t realize that the whole town is a fantasy.  Yuh know what I mean?”

I nodded.

“But to settle here,” he continued, “you need something tangible.  People see what they want to see and expect to deal right away at Caesar’s.  But if you’re unwilling to pay the price, you become bitter when reality sets-in. Once the bubble is burst, those that haven't burnt their bridges, go home.  The rest seem to stay downtown and survive miserably day by day or paycheck to paycheck.  If you don’t believe me look at the character of our coworkers and the people who live around here.” 

A sloppy drunk interrupted our discussion and bought in for three dollars. He put one on the pass line, called for the dice and cocktail service. 

Indifferently Al said, “Comin’ out,” and sent him the dice.  He looked at me, “I bet half the locals I met downtown have criminal records, are runaways, lowlifes or deadbeats.”  I was about to cut-in when he said, “Vegas gets the same caliber of creeps who volunteer for the French Foreign Legion.” 

I was piecing together his point as I watched the shooter painstakingly examine each die before finally selecting two. 

Al had one eye on the player and the other on me as he concluded, “People don’t know what to expect here. Maybe it’s a romantic notion or desperation to just run out here.”  He sighed, “Either way, Vegas is a sanctuary for the lunatic fringe.”

The rummy was still setting the dice.  He contorted his thumb and index finger backward to grasp the cubes with both twos facing skyward, before finally casting them.  

Al called, “Three craps three, line away.” 
The other dealer took the losing bet. 

“Hey Al,” I said. “Do you remember Debbie Dotson from the Lady Luck?” 

Al said, “Are you with her?” 

He saw me shake my head and said with relief, “‘Dirty’ Debbie is a drunken tramp...she gave five guys the clap over there.  When she isn’t ‘connected,’ she panhandles enough to pickle herself in mint gin or some other cheap ‘rat-gut.’” 

Our player made a new bet and impatiently slapped his hand on the table, “Gimme the ‘bones,’ you guys are killing my roll.”  The shooter got the dice and went into his ritualistic gyrations. 

Al followed the flight of the next toss and called, “Twelve craps twelve, line in, triple the lucky field.” 

When the shooter’s dollar was taken he snarled, “Lucky my ass...you fuckin’ wise-ass...gimme different dice.” 

Al followed the instructions and continued, “When Debbie gave a ‘dose’ to the floorman she was living with, he kicked her out and got her fired.  Last I heard she was living on the street, going home with whoever was buying drinks.” 

                              *                        

The next day, in a light drizzle at dawn, a Silver State Hauling and Refuse truck rumbled up First Street.  The driver crossed Fremont Street as he sang Frankie Valli’s “Rag Doll” along with the radio.  He past the Friendly Club Casino, came to a stop and put the truck in reverse.  He was inching into the rear alley when a high-pitched whistle signaling an emergency stop pierced the early morning stillness.

THE FRIENDLY CLUB (1978-1983) WAS A TINY CASINO LOCATED AT 101 FREMONT STREET.  IT WAS BOUGHT-OUT BY THE GOLDEN NUGGET WHEN THE PROPERTY EXPANDED TO THE CORNER.

“Whoa, Jimmy whoa!” beseeched the backman. 

The backman jumped off the truck and ran behind the dumpster. Mortified, he found Debbie lying, in a pool of her own blood.  Her slacks were pushed down past her knees and a straightened wire hanger with a reddened tip rested on her lap. 

Ten minutes later, two EMS techs slid Debbie into an ambulance.  The driver whisked her away as the other man scribbled on her chart; Jane Doe unconscious: no ID, money, jewelry or any other material possessions.  Wearing black shoes, black pants and a white shirt.  No socks or undergarments were found. 

Left behind, hidden in the shadows was her empty copper hip flask that was standing upright against weeds that had pushed through the cracked pavement. 

                             *

                           

Five weeks later, one block from where paramedics picked Debbie up, a bus destined for Vancouver Canada pulled out of the Greyhound depot onto Main Street. Debbie, without a swollen stomach was among thirteen scattered passengers.  At first, she clutched the small valise provided by Social Services.  Unable to get comfortable, she twisted in the seat and blankly stared out the window, on her way home to Roseberg Oregon. 

In a trance, she gave no recognition to the nearby alley where she almost died.  The bus accelerated past the heart of downtown where the glorious warmth and brightness of the mid-day sun was dulled by the infusion of Fremont Street’s cool glittery neon. Immersed in guilt and denial, she involuntarily withdrew to a fetal position and nodded off.

Since running away when her baby was six weeks old, this would be the first time she saw her son in eight years.  While awake, she tried to concentrate on the baby and struggled throughout the daylong bus ride to separate the delusions of her life from the truth.

Towards the end of her journey, Debbie became more lucid.  In an attempt to picture her now thirty-nine year old mother, she couldn’t discern a face.  Debbie tried to project an image of her child; she had always referred him to as Perry Lee but as her mind cleared, she was shocked to remember that her baby was a girl, named Judy.

The bus crossed into Oregon as Debbie was focusing on a whimpering infant across the aisle. Teary eyed, overcome by sorrow, she comprehended that she’d never become pregnant again.  Unable to compose herself, Debbie retreated to the rest room and looked deeply into the unsteady mirror.  She didn’t recognize herself and splashed water on her face.  In frustration, Debbie plopped on the toilet. 

Lost in a whirlwind of memories, Debbie sat there for ten minutes until stern rap on the door startled her.  When she returned to her seat, a bolt of fear shot through her stomach as she thought; how am I going to manage the alcohol support groups and job training?  

She then started openly crying when she contemplated her new role as “Aunt” Debbie.

                                                             *



Debbie Dotson's tribulations were interwoven with Mike "Mooks" Mamoukian's in "SANCTUARY FOR THE LUNATIC FRINGE."  While they both fit into "Skitzo" Al Muñoz's assessment of moving to Las Vegas without a plan, their stories are acutely different and deserve to be separate.  

The next blog and seventh installment in my "MY 40th ANNIVERSARY IN CASINOS," series, will be called, "MIKE MAMOUKIAN, WHERE ARE YOU?"  The answer to the question only supports Al's theory.