Today's entry contains excerpts from my short story, "THE HEAT IS ON."
In keeping with my goal to shorten this latest generation of blogs, I think it's appropriate that a murder mystery should keep my readership in suspense for two weeks. Therefore, presented for your approval, is the first of a two-part whodunit.
*
We all hate to see coworkers get fired but some deserve it. Far worse, you wouldn't wish anyone serious bodily harm and definitely, never death.
The Slots-A-Fun Casino was my first craps dealing job, (Las Vegas, January 10, 1979 to April 20, 1979). Maybe some casinos were as awful, but there was nowhere worse.
Slots-A-Fun didn't provide a meal, the physical working conditions were rough, the pay was poor and this flea-bitten sawdust dive had an incredibly hostile work environment. So much so that the single craps table needed a revolving door to handle the high volume of employee turnover.
New dealers at other casinos might have their own horror stories, but the layered toxicity at Slots-A-Fun was so deep...that it led to murder.
*
On April 20th, four Las Vegas police cruisers were haphazardly parked on the sidewalk, in front of Slots-A-Fun. Mary, (the blackjack dealer I was dating) and I, paid this unusual circumstance no mind and went in.
I noticed our craps game was going without a boxman because my scheduled immediate supervisor Willard "The Heat" Lafitte was nowhere to be seen.
The casino manager (biggest on-property boss), Mr. Broderick O'Boyle (56) was being interviewed by a preppy, note-taking plain-clothes cop, (detective). I include "mister" because in my nearly forty years in casinos, O'Boyle remains the only supervisor who insisted on being addressed as mister.
Some supervisors have a mean streak in them but Mr. O'Boyle was rotten to the core. He looked like Roger Ebert's evil twin and it was obvious that it made him feel better to make his underlings unhappy. Far worse, like monomaniacal Captain Ahab chasing Moby Dick, the always pissed-off O'Boyle dedicated himself to the implausible notion of not only beating every gambler that set foot in this tiny, hole-in-the-wall, bust-out joint, but having these losers ALL leave penniless.
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| SLOTS-A-FUN IS STILL UP AND RUNNING. IN MY DAY, IT HAD ONE CRAPS TABLE, TEN BLACKJACK GAMES AND A 100 SLOT MACHINES. IT'S LOCATED NEXT TO CIRCUS CIRCUS AND ACROSS FROM WHERE THE PRESTIGIOUS RIVIERA CASINO USED TO BE. |
Mr. O'Boyle's fanatical mission was ridiculous but it gave him cause to openly scream obscenities and politically incorrect epithets at the staff. He also preferred inexperienced patrons because if he thought someone had an edge, (a skilled player), he'd intimidate them, curse them or even chase them out.
In casinos, this mentality is called "heat" or sweating the money. However unlike any other "house men" I worked for, O'Boyle owned a quarter point in the club. So he wasn't agonizing over unknown stockholders money, he was sweating his own.
To boost the bottom line, O'Boyle left the supervisory staff under manned. He backed up his money-grubbing mindset by being the relief floor supervisor in craps and blackjack while overseeing the payment of slot jackpots. He even restocked the cigarette machine and was responsible for accounting for its cash box. Plus, few people realized that this dump had no security guards. If someone needed to be evicted, Mr. O'Boyle's intense profanity would've made a longshoreman blush. If that didn't work, despite his paunchy physique and thick coke-bottle glasses, this former Marine would get physical, (nobody ever saw him lose). He even had a network of spies. So when he was gone for the day, on his day off or vacation, the staff could never relax.
Several times each shift, O'Boyle exploded in anger at the inexperienced craps dealers because our errors or the table losing, drew his focus away from his multitude of other tasks. But through all that high-caliber negativity, Mr. Broderick O'Boyle's presence was a mere fraction of why Slots-A-Fun was such an awful place.
*
On that day in April, Mr. O'Boyle had finished chatting with the youthful detective. Our game was running without a supervisor except when blackjack floorman, Byron Burns, (a wannabe clone of O'Boyle), came by to drop money in the cash box.
I said, "Byron, what's with the cops? And where's Willard?"
Burns sneered, "Jack-off, mind your business."
Minutes later, Mr. O'Boyle returned and spoke loud enough to Byron that I could hear.
He said, "Willard was murdered after work yesterday, in the Circus Circus garage. He was walking up the stairs and was probably getting robbed. Knowing that imbecile, I bet he handed his wallet to the cocksucker and laughed because it was empty...and got stabbed in the neck for being a prick."
Byron said, "Yeah but Willard had a lot of enemies."
O'Boyle said, "Yup. I just told young Sherlock Holmes that I'm surprised an ignorant, hateful bastard like that lasted thirty-years on God's green earth without someone putting a bullet through his useless head. And by the way Burnsey, that dick said, 'they can't rule out that it might've been staged to look like a robbery.' So, get your alibi ready, 'cause they asked me for names and addresses of all the employees, going back six months."
*
I remember my first day back in January. Mr. O'Boyle's entire orientation was: don't hawk players, don't "black cat" me, and never clue anyone in. I had no idea what any of that meant.
Once I started, the craps layout was leopard-spotted because every time my fingertips touched the felt, little perspiration circles dotted my work space. It didn't help that scary O'Boyle spent a lot of time watching me as my whole body became ensconced in sweat.
My immediate supervisor (boxman) Chuck "Shirts" Czyrz was human. He recognized a newbie's first exposure to casino life and that I was overwhelmed by nervousness. But rather than torture me, he was friendly and patient.
Shirts had a calming-effect on me and I appreciated his on-the-job tutelage. But I saw he was already graying and that he was always tense. Later, I noticed he had a constant tic in his left cheek and that eye would flutter when O'Boyle spoke to him.
The other three craps dealers were coincidentally from Louisiana. Lamont and Lester were black guys from New Orleans and the soon-to-be murder victim, Willard Lafitte was a redneck from rural Slidell.
I didn't like Lafitte immediately. He assumed the role of an unofficial supervisor and ratted out the shortcomings of Chuck Czyrz and the craps crew, to Mr. O'Boyle.
He also made racially insensitive remarks that instigated Lamont and Lester. He repeatedly called them lazy-ass, big city boys and referred to them as "you people" as well as calling them both, "Leroy."
Shirts intervened a few times but Willard told him, "Shut yuh stupid yap, you lunk-headed Polack."
Shirts had complained to O'Boyle about Willard and never got satisfaction.
In fact, I once witnessed O'Boyle scream, "You moronic Polack. I don't know why I let you work here. Hell, you couldn't deal worth a shit and a blind chimp could sit box better than you!"
Shirts' boxman salary was $68/day, ($340.00/week). Give-or-take, dealers made about half, $3.00/hour plus an average of $10.00/day in tips, ($170.00 gross/week). In my first week, I had no idea but Lafitte coveted Shirts' job.
On my tumultuous first day, I couldn't function. I kept dropping the chips, I dealt too slow, forgot my procedures and had to be reminded of the simplest payoffs. Poor Shirts shielded my ineptitude from O'Boyle and Lafitte while taking the brunt of their wrath. Towards the end of the day, my guilt was stronger than my nervousness until Shirts' wife and two daughters came to pick him up. What a happy sight to see Shirts smiling and all four of them kissing and hugging. His family situation made me think, who wouldn't want that.
He picked a girl up in each arm and announced, "Lets go to Circus Circus and see if I can win you a couple of Pink Panthers."
On my fourth day, while arguing with Willard, Lamont quit in the middle of the shift. On the way out, he muttered in a foreign language.
Willard said, "Y'all's voodoo hoo-doo ain't gonna work on me."
Lamont yelled back something in French or Creole and ended it with, "Fuckin' bigot."
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| VOODOO IS A RELIGION DERIVED IN AFRICA AND CHIEFLY PRACTICED IN HAITI. COMMON FOLKLORE CONTENDS THAT ITS BASED ON HIGHLY IMPROBABLE SUPPOSITION WITH FOLLOWERS CASTING EVIL SPELLS AND COMMUNICATING WITH THE DEAD. |
Two hours after Lamont left, towards the end of that shift, I was still buried, (making tons of mistakes). But Shirts remained supportive.
Shirts and I were having a pleasant conversation when O'Boyle burst on the scene, "Did you Edelfarb pay some yahoo who was two bucks high on his odds?" Shirts took the heat for my three-dollar carelessness as I saw a grin of satisfaction on Lafitte's face. O'Boyle lashed out, "How about I dock your sorry ass for every dime you let your plebes overpay these chumps."
A minute after O'Boyle left, Shirts reminded me that I forgot to take a losing $1.00 field bet. Two rolls later, I forgot again. He corrected me as I saw a single bead of sweat, resembling a teardrop, trickle down his forehead.
The third time, Shirts leaped out of his seat and screamed, "Take the field, take the fuckin' field!"
Across the table, Willard was snickering and didn't hide his sickening smile. I looked at Shirts. He was sweating profusely, his breathing was choppy and his complexion had gone ashen as his pitiful expression was locked, in a vacant stare.
Willard was relieved off the stick and came around to his base position. He passed behind unsuspecting Chuck Czyrz and playfully flicked his ear. Shirts croaked a disturbing noise of painful shock. He turned towards me as his eyes rolled up into head. He continued past me on the swivel chair, lost his balance and simultaneously vomited. He fell behind me, went into convulsions and writhed in his own putrid mess.
Our budget casino didn't have an infirmity. It seemed like an eternity but in less than a minute, Shirts calmed down. Byron Burns and a customer helped him to his feet and to a nearby bench outside. O'Boyle without looking at Chuck, disappeared into a storage closet. He returned dragging over a heavy burlap bag labeled: ZIP-ZORB and as if feeding chickens, spread the kitty-litter-like substance where Shirts had gotten sick.
Five minutes later, Shirts unsteadily returned and said, "I'm so sorry Mr. O'Boyle."
O'Boyle said, "You got your car today? You okay to drive."
"I want to finish my shift. Let me wash up first. Give me five minutes."
It must have killed O'Boyle but he seemed sincere, "Either way, I'm putting you in a cab and sending you home."
Chuck swooned for a second, caught his balance and said, "Yeah but..."
O'Boyle cut him off, "No! Take care of yourself. I'll pay you for the whole shift..."
Chuck felt ashamed, "No please. I'm okay. Mr. O'Boyle, please..."
Byron rushed over, "I flagged down a taxi."
O'Boyle gave Byron a ten dollar bill, "Give this to the cabbie. And Chuck listen close. Go home. Get a good nights rest and I'll call at eight tomorrow morning." Then with a big sarcastic sigh he added, "Somehow, I'll manage without you."
Seconds after the taxi drove away, Willard Lafitte was anointed as the interim boxman.
O'Boyle finished vacuuming-up the ineffective ZIP-ZORB and said to the crew, "We're down a man, so unless you guys need to hit the head, there will no breaks for the last two hours."
Another dealer, (Eddie Murphy, his second day), complained about the stench as soon as O'Boyle left.
Willard in all his glory crowed, "Smells like roses tah me."
*
The next day, chubby Willard smugly showed up in a tattered, way too small suit. His balding head sported a new, frizzy, blown-out bird's nest hairdo that replaced his stringy, piano wire comb-over.
God save us. Willard was now in charge.
Lafitte was a much better dealer than me but he had a four-month head start, which didn't prevent him from making tons of mistakes. Therefore his leadership style stressed belittling over educating. More importantly, he was generally dopey and may not have been fully literate.
Mr. O'Boyle came by with some final instructions for Willard's debut in command.
He finished with, "And if there's big trouble, you know where the 'dingus' is."
Lester waited until O'Boyle was gone, "Where's Shirts?"
Willard said, "Well boy, dey dun fied dat incompetent's ass. I do declare, he's prob'ly already in Sparks..."
I said, "Sparks?"
"Shit! Y'all doan know nuthin'. Sparks is duh loony bin. Now, I's duh new big boss man."
Byron overheard and said, "Willard your such an ass-hole. Chuck wasn't fired and he's home resting."
Lester threw his dealer apron on the table, "Sheee-it, I ain't working for this cracker. I quit!"
Willard shouted out, "Leroy, it's a sad day when a nigra doan 'preciate how good dey got it."
Lester charged back, "You called me fuckin' Leroy for he last time, you honky-ass mother-fucker. Come out here. Um gonna fuck you up!"
Willard leaned under the craps table as if he dropped something and said, "No come in here."
Streetwise Lester knew what he was reaching for and shook his head, "Fuck you! Fuck y'all."
Lafitte snapped, "Beat it!"
Lester took a few steps away before turning back, "You wait sucka, Um gonna mess your white ass up."
Our crew was missing a man for ten minutes. Until Mr. O'Boyle brought over Yung Yune. Yune was an older, frail Korean wearing a gray, slot attendant smock. He started on the stick.
The first roll was a nine and in terrible English he announced, "Ni centa fi ni."
"Wow," I mumbled and thought, he knows what he's doing.
Yune struggled to retrieve the dice.
The next roll was a six and he said, "Sis centa fi sis." And the roll after that he said, "Seven centa fie seven."
For more than an hour, Yune was never corrected and seemed to be the permanent stickman. In that time, Willard must've been campaigning for the world's most ignorant man as he openly insulted Yune and Asians in general, a veteran in a wheelchair and a bag lady.
The crazy situation got stranger when O'Boyle hired an applicant on the spot and put him to work. What Lafitte did to the new dealer (Howie Parnell) who replaced Yune, who replaced Lester, was criminal.
Parnell was a Wasp around my age (23). He was shaking like a leaf and as strange as it sounded, O'Boyle put me in charge to watch over him. But Howie and I hit it off.
At a safe moment when Willard was on break Howie groused about the stickman position being outside (the building). So while the heater above blew warm air into the stickman's face, his back was exposed to the January chill.
I said, "Wait till around four o'clock. The glare off the 'Riv' is so bad that you'll have to shade your eyes to deal."
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| THE RIVIERA (1955-2015) WAS ONE OF THE MAIN STRIP CASINOS DURING THE GOLDEN YEARS OF OLD VEGAS. IN 1979, ITS REMODELED GLASS FACADE FACED WEST AND REFLECTED THE SETTING SUN ACROSS THE STREET AND INTO THE SLOTS-A-FUN CRAPS DEALERS EYES. |
In a quieter tone Howie complained about our Simon Legree and coined his new nickname, "'Lafitte the Heat', makes this bullshit a lot harder than it should be. That Bayou Bastard needs his neck broken."
The term, Lafitte the Heat solidified our budding friendship as two middle-aged women walked by.
Willard had just returned when Parnell called out and invited the ladies to play. I guess he wasn't indoctrinated with O'Boyle's "no hawking players" rule.
They bought-in for five-dollars each. Howie who could barely deal, made a couple of money management suggestions. Soon Willard summoned O'Boyle. The brainiacs had a brief private conference. Willard sat back down as O'Boyle told Parnell to abandon his base, (the game continued as seated Lafitte, skittered payoffs across to the players).
Behind me Mr. O'Boyle said to Parnell, "You teach these two biddies how to play?" Howie shuddered and silently shrugged as O'Boyle's ire rose, "You know the difference between a goddamned $1.50 getting paid even money on the corner six and eight...and a place bet getting $1.75?"
Howie had no idea he was talking about the percentage and said, "Yeah. But it's just twenty-cents."
From an inch away, O'Boyle blasted,"You're fired. You fuckin' wise-guy. You're fired!"
Frowning Howie leaned backward as if O'Boyle's hot, decayed meat-flavored bad breath was singeing his eyebrows.
Apparently, Parnell wasn't told about the never "clue-in" anybody rule either. I never saw my "new" five-hour friend again.
It was clear that Willard "jack-potted" Howie but that wasn't enough, he punished me too.
*
The next day, Lafitte the Heat implemented his punishment. I suddenly wasn't allowed to take red, (five-dollar chips), out of the bankroll. If I needed more, I had to ask him, to give it to me. This was childish pay-back. I shouldn't have been insulted but was.
Our game was nearly empty when a short, sloppy obese guy came to my end of the table and pulled an expensive looking gold money clip from his sweat sock. He no pockets because despite it being 45 degrees, he was wearing satin, emerald green gym shorts with silver and black trim and a solid black tank top.
He dropped down a twenty. Willard pulled out a stack of twenty white, one-dollar chips.
I handed it off and said, "Good luck."
In a harsh New York accent the man growled, "I want fives, (reds)."
I looked down at Willard as he said, "Play 'em up Bub, we'll change y'all up when ya win."
The player nodded and set the twenty singles on the pass line. The bet won. Willard cupped his hand over my working stack of red and pushed out another stack of whites from the bank. I was in no position to contradict my "superior" so I paid the bet with another twenty singles.
The player snapped, "Hey! You said when I won, you'd have the dealer change me up."
The situation intensified as Lafitte ignored him and ordered, "Get a roll."
Everyone on the crew hesitated.
Willard glared at player, "How much goes?"
The fat man defiantly pointed at his two stacks of whites, "Forty goes!"
Several rolls later, the bet won again he said, "Yo boxman. I'm sorry if I came on too strong, could you now color me up?"
"Color-up? Yessir. Y'all ready tah leave?"
"No. I want to keep playing."
Willard pushed me two more stacks of white and said, "I'll color you up when you leave. We can't hold up the game."
"Hold up the game? There's three people here and everyone's playing six bits, (75c, the table minimum)."
I paid his two stacks of white with two more as the action came to a halt. The argument escalated into a bitter obscenity filled exchange.
Between a flurry of F-Bombs the man said, "You can't do this."
A large group of spectators were attracted to the verbal combat as Lafitte announced, "The hell I can't. Who's runnin' dissy here game anyway? You? I doan think so."
The player said, "Okay dickhead, I'll shoot it all."
Willard declared, "Get a roll!"
On the first shot, a die clanked off the wall of eighty, one-dollar chips and knocked over a stack. It caromed off the egg carton-like rubber spikes that the rimmed the table before settling.
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| THE ENDS OF CRAPS TABLES ARE EQUIPPED RUBBER BUMPERS. THEIR PRIMARY PURPOSE IS GAME PROTECTION. BY ENCOURAGING ALL SHOOTERS TO HIT THE RUBBER BACK WALL, CASINOS ARE ASSURED OF A RANDOM ROLL...THUS DISCOURAGING POTENTIAL CHEATERS. |
The stickman saw the six-one combination and almost inaudibly stammered, "W-w-winner seven."
I looked down at Willard. His left hand was clamped firmly on the reds.
The shooter, from the other outside of the table cried, "Stop horsing around. Give him nickels for crissakes!"
In a casual manner, Willard "The Heat" Lafitte pushed out two stacks of white from the bank, capped it with ten more and said, "Pay 'em."
I didn't understand and was shivering as I delivered fifty dollars to pay the eighty.
The man was so agitated that he knocked over the fifty and barked, "What's this bullshit!"
A masterpiece of profanity fit for the National Gallery was painted.
The jousting simmered down enough for the man say, "God fucking damn it, forget all the whites, I bet eighty and you're paying me fifty?"
Lafitte was so cocky, "House max is fifty, suh, I dun called it out."
The player shrieked, "You didn't call out shit. Where's the fuckin' table maximum sign?" Willard coyly stared him down and smiled as the man continued, "If I lost, you'd have have taken the whole eighty, right?"
Willard was bursting with self satisfaction as he picked at a back tooth with his pinkie and apathetically said, "Mebee."
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| WILLARD WAS MR. O'BOYLE'S MINI-ME. MAYBE A WITNESS OF THAT FRACAS WAS INSPIRED TO CREATE THE ROLE FOR VERNE JAY TROYER (1969-2018) WHO PORTRAYED DR. EVIL'S PROTEGE, IN THE AUSTIN POWERS FILM SERIES. |
The player shouted, "Where's the goddamned Casino Control Commission?"
Willard drawled, "Dey's in Cahson City. Y'all kin git dee uhdress, out the da phone book."
"You don't know who your talking to. I'll sue!"
Lafitte knew he had the upper hand, "Now y'alls a lawyer. Ain't dat grand. Well I eat lawyers fuh suppah and shit 'em out in duh mornin'."
The next round of tirades was reduced to insulting each others mothers. But the man's barbs were weakening.
Disgusted, the player succumbed to the double-talk and said, "Okay scumbag, I'm leaving. Color me out."
Willard rose halfway out of his seat and seemed to be grabbing something from under the table as he said, "No."
This time, the cussing didn't last long. The defeated man...without pockets...was forced to roll the bottom of his shirt up, to form a pouch. Many of the onlookers pointed and laughed as he stuffed 130, one-dollar chips in and like a pregnant woman exposing her belly, waddled to the cashier.
Minutes after redeeming his winnings for cash, the man came by our quiet table. The dude lashed-out at Willard but the big boss-man pretended to be busy. Most of the bystanders there had missed the show and assumed he was just typical disgruntled lunatic loser.
But the player definitely caught Lafitte's attention when he said, "You better be looking over your shoulder when you leave..."
O'Boyle arrived after all the drama was over. He listened to his toady's story and congratulated his star student on a job well done.
Lafitte changed the subject, "If dey let that numb-nuts Chuck Czyrz out duh funny farm? Dat'll mean dem doctahs are more cuckoo den him."
Mr. O'Boyle ignored the chatter and said to me, "I hope you absorbed all that Edelsteen, (he always called me different names that started with E-D-E-L). Because when you sit box for me, that's how I'll want my money guarded."
A surge of bile erupted into my mouth.
Mr. O'Boyle switched back to Willard, "And, you didn't even need the dingus."
Lafitte said, "Da truth be told. I dun fahgot about it till it was too late. But I had it all duh way. B'sides Brod, I cudda whooped dat boy..."
O'Boyle said, "Who you calling Brod?"
Willard's eyes sunk as he whimpered, "Sorry Mr. O'Boyle. Won't ever happen again..."
Mr. Boyle added, "Don't be so sure of yourself. I didn't even see that weasel and I'll still put my money on him in a fair fight.
*
In mid-March, I passed the halfway point at my first craps dealing job. But the joy of slowly breaking-in and honing my craft was greatly diminished by Willard's rise in status, as O'Boyle's lieutenant.
# # #
Here's some hints of what to expect in next week's, "MURDER AT SLOTS-A-FUN...PART-2."
New characters arrived that changed the landscape, at Las Vegas' worst craps dealing job.
I finally associate the word; fun, with the Slots-A-Fun Casino.
An update on Chuck "Shirts" Czyrz's condition.
More individuals and groups that Willard"The Heat" Lafitte disrespected or hated are added to the pool of suspects in his murder.
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