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.