ONLY HOMICIDE DETECTIVES SEE MORE SHIT THAN CRAPS DEALERS

In generations before the baby-boomers,someone who completed their education without a direct career path, frequently went into the military where; "they would make a man out of you."

In 1977 when I finished Brooklyn College...without a direct career path, the service was NOT an option. I turned to the casino industry, to make a man out of me.  I grew up fast.  Now, forty years later, I feel, only homicide detectives see more shit than craps dealers.  

Some might disagree to the level of manhood I reached but the truth is, I've embraced the good, learned to side-step the bad and found humor, to deflect the basest awfulness.

This blog is dedicated to all my past and present coworkers who were hit in the face with the awfulness.



                                                               *




The Fremont was the best craps dealing job downtown because it was a, “table for table" house.  Which meant that the four dealer crew split their tokes, (tips) rather than being pooled with the rest of the casino.  Plus it was the sister property of the Stardust (on the fabulous Las Vegas strip), and all their dealers had to come up through the Fremont to get to the big time.

My first exposure to soliciting tips came from fellow dealer Israel Guerrero.  Unkempt and reeking of alcohol, Izzy was a Puerto Rican from Spanish Harlem.  A “retread” or journeyman dealer, he had been fired by nearly every casino downtown.                                         

Guerrero was difficult to understand because of his heavy accent and slurred words. Nevertheless, he was clearly superior to me in ability, game knowledge and personality towards the players.  But there was one thing he made crystal clear, he didn’t like my reluctance to hustle tips. 

     
For me, our game's pace was frenetic.  Just "getting around the lay-out,” was tough enough but the added onus of continually risking my position by asking people for tips was nerve racking.

Izzy's wanted me to understand, if you don't ask for tokes, you'll, (we'll) starve.  I hated the feeling of his eyes on me.  Yet he never busted the balls of another silent crew member, Latino Don Marquez.  

Marquez was a good looking man who attracted girls all day long.  If asking for tips equated to starving, he gave the impression that he still ate well. 

Izzy's frustration with me caused him to keep repeating phrases like: "Eets okay."  "Now." or "Axt heem."

Even if I was willing, I had no concept of how to approach the task and certainly had no idea what to say. 

To demonstrate, Izzy sloppily begged a young girl for a twenty-five-cent toke. It was bad enough that Don Marquez looked down at Izzy as if he was peasant. But Guerrero's timing couldn’t have been worse. Arnoldo Hoyo was relieving our regular boxman.                                           

Hoyo a Mexican, had a pale Anglican-like complexion.  He was meticulously groomed and possessed a refined manner. Despite being short, he regulated the game with a high level of superiority. 

CLEAN-SHAVEN ARNOLDO HOYO HAD A PRONOUNCED CREVICE BENEATH HIS NOSE AND ABOVE HIS UPPER LIP. AT CERTAIN ANGLES, WHEN THE LIGHTING WAS RIGHT, THIS SHADOWY DARK SPOT RESEMBLED ADOLPH HITLER'S MUSTACHE.

Hoyo was the casino’s self-proclaimed “eyes and ears.” He “sweat” the money like it was his. Hoyo made the dealers feel uneasy about the casino losing.  He was also a control freak and enjoyed bullying inexperienced and less talented dealers with endless minutia.                         
Hoyo was angered by Izzy's blatant appeal for a minimal tip.  In a combination of Spanish and English, he reprimanded Guerrero. 

     Izzy said, “Why doan you mine you fuckin’ beeznis.”                                                         
The craps game continued as Hoyo verbally attacked in Spanish.                                     
     Izzy snarled, “Stop splainin’, I doan wan to be like you.  No one else geeves a shit wah I say or wah I look like.  I doan care, write me up.”                                                                    
     Hoyo looked at his watch, “Don’t worry I will.”                               

On his break, Hoyo completed a Disciplinary Action Form.  

     He stood behind Israel, waved the paper in his peripheral vision and in a “holier-than-thou” tone said, “I can have them discharge you.  But I did you a favor; I only wrote down your gross indifference to the dress code, poor hygiene habits and insubordination towards me."

     Izzy turned sideways and said, “Fuck you!”                                                                       
     "Of course señor, if you feel that way, I can include hustling for tokes or being intoxicated."

Guerrero menacingly stared me down and began ranting at Hoyo in Spanish. I felt guilty about "jack-potting" him as he was tapped-out for his break. Hoyo tried to detain him but Izzy didn't stop. 

     From the aisle, Israel walked backwards and called back, “I feel sorry for you.  I’m a man.  Wah are you?”

Hoyo sputtered a weak rebuttal in Spanish.

     Guerrero returned to the perimeter of the pit and barked, “I make a leetle money, I drink Bacardi and I get some pussy.”  He shrugged and added with a sense of finality, “Dats eet!”

A heated exchange in Spanish ensued and Izzy stormed off.  Hoyo tried to get in the last word and threateningly called out in Spanish.                                                                           

Izzy returned and calmly said, “Pendejo, you can’t fire me.” Suddenly, his blood-shot eyes blazed as he blared, “Cause I queet!” 

Tulio Encarnación our Cuban pit boss, in his raspy voice intervened after the fact, “He’s a street kid.  Why are you always trying to rehabilitate him?” 

Israel glared back at me before disappearing behind a row of slot machines.  

Tulio added, “For your sake Arnoldo, he better come back!” 

Encarnación didn’t like Hoyo or his one-man crusade to uplift Hispanic’s position in society.  However professionally, Hoyo was a “houseman,” a front-line watchdog protecting the casino’s best interests and therefore, a necessary evil. 

                          *

Hoyo detested being called Arnoldo and made a point of obscuring his name tag behind his suit-jacket lapel.  He preferred, “Cito,” however few dealers called him that.  Even his loud-mouth, obese wife, who had come in when our shift started, called him Arnoldo.  Her sarcastic emphasis in using his real name caused him to cower like a mouse.  Despite the language barrier and my first day jitters; I still found it funny.
   

The veteran dealers hated Hoyo because he prevented them from hustling tokes. They also recognized him as being "buried." By focusing on small details, an inexperienced dealer or a layperson might not see his ineptitude for the overall job.  Therefore, the established dealers encouraged the rest of us to call him A.H. (code for Ass-Hole or Adolph Hitler).                                                                                                      Hoyo, despite a slight accent, spoke fluent English.  But he was unfamiliar with the subtleties of its colloquialisms. Blinded by his own bloated self-importance and the fact that another dealer was called by his initials, Hoyo accepted being called A.H. as a sign of respect.




                              *




Later while standing-dead, Hoyo became embroiled with a dealer from another crew, Ken "Einstein" Julian.  A conservative man with a milquetoast personality, Ken (29) had been a CPA in the Bronx.  From the next table, I watched he and Hoyo trading barbs after Julian inadvertently showed-up Hoyo by quickly paying an involved proposition bet correctly.

A mediocre dealer at best, Julian was a whiz at math and had earned the nickname the "Argument-Ender."  That moniker evolved into A. E. and eventually, to Einstein.  When Hoyo tried to countermand his payoff with a lesser amount, Einstein stuck to his guns.  Hoyo wrote out the problem and was humbled that his underling had proven him wrong.

                                                                                                    *

                                                                Einstein said nothing.  On his next break, he met privately with Encarnación. The pit boss was already miffed at Hoyo for causing Izzy Guerrero to abandon his job.  He sided with Einstein’s warranted grievance but for the sake of diplomacy (fearing a chain reaction might leave him further short handed before the holiday), he decided against taking action.  This tact was terribly irksome to Einstein.  He thought Tulio owed him, because his promised transfer to the Stardust was long overdue. Plus, Einstein felt he deserved special consideration because over the past year, he had become Encarnación's indentured financial adviser.  Strung along, Einstein prepared the Cuban's taxes, set up an investment portfolio and helped him shop for a car, gratis.  So without satisfaction, he visibly seethed over this added injustice.

     
When my first day was over, I walked through Binion’s Horseshoe Casino.  At the rear bar, I spotted Einstein slumped despondently.  He was staring at his pony-glass filled with an odd fluorescent green drink that resembled Kool-Aid.  I would later learn that he went through this ritual and got wasted after every shift.  I wanted to ask him if he thought Israel Guerrero would come after me. But he had a bad day and we were strangers, so I minded my own business.

                               *

The Fremont was always short staffed for holidays.  To minimize the problem, management had a special arrangement with two former employees, who were roommates.              

Short, slight of stature and sporting a big Afro, Rudy Amos was (34).  The son of affluent professionals, he was raised in Sausalito, California.  A Philosophy Major, he had dropped out of CAL Berkeley to join the anti-war counter-culture.  When his psychedelic flower-child days were over, he came to Vegas.  

An articulate and affable fixture throughout his seven-year career at the Fremont, Amos had matriculated to lead craps floorman.  Unfortunately, he became stricken by Sickle-Cell Anemia and was forced into an early retirement.  Permanently disabled, the casino paid him “off the books” to work holidays.                                            

Rudy Amos was the brains of the odd-couple.  He ran their apartment, managed their budget and maintained a schedule. But the effect of his potentially fatal affliction gave him acute, intermittent pain in his joints.  Amos was limited to doing light duty and avoiding agitation. He spent the majority of his time, in the apartment either watching old movies or reading about them. 

                                                                Amos’ spry appearance and cheerful disposition made him seem healthy.  However to those unaware of sickle cell’s scope, his painful, seemingly unprovoked profanity laced tirades led them to believe that he suffered from Turrets Syndrome.

     
Archie Young Jr.(70), was Amos’ less vocal roommate. He was in charge of the grunt work and heavy lifting.  Archie enjoyed reading about military history, weapons and strategies but had dropped out of school in eighth grade to become an auto mechanic. 

     
A native of South Philadelphia, Young enlisted in the Navy and was an original Sea-Bee in WWII. During the Korean War, he also saw extensive action as an engineman on an aircraft carrier. Young rose to the rank of chief petty officer and served the remainder of his nineteen-year stint, at his hometown’s navy yard.

                                                                Archie was gawky at six-foot-five and heavy-set. His uncool appearance was supported by thick “coke-bottle” glasses, being bald and having a gruesome indentation in his skull.                                                                                          Shortly before his retirement and eligibility for a full pension, Archie, while in dry dock repairing a destroyer, was involved in an “accident.”                                                                                                                         Being older, good-natured and so big, Archie was frequently targeted by petty pranks. On this occasion, an overly enthusiastic initiate being hazed into a black clique viciously hit over the head with a wrench.  Bloodied but still standing, Archie reflexively grabbed his dumb-founded assailant and threw him off the top deck.  Fished out of the Delaware River, the kid miraculously survived.                                                                                    Despite a sparkling service record, Archie was served an “Other Than Honorable Discharge.”  He was labeled with psychological racial prejudice and was given a “Section-Eight.” Thus forfeiting all Veteran Administration sanctioned benefits.                                                                                              Archie suffered for fifteen years with recurring migraines that related to the accident. He dealt craps when needed at the Fremont and picked up a few extra dollars doing minor auto repairs.  When he and Amos were up to it, they also did some small-time hustling in casinos.  Otherwise, these men were mutually dependent of each other, relying on their specific strengths to assist the others' shortcomings.

The next day, Amos and Archie came into the Fremont to say hello.  They received a hero’s welcome when Amos announced that they’d both be working the Labor Day weekend.  Archie was wearing a decrepit, oil-stained Philadelphia Athletics ball-cap. 

     I said, Here comes Gus Zernial."

     Archie said, "Wow.  How would a whipper snapper your age know about my team?"

     “Well,” I crowed, “I am a ‘storehouse of useless information.’” 

THE PHILADELPHIA ATHLETICS (1901-1954) HAD A LONG HISTORY OF FUTILITY.  JUST BEFORE THE FRANCHISE MOVED TO KANSAS CITY IN 1955, SLUGGER GUS ZERNIAL HAD SEVERAL GOOD SEASONS AND WAS THE A's MOST POPULAR PLAYER

.

We began a retrospective conversation as my craps game heated up. 

     Archie, sensing it was time to go asked me, “Well Mr. Storehouse, know anyone looking for a reliable, inexpensive car?”                                                                        
    “How inexpensive?”
     
      “Two-fifty for the car and a twenty-buck finder’s fee for me."

On my next break, Archie took me to the Horseshoe's adjacent high-rise parking lot to see it.  On the way up, he ranted about being kicked out if the Navy. 

     He whispered, “I was counting down the days to retirement when they did this.”                                                           
     
     Archie removed his cap to show me his gash and I said, “Who are they?”                                                             

     “I don’t hate Negroes.  I took everyone all over Philly. Didn’t matter what color they were.” 

He was getting upset so I tried unsuccessfully to change the subject. 
     
     “Damn it,” he hissed, “I took ‘em all back to the old neighborhood.”  Sentimentally he added, “The bars on South Street, Madigan’s for cheese steaks, the whorehouse on Arch Street and the Melrose Diner for breakfast.”                                      

He was still blabbering when we got out on the third floor.  As we walked, I noticed in a late-model Chevrolet Caprice, the bobbing head of a woman. Pre-occupied, I imagined that she was performing oral sex. 

Archie tugged my shirtsleeve, “I’m no bigot. You believe me? Right!”                                                                                                                          
Fifteen cars further back, we arrived at an ugly, green, four-door, 1971 Ford LTD.  Its Colorado tags had nine months left on its valid registration sticker but the car was a mess.  The driver’s window was stuck three-quarters of the way up and the unusable trunk was smashed in.  Plus, it wasn’t air-conditioned. For Las Vegas, at any price, that was a tough obstacle to overlook.

Archie said, “Take it for a spin. She runs great.”

Disinterested, I was distracted by the couple getting out of the Chevy.  I was shocked, it was Arnoldo Hoyo.  My eyes locked on his skinny companion’s, short shorts and scanty tube-top.  When they kissed, he fondled her tiny breasts and I ruled out that she was a prostitute.                                                              

Archie blabbed about the value of the car until I said, “Sorry, no thanks.”                                                                                                                 
On our way down to the Fremont, his price plummeted. 

     Back at work, between my stick calls, Archie magnanimously said, “A hundred for the car plus my finder’s fee.  How’s that?”

     
     “Arch, it’s a bomb.” To appease him I added, “It doesn’t even have a cigarette lighter.”

     
      “You want a lighter, I’ll get you one.”                                                    
Hoyo didn’t realize that I saw him upstairs and harshly backed Archie off the game.

Amos overheard Hoyo rousting Archie and scoffed, “Hey A.H., where’s your name badge?”  Before Hoyo could respond, Amos in a mock Spanish accent said, “Badges, we don’t need no stinkin’ badges.”  Amos gave him a vicious a sneer and added, “C’mon Archie, let’s go.”                                                                                                                               Hoyo’s insufferable nit picking started.  He told me to never talk to friends on a live game.  He claimed I ran the game too slowly and wanted my full stick calls louder. Later, while concentrating on an involved “long-shot,” pay-off, he distracted me by insisting that I tuck in my shirt. 

I was still the stickman as he scolded me about delivering working stacks to the wrong side of the bankroll. Hoyo switched his attention to torture another dealer.  That's when, for the first time, I appreciated the symmetry of the chip-bank.  While dodging Hoyo’s leers, I counted the bank between rolls. 

The black chips ($100.00 each) were a snap because there was three full stacks plus two extra chips.  The greens ($25.00) were also easy because there were exactly twelve full stacks.  The scattered reds were confusing, so I stopped.

Seconds later, I moved from the stick, to a dealer base. My first transaction was to make change of three greens.

“Change only seventy-five,” I called.  To keep A. H. off my back, I maintained strict procedure and set the three chips in front of him.

Irritated, Hoyo corrected me, “It’s not ‘change only!’ It’s check change.”

I muttered, “Check change.”                                                                                                     Out of curiosity, I watched to see where in the perfectly balanced bank, Hoyo would put the three stray chips.  Oddly, with scant action on the table, these chips were nowhere to be found.  There was a sudden influx of new players and my budding mystery was forgotten.

Towards the end of the shift, Hoyo’s flat-chested girlfriend appeared.  Hoyo was sitting on Ken "Einstein" Julian’s game as the hyperactive girl paced before them. 

Malevolently she called out, “Cito, you know what you have to do.”  
Hoyo was embarrassed and told her to leave. She stayed.  He was rattled by her presence and fidgeted unnecessarily with the equipment to avoid eye contact.  

To get his undivided attention, she squeezed between two players, leaned towards him and snarled, “If you don’t care, I don’t care!”

Julian noticed that Hoyo’s uneasiness continued after his mistress had left.  He watched A. H. checking the time and nervously re-arranging both dealers green stacks.  When Hoyo left to go on break, Einstein’s keen eye had detected that after all the little Mexican’s moves, he still had the same amount of green chips but the other dealer was missing five.

                           *

At 8:PM, Archie was waiting for me outside the time office. I caved-in and agreed to test-drive the car.  On the way to the Horseshoe’s elevator, I spotted Einstein.  He was slumped over his unique beverage.  We exchange silent nods.

I was puttering along Main Street and said to Archie, "This hunk of junk only has an AM radio.”

"Steve, I'm giving you a cut-rate." 

“Arch, the trunk is useless and there isn’t a spare tire.”

He pointed out the rusty jack in the backseat, “And!  You're gettin' four brand new radial tires?”

Back in the parking lot, Archie made a point to show me the tires.  After a little more coaxing, I conceded that the heap ran well. I showed Archie that I had $108.00. 

“Good,” he said, “give me the money and you can pay me the other twelve bucks tomorrow.”

“No, this is all I have.  I need some walkin’ around money.  I’ll give you 95 flat, take it or leave it.”

“Hey,” Archie whined, “I gotta get my finder’s fee.”

“I don’t really care. Tell the dude, you sold the car for 75.  That’s my final offer.”

On our way downstairs for a celebration drink, I put Archie's scribbled bill of sale in my pocket.  At the Horseshoe's back bar, I saw the ever-depressed Ken Julian. I apologized to Archie and joined Einstein.

“Do you want company?” I asked.

“No,” he said, “but that’s okay.”

I introduced myself and discovered we were both New Yorkers.
I asked, “What are you drinking?”

“It’s a liqueur called Green Chartreuse,” he answered, “I’ll get you one.”

“Nah, I’ll stick with beer,” I said. 

     I told him I bought a car off Archie he smirked, “You probably got ripped off.”

      
     “Maybe,” I said as I took out my receipt. “But for $75.00, it didn’t seem too risky.” 

           
     He nodded, “First chance you get, take the title and registration to the DMV.”

           
     “This is the only paper he gave me.”

           
     “Well,” he said, “you got ripped off after all.” 

We laughed together and he asked to see the car.

     
A drunken Israel Guerrero stumbled by and cursed me in Spanish. 

     
     Einstein said, “What was that all about?”

     I said, “I worked with him yesterday and he quit.”

     “Yeah I know, but he said he’s gonna fuck you up.”

     The hackles of my neck rose as I said, “Really?”

     “Well, stay clear of him, he carries a navaja.”

     “A what?”

     “You know a knife...a shiv...a switchblade.”  He saw my blank expression and added, “You sure you’re from Brooklyn?”

     
     In the elevator Einstein confessed, “I have my own problem with Hispanics.  I got Arnoldo Hoyo and the ‘Dominican Dandy’ fired.”

     I didn't know who the Dominican Dandy was as Einstein added, “A.H. was ‘swinging’ with green checks. I got Tulio to put undercover security on him.  They followed him to the alley behind the Friendly Club. They caught him buying cocaine off Don Marquez with stolen greens from the Fremont.” 

I made the connection and said, “Wow! I saw some greens disappear off my game but I wasn’t positive.”

     
     “Yeah he was careless about it.  Tulio told me that he confessed right away.  He was ‘coking-up’ that bimbo of his and she started blackmailing him.”

     
     “Geez,” I said.

     
     He added, “Actually, I wish I never got involved.  Marquez guessed it was me and swore to Tulio that he’d kill me.”

     “Shouldn’t you report that to the police?”

     “Nah! Marquez’d be doing me a favor.”

            

                          *

     Einstein took a superficial look at my car.

          He said, “Come up to the roof, you gotta check out the view from seven stories up.”

    
          I looked out into the distance as Ken said, “I come up here hoping for inspiration.”

          "Those mountains are real nice."
          "He stared at the northern horizon and mused; “Only a New Yorker could look at barren, brown, dead rocks and call them, 'nice.'”

Einstein sighed and vented his troubles:  "My dad and his brother, good ol' Uncle Dudley, owned a corrugated box factory off Gun Hill Road.  They were both widowers, with one son.  Their business insurance included a stipulation that in the event of one of their deaths, 49% of the company would revert to the dead brother's son.  When the second brother passed, the two cousins would again be equal partners."

I nodded as beads of sweat formed on his face.

     “The day after dad’s funeral, my uncle who I hate, read me this ‘key-man clause.’  I was shit-faced and told him to shove the ‘entity’ up his ass.  Deep down I was confident in the potential of my accounting service...I stormed out.” 

     
Einstein tensely walked to the barrier and looked down at the street.

     A tear came to his eye as his voice cracked, “When I got home there was more trouble.  My fiance told me that she was pregnant.  I loved her so much and wanted a family but the timing was bad.  She contradicted our previous agreement and called abortions barbaric. Our relationship unraveled.  A week later, my father still wasn’t cold in the ground and she challenged me with the ultimate of ultimatums, ‘Both of us...or none of us.’ I felt pushed.  Impulsively I said, ‘None.’” 

“The next day, dear Uncle Dudley invited me to lunch at the swanky Hotel Pierre in Manhattan.  He begged me to reconsider.  I was too stubborn.  I was pretty drunk that day too and stupidly said, ‘I’m not interested.’  He then rattled-off some legal mumbo before announcing, ‘I have no choice but to protect my own interests.’  He produced a buy-out document that would eliminate me from any future claims on the business.  I thought about being partnered with my ‘pill-popping’ dead-beat cousin and capriciously signed.  I thought I was being cool, when the entrees arrived, I threw down my napkin and silently left.”

     After being lost in thought Einstein concluded, “Soon, I felt suffocated in New York and moved here to be ‘unencumbered’ by responsibility.  What a schmuck I am.”

“Go back and see your girl,” I suggested.

“Can’t,” he blurted out. “She’s married almost three years.  They probably told my daughter, that other guy’s her dad.  It’s tearing me apart.”

“Start a new business here.”

He struggled with his emotions, “I put the Uncle Dudley money in a trust fund for my daughter. I’m broke. I don’t care any more.”

                            *

On Labor Day, Amos showed up for work as a boxman.  His suit was comically too big. 

Tulio our pit boss asked, “Was that custom tailored?”

Amos who bought it from Goodwill for five-dollars unwittingly said, “Yeah man. You like it?”

Tulio laughed, “Oh, then who was it tailored for?”

Archie was assigned to deal on my crew that day.  He stood out because the Fremont had switched to shrimp-colored dealer uniform shirts years earlier and Archie was wearing his ratty, white shirt and the Western string tie that was worn in the 1960's. 

Amos and Archie made the time go fast and it distracted me from thinking about Izzy Guerrero. For the gregarious Amos it was a stress-free social opportunity.  Somehow, he gutted-out the regularity of his torturous Sickle-Cell spasms, (crises).  To help him project an upbeat image, he teased Archie, who put on clinic of, “How NOT to Deal Craps.” 

     
     Archie’s age had overwhelmed his experience. Like a tripod, he planted his right hand on the table for balance and made all the payoffs one-handed.  He dealt so slow that we were able to fix on his liver-spotted hands and the thick automotive grease under each brownish-yellow fingernail. 

Amos used his own agony and Archie’s ineptitude to openly solicit “pity-tips.”  We made ninety-two dollars each that day, doubling my average.

                               *

Einstein was unusually glum that day.  After work, I went to his spot at the rear Horseshoe bar.  He wasn't there and the bartender hadn’t seen him.  I went to the other bars but the “green chartreuse guy” was nowhere to be found.  During my search, still wary of Izzy Guerrero, I ran into Archie.

     “You see Einstein?”

     He shook his head and jibed, “How much does he owe you?”

     “No, no I just want to ask him something,” I said as Amos gingerly inched out of the men’s room. 

     “We gotta go,” Archie said. “Upstairs I got a brake job I’m taking home.  Where’re you parked?” 

Not to be distracted from my mission, I looked past him and said, “Damn holiday, I had to park on the roof.” 

Archie said to me, "See ya later."  Then to Amos he said, "Save your strength, wait outside, I'll pick you up."
Amos moaned, "I'm cool. I'll go up with you."

On the way to the elevator Archie said, "I found you a lighter. I’ll stick it in for you on our way out.”

When I turned from them, Izzy Guerreo was in my face.  
He reeked of booze, jabbed me in the stomach with his finger and whispered, “You lokey, I get job here or I cut you, long deep and forever...comprende.”                                 

Izzy walked off in a Horseshoe uniform.I breathed a sigh of relief and resumed my search for Einstein.

     
Archie drove his client’s car to the roof.

     
They saw Ken "Einstein" Julian walking aimlessly.  Archie honked the horn but Einstein was oblivious and unzipped his dealer shirt.  At the cement retaining wall, he was talking to himself as he looked down at Second Street. He removed his shirt, balled it up and threw it down as if aiming for the Fremont.  Bare-chested, he sat on the wall as Amos and Archie scurried towards him.  He shimmied along the ledge and then suddenly twisted to hang his legs over the side.                                                                               “Stop!” Einstein shouted. “Or I’ll jump!"
     Amos drifted to the right to open a dialogue as Archie instinctively backed off to the left and announced, “I’ll get help.”

     “I told that cheap bastard Tulio off.                                                                 
     Amos held up his right hand suggesting Einstein to wait, “That was cool my brother. Then what happened?”                                                                                                     “I demanded a promotion to the Stardust and Tulio said, ‘I can’t put my name on you.  You aren’t ready to deal on the Strip.’  I told him that was bull and that I wasn’t going to do any more free shit for him. You know what that little prick did?  He fired me.”                               
Rudy Amos was hoping Archie would return with help because he heard the growing crowd below, imploring Einstein to jump.                                                                                         Amos said, “You know I’m a dying man. Life is too fragile to just throw away.”

     “Shut up!”

     “Listen man, anything done can be undone.  Anything undone can be done."

     “My life sucks,” Einstein bellowed while shifting his position.  Amos gasped thinking he was going over as Einstein spat, “It ain’t gonna be pretty. Go away so you don’t have to see.”  

Amos was desperately trying to keep him talking when he heard a queer scraping sound along the wall. 

     
     Under this extreme pressure to say something profound, despite a background in philosophy, Amos quoted from the film, “It’s a Wonderful life,” “A man with friends can never be a failure.”

     
It was uncertain whether Einstein was stirring for comfort or whether he was lurching forward or backward.  However, Archie who had crawled on his stomach to out-flank Einstein surprisingly sprang up from between parked cars. With a single swipe of his “meat-hook” hand, Archie with a soiled shirt and bloodied arms plucked his unsuspecting prey off the wall.  Whatever token resistance Einstein gave suddenly ended, as Amos screamed profanities and collapsed.                                                                        Frozen in fear, the startled pair watched Amos writhe in pain.  Archie released his grip on Einstein when he realized that Amos was experiencing an extraordinary crisis.                   

Obscenities aimed at his "maker" filled the air as Amos lay convulsing.  Suddenly, an unmarked, black Ford Crown Victoria roared up the ramp and skidded to a halt.                          
     
     Two plain-clothes officers emerged from their unit as Archie cried out, “Call an ambulance!”  

Five minutes later there were two more unmarked police cars on the scene.  The ambulance arrived as handcuffed Einstein was lowered into the back seat of the first Crown Vic.  Amos' body trembled as he was restrained and set onto a folding gurney.  Archie pushed through the crowd of officers and caught upside down eye contact with Amos before he was loaded into the ambulance.  

In a brief moment of strained calm, Amos impersonated Blanche DuBois from “Streetcar Named Desire.”                                                                                         
     “Whoever you are,” he gasped, “I have always depended on the kindness of strangers.”                                                                                                                  Archie realized that this was the worst crisis he’d ever seen his comrade endure. Shuddered by anxiety, he became dismayed when he wasn’t permitted to ride with Amos to the hospital.  The gurney was getting pushed in, as Rudy Amos passed-out.                                            
     The ambulance doors slammed in Archie’s face as he said out low, “You’re a better man than me Gunga Din.”  

The witticism brought a smile to Archie’s face because he knew his “other half” would have appreciated it.                                                                                            
The police left without questioning Archie.  The roof, which had been so chaotic, now housed the solitary figure of a bewildered old man.  A migraine took hold of Archie as he drove to the hospital.                                                                             An hour later a doctor told Archie, “I regret to inform you that your friend has succumbed...” 

The rest of the statement was never heard as Archie, holding his throbbing head staggered out.

     


                                  *



Two days later on the roof of the Horseshoe garage, a sweeper found a decrepit blue cloth baseball cap, adorned with a squiggly uppercase ‘A.’ He had no appreciation for its vintage, so without the slightest hesitation, it was trashed.

     
Archie came into the Fremont and helped us to understand Rudy Amos' death.  He had no idea what happened to Ken Julian.  He soon complained about his worsening headaches and that without his companion, felt weak.  

Throughout the next few weeks Archie’s headaches became more frequent and more intense.  In the Fremont's help's hall, on the day before Thanksgiving, someone hung up Archibald Young Jr's obituary.  Tulio told us, he died alone, of a broken heart.



                                  *



I have been congratulated for staying in my profession so long.  I understand what they mean but there isn't a gold watch at the end of the rainbow.  I usually just shrug and say of my stick-to-itiv-ness, "Forty years sounds nice, but it only means, in all that time, I haven't had a better idea."