PAUL "SHAG" DARROW, MY FAVORITE PIT BOSS

I'm happy to report, the events chronicled below...as ridiculous as they may seem...are accurate and not exaggerated. 

At the Holiday International Casino, Paul "Shag" Darrow made dealing craps an adventure, full of fun and surprises.   He was also, my first pit boss that I had a personal relationship with.  From our first meeting, (mid-May 1979), until the last time I saw him, (September 1, 1979), we were on the same page as we tried to entertain each other.

                                                                         *

I passed my craps dealing audition at the Holiday International and was assigned to swing shift (8:PM-4:AM).                                                                                                                                                 Minutes before starting my first night, the pit boss, Paul "Shag" Darrow (34) made me feel at home before putting me on the spot, "Can you deal dice?"  

I was still twenty-three and between Slots-A-Fun and the Western, I had little practical experience.           Anyone could see I was bundle of nerves but without a prepared response I said, "We're going to find that out right now." 

     Shag smiled, "I hope so."

I smiled back, breathed a big sigh of relief and went to work.

     Shag's maverick demeanor,  mischievous smile and deep, probing, green eyes reminded me of a young James Cagney.  His nickname was derived from his wild, curly red hair that resembled a shag rug.  He was bright, articulate and friendly.  Plus, he was both a good talker and a good listener.  Dealers confided in him and were rewarded with spontaneous and entertaining solutions to their problems. 

     
His boss, our shift manager Del Harding was a meticulously dressed and elegant man.  At fifty, Harding’s distinctive resume included being the baccarat pit boss for twelve years at the Desert Inn as well as running a private gaming club in London.  He infrequently stopped by the Holiday's four-table crap pit but when he did, it was to exchange haberdashery and grooming tips with Beau Brummel-like Shag.

GEORGE BRYAN "BEAU" BRUMMEL (1778-1840) WAS AN EARLY LEADER IN MEN'S FASHIONS.  TODAY MANY TRENDY DRESSERS ARE KNOWN AS BEAU BRUMMELS.

     During my first week, Shag called me to the pit stand as I went on break.

     "Steve," he said, "What part of New York are you from?"

     I said, "The Canarsie section of Brooklyn."

     He said, "How far is that from New York City?"  

                                                                                                                                                      Shag was disinterested when I clarified the five boroughs.  He wanted to hear firsthand New York City survival stories.  So I conjured up absurd tales of urban life like; iron shutters on private homes and scheduled muggings.  When I mentioned cockroaches, waterbugs, maggots and lice, his interest intensified.                                                                                                                                                        He said, "You ever see a mouse?"                                                                                                              I said, "Mouse? Forget mice.  In the subway, I switched trains at Fourteenth Street and accidentally walked to the far end of the platform."

He said, "So?"
"Well, away from all the commuters, something caught my eye where the station ends and the tunnel begins. There was a double row of twenty, old, beat-up and burnt garbage cans, filled to the top with trash."
"What's so special about that?"
"As I got closer, I thought I was hallucinating because the shit was moving."
"Heh?"
“I got to about twenty feet away when I realized, they were rats."
Shag got enthusiastic and said, "Did you say rat or RATS?”

I shrugged, “Rats.”

“You saw rats? How many?”                                                                                                               Rather than ruin his image, I didn't mention my immediate u-turn and scurrying safely, to the center of the platform.
I said, “Couldn’t say for sure.  Couple hundred I guess.  Those filthy bastards were like ants on an ice cream cone.  They fought each other for whatever was edible.”

He made a five-inch gap between his fingers, “How big were they?”

“We’re talking about RATS."  I exaggerated, "Some were as big as cats.”                                  Our conversation, based on his fetish for vermin, specifically rats, became the foundation of our "at work" friendship.

                                                                               *

One night Del Harding made a rare appearance in the craps pit.  He was so cultured that he probably thought craps, and the clientele it attracted, were rustic and beneath his station.   

Del complimented Shag’s new slate suit, solid royal blue tie and the matching handkerchief puffing out of his breast pocket.

“Thanks,” Shag said. He looked at his freshly 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 noticed that Del, (Mr.  Meticulous) was unshaven.  He sneered at me.  It was so out of character for a him to have even a single hair out of place but 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.

Del bragged to Shag, “My bags are packed. I’m flying to Kodiak Island, Alaska after work.” 

“What’s up there?” 

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

Shag faced me, rolled his eyes and said, “That’s so cool.” 

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

Shag waited for Del to be out of earshot and 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 he’s compensating for something else.”

                                           *

Later that night, at 2:AM, Shag flagged me down as I was going on break.

     “Yo Steve, how big were those rats?” 

I exaggerated my arm span and said, “Bigger than this, was a medium.” 

Shag’s tie had been loosened, the top button of his shirt was open and a golden chain with a razor blade charm was exposed.  His eyes were heavy and he was jumpy.  While we spoke, he tore open a packet of Sweet’n-Low.  Shag spilled the white granules onto the pit stand’s glass tabletop and removed the razor charm from his neck.  Nervously, he chopped away and produced six, long powdery lines.  He nudged me as a young porter came to empty the wastepaper basket.  Shag produced a swizzle-stick straw and made an offering gesture to the girl.  She did not hesitate and snorted a line of bogus contraband. 

She beamed, “Thanks!”

It was hard to keep a straight face especially when Shag said, “Go ahead, we already had plenty, do another.” 

“Really?” she said with a warm smile.

The girl ducked her head, held her finger to her opposite nostril and repeated the process.

Revitalized, she stood tall and seductively said, “You are way cool.” 

Shag reached into her master trash bag, produced the emptied sugar substitute packet and blared, “I could get in big trouble if that was the McCoy.”  

She blinked in surprise and wryly said, “Whatever. It was still great, thanks.”

Purposefully, she walked away.

I was still tickled by the girl as I returned to my table.                                                           

Dick Paynlewski, my favorite boxman (immediate supervisor) was on my game when I returned. 
He showed me his new pair of Bally's shoes,  "I found these in a bin at a discount store for $35.00.  They're regularly $180.00.  I gotta wear two pair of socks cause they're a twelve and a half and I wear tens."                                                                                                                                         Considering that Dick was always broke, it was a big surprise that he took advantage of the bargain footwear.
                                                                                                                                                 Dick was the anti-Del Harding.  He owned three suits.  They were dated, woolen and usually looked like he slept in them.  He didn't always shower or shave and his hair was a mess.  Many times he was hungover on duty.  Other times he was drunk and/or going across the street to the California Club to support his degenerate gambling problem and to take advantage of the free (otherwise 50c) drinks.                                                                                                                                                       Paynlewski drove a rusted-out, 1961 Corvair.  His was eighteen years-old and had a reputation of having parts occasionally fall off. I bet Del Harding wouldn't get in that heap even his car broke down in the middle of the desert.

THE CORVAIR WAS PRODUCED FROM 1960-1969.  IT'S NAME WAS DERIVED FROM TWO OTHER CHEVROLET SUCCESSES, THE CORVETTE AND BEL-AIR.  KNOWN FOR HAVING ITS MOTOR IN THE BACK , THE CAR  WAS ALSO NOTED FOR BEING DIFFICULT TO HANDLE AND DANGEROUS TO DRIVE.

Our table was crowded with old men.  The layout was littered with bets close to the minimum (75c) and the highest was three dollars.  Shag was rubbing his nose a lot and pacing behind Dick Paynlewski and me. Between dice rolls, he and I commiserated about his Cleveland Indians and my Mets.  Suddenly Shag brightened as a friend of his came through the casino carrying a caged animal. 

They exchanged raucous greetings until the man said, “I have twelve more in the car. Can I ask your guys if they want to buy them?” 

Staring in wonderment, Shag ignored the proposition and wondered, “What is it, a hairy rat?” 

“No,” the pet purveyor answered, “it’s a ferret. They’re in the weasel family.” 

“Looks vicious.  Does he bite?”

The man thought he had a sale and trumpeted, “They don’t bite and kids love ‘em!” 

Shag opened his hands and with a foxy grin said, “Lemme check him out.”                        Shag was handed the ferret.  He stroked its furry neck and nonchalantly approached the table.  He leaned between Paynlewski and me and purposely dropped it onto the layout.  
The frightened devil did laps around the outside of the high-walled, oval playing surface.  It crashed through the dealer’s working stacks, scattered bets and destroyed some of the chip bank.  The staff and customers were all hysterical with one exception, Dick Paynlewski.  
On the third time around, Dick took it upon himself to capture the fleet-footed rodent but his futility only made the situation funnier.  Two passes later, Paynlewski lunged.  At the precise moment he corralled it, his new shoes slipped on the carpet.  Dick’s face smashed into the table and he lost his grip. 

Paynlewski tried again and soon had a firm hold of the critter.  Our “hero” was pivoting to hand the ferret back to Shag’s friend, when it took a nip out of his thumb.  Dick twitched in agony and made a tormented yelp.

The laughing crowd hushed until he wailed, “You said they don’t bite.  Oh Christ oh mighty, I’m bleeding!”

He was referring to his finger but blood was also dripping from his broken nose.  Everyone erupted in laughter.

The game situation had to be recreated.  The players made some outlandish claims but Shag didn’t care. After normalcy was restored, he sent Dick to the infirmary. 

                                                                         *

A week passed.  Our game was full of raggedy old men (locals) waiting for their wives to come out of the last bingo session. Shag came up behind me as a new player, in a preppy country club cardigan, (about sixty), rudely squeezed in and disturbed the spacing of the comfortable players. 

This cocky man balled-up a fifty dollar bill, tossed it at the boxman and proclaimed, “Twenty-four each, six and eight.” 

There was nothing unorthodox about the bet, except that the casino was an oasis to “low-rollers.”  Shag didn't like some rich prick trying to feel like a big shot at the expense of our modest regulars.  He positioned himself with his back to the players, between the boxman and me. 

Shag whispered to me as I set up his action, “I hate control freaks. Watch this.” 

     Two dice rolls later, the man realized that Shag was staring at him. 

He hissed, “What are you looking at?” 

“Mister if I told you what I thought I was looking at, I might lose my job.” 

He rebutted, “That’s why you don’t get no darn play in this dump.” 

Shag exploded, “DARN, DARN you wanna fuckin’ curse!  Pick up your goddamned money and get the hell out of here.” 

“You can’t do that.”

Shag hid his grin as he ordered, “Hand off all his bets...he has no action.”

He picked up the phone.  Composed, Shag idly admired his fingernails as he spoke.  Twenty seconds after hanging up, two burly security officers escorted the irate man out.

                                                                           *

Dick and I went to the Binion's Horseshoe after work.  I tried not to laugh because he looked so funny with two black eyes from his broken nose plus a big bandage on his face and all that gauze jammed into his nostrils. 

     We were talking about work as Dick stood and nasally said, “Most nights, Shag’s ‘wasted’ on coke.  He got in big trouble at work once.  But as you can see, he's hyped-up or jonesing for more just about every night.”  He then interrupted himself, “I gotta hit the head.

IN THE LATE 1970's, COCAINE WAS LARGELY CONSIDERED NON-ADDICTIVE, RECREATIONAL, LUXURY POT.  SOME OF THIS STRONG STIMULANT'S MENTAL EFFECTS INCLUDE: LOSS OF REALITY AND INTENSE HAPPINESS.  SINCE THEN THE PUBLIC HAS LEARNED ITS TRUE ADDICTIVE NATURE WHILE FURTHER PROCESSING OF "COKE" HAS LED TO DEADLY FREE-BASING AND CRACK.

Dick took care of his business.  On his way back to the bar, he stopped and managed to blow all his money playing blackjack.  I reflected on how naive I was to have missed all the signs that Shag was a heavy cocaine user.

                                                                            *

On I-15, going home that night, I survived a serious car accident.   But I woke up from a short sleep at home, 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.  My roommate (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 and try to get a job. Will you guys re-hire me, when I’m okay?” 

Shag was called away but he told me to stick around.

Twenty minutes later he came back and said, "What were we talking about?"
“W-well,” I stammered as I raised my cast. “Will you hold my job until I can work again?” 

“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.”

                                                                          *

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 penny-ante action typified what was so boring about the Holiday. 

On the other side of the table, a lone black man had a dollar bet 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. Shag, always starved for entertainment, stared at this odd hairdo until he noticed a cricket hiding in this fellow’s tresses.

When it was his turn to roll the dice, Shag, thinking he was being funny alerted 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 on the unsuspecting soul.  He was so scared that he left eight dollars behind and fled. 

That man was a guest of the hotel. The next day he submitted an angry, formal complaint demanding discipline be taken. 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 written into his work history that one more “strike” 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 in a vanilla, stupor of general malaise. 

                                                               *

One day after my cast was removed, (September 1, 1979), I was hired at Hotel Fremont with the stipulation that I had to be ready to work in thirty minutes.

DECEMBER - 1979,  IN FREMONT UNIFORM, ON FREMONT STREET, IN FRONT OF HOTEL FREMONT.  PHOTO CRED:  AUNT HATTIE

I ran back to the Holiday International to tell them I was quitting without notice (technically, twenty minutes).  I felt awful considering how great they (Shag) was to 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 went to Shag and told him of my predicament.  He perked up out of his dull funk.  Like the old Shag, 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 did.” 

“I thought it was your decision.” 

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

I blew off finding Del and hurried to the Fremont.

                                                                   *



Months later, Del Harding spotted me in a sporting good store.  I told him that the Fremont had promoted me to the Stardust.  He was highly complimentary.  He got involved with a salesman so our chat abruptly ended.  I didn't get a chance to see if he was still at the Holiday.  Later, in my car, I also regretted not asking how Shag was.



                                                                    *



A year and a half later, I was fired from the Stardust.  I had so much trouble finding a good job that it took weeks before I gave up and tried downtown.  It was hard to find work there too, so I sought out Shag, at the Holiday.  It was kind of creepy, I didn't see a single familiar face.  Far worse, nobody there ever heard of him, (admitted knowing him).



                                                                    *



Paul "Shag" Darrow, almost forty years later, stands alone as my favorite boss.  He proved it was possible to have fun in the craps pit...even if that enjoyment was catapulted by an illegal substance...that probably cost him his (crumby) job.