NICKY REALLY WAS A PRICK

On October 5, 2015, in the wake of Robin Williams' death, I wrote a blog intended to be a tribute to him, as well as the multitude of others suffering from serious mental issues.

Today, to conform with my 40th anniversary in casinos series, I have altered that piece.  This story will feature deeper details in the life of Nick Tucker.  I'm a layperson, so I'm guessing his problem was, bi-polar disorder.

The crucial, personal information I have gathered on Nick were made possible by two individuals, his friend John Crotty and our friend, Mateo Domingo.



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I met Nick Tucker (28), in Manhattan while attending a craps dealing course in 1978. Our superficial, fellow-student relationship never evolved into a friendship.  However, three years later in downtown Las Vegas, we were reunited as craps dealing coworkers, at the Golden Nugget.

Nick became an important friend.  My regard for him skyrocketed into believing that he was a fine respectable person. I once introduced him to my wife Sue (before we were married) as, a true gentleman.

Despite my man crush, I recognized that he wasn't perfect.  So it was natural to shrug off his flaws.

One of his shortcomings was to say to Sue, "Pardon my language but..."  And then he'd use the harshest profanity that would make a longshoreman blush.  He also thought it was funny to brandish a switchblade on people.  When he did it to Sue and me, I  cracked, "Are you a Shark or a Jet?"  His response started with, "Pardon my language but..."

NICK GOT MY REFERENCE TO THE 1957 HIT BROADWAY MUSICAL AND 1961 MOVIE, "WEST SIDE STORY." WHICH WAS INSPIRED BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE'S CLASSIC, "ROMEO AND JULIET." EXCEPT, THE DISAPPROVING FAMILIES ARE REPRESENTED BY WARRING STREET GANGS IN NEW YORK CITY AND THEIR WEAPON OF CHOICE IS KNIVES, SPECIFICALLY SWITCHBLADES.

In those two rare instances, Nick was clever enough to make his nastiness come off as cute.  But beneath the surface, Nick was an angry, twisted bastard who waited for the opportune moment, (sometimes for years), to hurtfully carry out vendettas against people who he perceived had slighted him.



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At the Golden Nugget, Nick Tucker was a hero, the whole time we worked together, (August 1982 to November 1983).  It was only after he abandoned his position that I received classified intel to piece together the mosaic of his perplexing, double life.

ODDLY, THE GOLDEN NUGGET LED A DOUBLE LIFE TOO. DURING MY EMPLOYMENT, IT TRANSFORMED FROM A DINGY, SAWDUST JOINT, TO A WORLDWIDE RESORT DESTINATION.  I FEEL FORTUNATE TO HAVE BEEN A PART OF THAT METAMORPHOSIS. 

At dealer school, I was drawn to Nick's whimsical, intelligent and humorous personality.  In the school's social strata, he hung out with the jet-set (elitists).  Tucker stood out as unique among his brethren of snobs because he was kind to everyone.

Tucker's running mate at school was John Crotty.  Crotty, was a narcissistic asshole.  Even in the early stages of craps training, his upward mobility mindset defined dealing table games as a "temporary, inconvenient  obstacle" on his way to upper management.

The heart of Crotty's self-proclaimed nobility was based on the Vegas connections he bragged about.  Therefore, he remained aloof, shallow and materialistic to the nobody's of the world, unless they could relate to interests (golf) or had tangible influence that could help his aspirations.  I was one of those nobodys.  At no point at school did he and I share a spoken word that didn't relate to our class.  The only worthy thing I ever heard him say was, "Never shit where you eat."

At school, Crotty's presence deflected any possibility of befriending Nick Tucker.



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In my five years in Las Vegas, I saw John Crotty only four times.  I ducked him the first two times but the point of this story centers around the last time.  However, first I must introduce you to Mateo Domingo, (I doubt Mateo and Crotty ever met).

I was hired at the Las Vegas Golden Nugget in August 1982.  Nick Tucker was already there and we became coworkers.  He took me under his wing and in no time, I was traveling in his inner circle clique, which included Mateo (42).

I gravitated to Mateo and the background he gave me supported Nick's, God-like persona.

He said of Nick's generosity,  "He helped so many people.  Like spending a day to drive to Utah, to help a dealer load a cement mixer into the bed of his truck and bring it back to Vegas. Despite the grueling time and labor, Nick refused any payment. Nicky also counseled a floor supervisor and introduced him to his priest.  Instead of the man disowning his pregnant, fourteen year-old, drug addicted daughter, the divine intervention may have saved their relationship and the baby's life.  There were other examples too but he never accepted any money or special consideration."

Mateo also told me of Nick's tendency to set up parties and other outings for our group, (oddly, he never attended them).  Despite being a social butterfly at work, nobody knew his phone number or address, (within our clique, his mysterious home was jokingly called; the Bat Cave). No one questioned these oddities which should have raised red flags to possible peccadilloes in Nick's character.

BATMAN (1966-1968) WAS A CAMPY, LIVE-ACTION TV SERIES BASED ON THE DC COMIC BOOK, "BATMAN." IN MY CHILDHOOD, IT WAS UNFATHOMABLE TO ME THAT NEITHER THE CROOKS OR GOOD GUYS EVER FOLLOWED BATMAN BACK TO THE BAT CAVE, (JUST BEYOND THE SIGN ABOVE).

Mateo ( a craps dealer), had juice in the Nugget's executive office.  So he had access to the employees personal information.  This influence was so strong that it arranged boxman pay for him.  The bean-counters didn't catch on to Mateo's bonanza, (an extra $42.00/day, for two years). His connection also saw to it that this "oversight" was swept under the rug.

In November 1983, Nick didn't tell anyone and went on vacation during Thanksgiving.  Nobody knew where he went and two weeks later it was apparent that he wasn't coming back.  That's when Mateo found out that in Nick's file folder, he used a post office box for an address and provided the casino with a phony phone number.

Two weeks later, a few days before Christmas, I bumped into John Crotty at the Meadows Mall..  He was wearing an expensive suit and had an unnatural orange glow from a tanning bed session.  I was afraid he was going to bend my ear about how set for life he is.

Instead John asked, "You still at the Nugget?"

I was impressed that he knew I was there at all, as I said, "Yeah.'"

He said, "Where's Nicky? It's like he disappeared."

I shrugged, "Dunno. Nobody does..."

Crotty started talking...and at no time did he speak about himself.

At one point his voice cracked, "I thought I had the best friend I always wanted in life...but Nicky was more skitzo than 'Skitzo-Al.'"  (Skitzo-Al was a regular guy from dealer school who hid the fact that he was deaf in one ear, resulting in an erratic personality).

Before long, I would hear the all highlights of John and Nick's friendship. Apparently Nick got to Las Vegas a couple of months before Crotty.  In that time, to minimize costs, Nick became roommates with a UNLV student.  When Crotty came to town, he and Nick got a place together.

Crotty said, "Nick's tongue really flapped when he was drunk."

John and I sat on a bench as he shared Nick's life story:

"First," he said,  "Nick's real name is Lonnie Orlando.  Nicky must have really fucked-up because he bought fake ID.  He wanted to go off the grid...and picked Vegas.  I bet whatever put him on the run was a combination of shitty circumstances.  Like being an only child.  He was about twenty, still living at home when both his healthy but elderly parents died a month apart.  He inherited their-turn-of-the-century house, in a beaten-down section of Newark...the back of his property touched the tall barbed wire fence that surrounded Newark Airport's freight terminal."

I patiently listened as Crotty continued, "Nick became a high school business teacher.  Which meant for $9,100.00 a year, he was stuck teaching non-college bound juvenile delinquents how to type."

"Soon he married a grade school teacher named Annette and she moved into that house.  They were broke, so he wouldn't let her refurnish or decorate the place to her liking.  Plus, it was the only house left standing on the whole block, in the middle of a slum.  They argued a lot because she hated being isolated without convenient shopping and never feeling safe.  In the name of love, she might have made do but Nick also had an insane phobia about going too far from home.  So forget romantic vacations, they hardly left Newark."

Nick life didn't seem so tragic to me.

When I pretended to yawn, Crotty spoke faster and his voice went up an octave, "Nick wanted to teach history but there were no openings.  He dedicated himself to instructing his misfits.  Through jokes, care and understanding, he got enthusiasm from dregs that usually don't give a rat's ass."

"Towards the end of March, Annette felt so neglected that she left him.  Nick told me, her leaving made him so depressed that he considered killing himself.  Then in June, he won the Teacher of the Year Award.  On the last day of the term during a fond farewell with his students, some silliness got personal.  He had words with his pet student and lost his temper. They cursed each other.  He was losing the battle of wits and felt the urge to physically attack her.  Luckily, he controlled himself.  But he quit on the spot, walked out the door without taking his best teacher trophy, clearing his desk or picking up his last check."

"Wow," I said.

Crotty kept talking, "I don't know if he ran because he did something to that girl later or if it was something else.  But your buddy Lonny Orlando saw a TV commercial for our dealer school and soon signed up as Nick Tucker."

I said, "That's crazy.  Did he go after his wife?"

Crotty said, "No.  She had already divorced him and Nick didn't even contest it. But did you ever notice he always took vacations at Thanksgiving?"

I didn't and shook my head as he forged on, "He picked that time of year because Annette and her family followed the same ritual.  So he knew exactly when and where she'd be.  Then he'd travel incognito back to Jersey and harass her."

I said, "No way.  He was such a great guy, he could never hurt her."

"Well, he felt betrayed by Annette.  Don't forget, while still mourning for his mom and dad, she wanted to remodel the only house he ever lived in...and, erase the memories of his folks."

"Financially, because of her, he screwed himself royally by turning his back on his career and giving up half of everything he owned, even that old house."

I said, "I can't believe it. Nick was so smart, he knew right from wrong, he went to church..."

John cut me off, "I NEVER saw him go to church out here!"

"Well," I added, "He was a funny man, caring, generous and so confident."

Crotty said, "I'm telling you, he snapped. Normal people can only be pushed so far.  The one's with deep-rooted shit, are capable of doing terrible things."

"No.  You don't think he killed that teacher pet's of his?"

He said, "I hope not.  But you can't rule out anything."

John said, "Nick got to Vegas before me and lived with a college kid.  Nicky told me they didn't get along.  Nick was dealing on graveyard at the El Cortez and wanted to sleep from eight at night till two in the morning.  But it was the student's apartment and he thought nothing of blasting music and partying all the time.  They clashed over the noise.

The kid had Thor, a parrot who could talk.  To really piss Nick off, he taught it to say, "NICKY'S A PRICK, NICKY'S A PRICK..."

AS A HOMAGE TO THE MONTY PYTHON, "DEAD PARROT" SKIT, THE KID CLAIMED THAT THE BIRD'S BREED WAS A NORWEGIAN BLUE. THERE IS NO SUCH  BREED. UNFORTUNATELY, THE KID'S DEAD PARROT JOKE WOULD BE PROPHETIC.

John Crotty sighed, "To get even, Nick doused Thor's birdseed with Tabasco Sauce. His shit was blood red for a couple of days...until he died.  I'm no animal rights guy but what Nick did was criminal. Whenever he told me that story, he included lines from the Monty Python sketch. It wasn't funny."

I said, "Parrots live like forty years..."

John said, "That's right.  It's like a member of the family.  So when the kid attacked him, Nick whipped-out his switchblade, kicked his ass, trashed the apartment and bolted."

"Did the guy get cut?"

"No."

I said, "But he pressed charges?"

"Maybe?  But apparently Nicky lived there under a different phony name.  And he quit the El Cortez, so he couldn't be tracked down."



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Seven years after moving to Atlantic City, (1991), my wife Sue and I had a Vegas vacation.  We telephoned Mateo and met him for lunch.

He told us about Nick, "Months after you left, my connection in the executive office let me read a Xerox copy of a November 1983 arrest report, from Ionia New Jersey.  He (Nick) had slashed the tires of his ex's new husband, broke into their house, trashed the place and smeared his own shit on wedding and honeymoon pictures.  Then on the morning of Thanksgiving, he broke into her parent's house.  He was holding his own crap and was about to do the same thing to that house when cops burst out of closets, the basement and attic."

I said, "Nick had no family or real friends so nobody would miss him?"

Mateo said, "You're right.  The police got his true identity from Annette and the application fingerprints, on his Nevada gaming license."

I sighed, "That boy needed professional help."

He huffed, "Nick had too much pride."

I said, "He needed to be on meds...sounds like he went off the deep end and could have become one of the assholes that goes berserk and drives up on crowded sidewalks and mows down strangers."

Mateo was shaking his head as I continued, "One of Nick's friends (John Crotty) was right, you shouldn't shit where you eat."

Then I shared with him a lot of what Crotty confided to me.

When I finished with the parrot story I said, "Nicky really was a prick."



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I have sympathy for those with mental problems. Whether or not Nick Tucker/Lonnie Orlando was clinically sick in the head, we'll never know.  I just hope, wherever he wound up that he got enough help that would allow his universally appreciated side to blossom...and stay in bloom .  If not, he was the lowest, low-life scum.