TARGETED BY HERSCHY'S KISSES

The almost 100% true tale below, is an excerpt from my short story. "RIDE-OUT, WHITE-OUT AND RIGHT-OUT." Its theme was the mastery of; people, equipment and directions, in order to keep your Las Vegas casino job...or in this case, keeping your head!

In order to stay consistent with my 40th anniversary in casinos mission, today's theme has been adjusted to:  while dealing craps, humor as a venting release is an invaluable tool . Because all coworkers aren't willing to check their dignity at the door and accept the humbling, give and take of a tough job.



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December 31, 1979 would not be an ordinary Monday afternoon. It was the last day of the year, the last day of the decade and nearly...the day of my life.

Shortly before 10:00AM, my dealing craps shift at Vegas' Hotel Fremont was about to start.
To my surprise, a player known only as Mr. S., (wearing a custom, thousand-dollar black suit), was standing inside the dice pit.  Maybe he was clairvoyant and knew he was going to attend a funeral?

MY SUCCESS IN GAMING IS DUE TO THE FREMONT BEING THE SISTER CASINO OF THE UPSCALE STARDUST WHO EXCLUSIVELY TOOK NEW EMPLOYEES FROM THE FREMONT.

Even stranger than Mr. S. (70+) being in the pit, our floor supervisor Teddy Rideout, (34), in an off-the-rack checkered sports jacket from K-Mart, was giving the old-timer, a two-minute tutorial on how to be a boxman.

My memory of cigar chomping Mr. S. was his reputation as a demanding, high maintenance stiff (non-tipper).  His snarly attitude made it obvious that he hated common front line employees (us) and the Fremont's penny-ante gamblers who he chose to stand among.

Mr. S.'s action made him stand-out as high-roller.  He played the "don't come" with three-hundred dollar bets (black chips) when the rest of out clientele was risking mainly yellow 25-cent chips.  More importantly, Mr. S. might have been around craps tables since the dawn of time, but his bets, he had little practical knowledge of the game...and zero knowledge in supervising it.

Mr. S. was a hulk. At six-foot three, his athletic body suggested a lifetime of heavy, manual labor.  Maybe he had been a boxer or a bouncer because he had the scarred face of a brawler.  To complete his ogre-image, his deadpan scowl and gravelly voice was acutely intimidating too.

The staff knew he was a big-shot and a golfing buddy of the casino manager. In his gambling days, the dealers and lower management avoided challenging him rather than risk their jobs. Few people looked at him and only the bravest souls directly addressed him. If that wasn't enough, there were also rumors that he had ties to organized crime.

Our floor supervisor Teddy Rideout was a good choice to indoctrinate the newcomer. Rideout's corporate swag and upbeat, urban personality had as much appeal in the back alleys of his native Detroit as it had in the baccarat pit of his former employer, Caesar's Palace.

While explaining to Mr. S. the Fremont's procedures, policies and boxman duties, Rideout was thorough, patient and professional. Later, he confided in us that Mr. S. couldn't even keep-up with the use of normal craps lingo and that the fossil continually said, "Yeah, yeah, yeah," or "whatever."

Maybe Mr. S. wanted to learn but he definitely didn't want to be taught. That's why I didn't perceive his indifferent to Rideout's assistance as racism, I took it as elitism. More simply, he was used to giving orders...not taking them.

Rideout was sharp and realized the old man wasn't listening.

He light-heartedly changed the subject to the stool Mr. S. was going to sit on and said, "This antique is busted." He demonstrated the intricacies of raising the seat and adjusting the testy swivel mechanism of the boxman's seat. He added, "It's also bottom heavy and weighs a ton.  Don't try moving it because the wheels were crushed and fell off years ago. They should..." Teddy stopped himself before implying that the place was cheap. Instead he coughed, "Umm, uh, they should tell newbies that this chair feels like it's bolted to the floor."

When my crew came on duty, Mr. S. rose above his apathy and thanked Rideout.  He shook all the dealer's hands, introduced himself as Herschel Schtiermann and added, "But please, call me Hersch." When he got to me, his huge, calloused meat-hook enveloped my hand. His bone-crushing, vice-like grip was scary and painful.

At first, our game was light and Hersch seemed human. The relic took a liking to me because I picked-up on a few of his Yiddish phrases. Soon he told me that he just retired and moved from Peoria.  And, rather than gamble every day, his friend (our casino manager) juiced him into this cushy, part-time job.

In a grandfatherly way, I liked my new senior citizen buddy.  He was comfortable enough with me that he shared private information like his wife's latest face-lift, his string of ladies ware factories in the Midwest and the mansion he was having built inside a gated community. Nevertheless, I never lost sight of his reputation for having a volatile temper. So it was prudent to let him dominate the conversation.

Hersch's humanity was about to vanish because it was New's Year's Eve, the busiest, craziest day of the year.  Just before noon, the crush started.

Soon, Schtiermann confirmed that he was buried, (in over his head), when I asked him for a "buy-button" and he barked, "What the fuck is a buy-button?"

Eric, one of the other dealers on my crew was a born-again Christian. Hersch became agitated when Eric's religious sentiments were constantly being injected into the game. During a calm moment, Hersch told him to stop citing chapter and verse but Eric ignored him.

When our game became frantic Schtiermann whispered to me, "This schmuck doesn't know who he's screwing with...if this Jesus shit keeps up, he'll be sucking his trafe through a straw...for a long time!"

By 2:00PM, our game was swamped. The party atmosphere was in full swing and despite weak leadership, we kept the game moving.  The mood was suddenly broken when a redneck in a chewed-up, straw cowboy hat made a claim for a missing, six-dollar place bet.

Hersch pissed the player off by saying, "Six bucks? Tex, don't waste my time with your petty fantasies."

To soften the situation, Eric suggested, "In good faith, let's give him the benefit of the doubt."

Our floorman Teddy Rideout saw how angry Hersch got at Eric and said, "This is small potatoes. Let's keep the dice in the air. Set-up this gentleman's action and watch him more carefully."

Hersch's allegiance was with the casino's best interest. He grabbed the dice off the game.  Rideout without being critical, objected to the curmudgeon breaking the cardinal rule of: don't stop the game.

Schtiermann called him, "An incompetent moron," and demanded the pit boss.

Our pit boss was a cut-throat little Cuban with hair plugs named Tulio Encarnacion (54).  He was flirting with a buxom cocktail waitress and didn't appreciate being bothered by trivialities.

Tulio squawked, "Dios mio!  Hersch, forget this jackass.  Just move the dice, you can't stop the game over bullshit.  Get a roll."

DESPERATE BALD MEN PAID BIG MONEY FOR THE STATE-OF-THE-ART TECHNOLOGY OF HAIR PLUGS.  FEW ENJOYED TRUE SUCCESS WHILE THEY ALL ENDURED THEIR "PROBLEM" BEING MORE NOTICEABLE.

Hersch wasn't craps savvy enough to know that Tulio backed him up.

Mr. S. proved he was a hatemonger as he muttered profanity-laced racism aimed at Blacks and Hispanics.

He was also hurling white trash insults just loud enough for the dealers to hear as the hillbilly shouted, "What about my six-dollar eight?"

Tulio further supported Schtiermann as he put his hand on Hersch's shoulder and said, "My man has thirty years experience..."

The hick interrupted, "I don't give a flying fuck.  He's wrong!"

Tulio pointed at the player and snapped, "I said forget it!"

The good ol' boy's face was as red as his neck as he yelled, "I don't have to take no shit from no dartboard head!"

I controlled myself from laughing as Hersch cut-off the dude's disgruntled rant and insisted that he apologize to Tulio.

The redneck mockingly said, "Yeah right. Eat me!"

Schtiermann lunged from his seat and swiped his left arm at the man.  While the good ol' boy recoiled to avoid the attack, Hersch's glittering gold cuff link and huge matching Rolex were exposed.  When the argument escalated, Mr. S. leaned forward and spit on him.

Everyone was in shock as Mr. S. growled, "Pick-up your shit and get out before I throw you out!"

Hersch looked like he was going to hyperventilate as he plopped back down on his heavy, anvil-like stool, as the player screamed vulgarities on his way out.



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Our madhouse of a game remained littered with rowdy drunks.

Luckily, Schtiermann had long regained his composure until Eric said, "Steve shorted, two from the stick, fifty-cents."

In the middle of all the chaos, Hersch tapped my arm and said, "Give that guy half-a-buck."

I stood straight up and smiled. I gestured to the other eight bets I still had to pay and joked, "Don't you think I have more important things to do first?"

I continued my progression until a commotion by the players caused me to peek behind me. Hersch was standing, his eyes ablaze with his two-ton stool cocked over his head like a ten-ounce Wiffel baseball bat. Just as it was coming forward to club me over the head, Teddy Rideout grabbed Hersch and the chair crashed harmlessly down.

The whole casino reacted to the thunderous noise. People were rushing over as I noticed that Hersch was seething.  He had white gauze at the corners of his mouth as three other supervisors got between us and subdued him.

I still hadn't fathomed that Teddy had narrowly saved my life or at least prevented some level of brain damage.  At the same time, Hersch kept hollering profanity while being ushered to the pit-stand. The casino manager hustled into the pit. Moments later, bracketed by security guards, the big boss led Mr.  S. away.

At the edge of the pit Hersch pulled away, leered at me and roared, "I swear, I'm going to kill you!"

I sweat-out he rest of the day. I assumed I was getting fired and worried that the old-timer was going to make good on his promise.



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At 6:00PM, our tumultuous shift was over. Tulio Encarnacion called my crew to his podium. I figured everyone was getting fired because of me.

Instead he said, "You guys are coming in tomorrow at 8:00AM. Right!"

One of the other dealers said, "No, we got New Year's Day off."

Tulio said, "What's the matter, you pendejos can't read?"

He pointed to the weekly schedule. In the coveted New Year's Day box, the black, typewritten word "OFF" had been whited-out. In its place, written sloppily in red ink was, "8:00AM."

INVENTED IN 1956 BY SECRETARY BETTE NESMITH GRAHAM, (MOM ON MICHAEL NESMITH OF THE MONKEES), WITE-OUT IS AN OPAQUE (OR WHITE) CORRECTIONAL FLUID, DESIGNED TO MASK TYPING ERRORS.  ONCE DRY, IT CAN BE TYPED OVER.

Encarnacion added, "You jackoffs are lucky you all weren't shit-canned. Just take this punishment as a goddamned gift."  When Eric protested the Lord's name being taken in vain Tulio growled, "Shut up and be here sober...at eight!"

Hersch never worked again at the Fremont.

I ESCAPED HERSCH'S WRATH AND DEALT AT THE FREMONT THREE MORE MONTHS.  I WAS SO WELL-THOUGHT OF THAT FOR A SMALL (SOLICITED) FIFTY-DOLLAR BRIBE TO TULIO, I WAS TRANSFERRED IN MARCH 1980, TO THE STARDUST.

Two years after being sent to the Stardust, while on break, I crossed paths with Herschel Schtiermann, (and his wife), outside the sports book.

Hersch, despite being over-dressed in a tuxedo, still looked like a thug. His wife, trim and elegant for seventy, was wearing a flowing evening gown and looked like a million bucks...in cosmetic surgery. I nodded to acknowledge Hersch.  He gestured me over.

He smirked, "Kid, I had the power to make your life a lot easier. Instead, you hadda be a fuckin' wise-ass. You have no idea how close you came to the kiss of death."

Mrs. Schtiermann gave me a dirty look, grabbed her hubby by the crook of his arm and said, "C'mon Herschy, remember your heart...we came to Vegas to forget that stuff."



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Yes, without humor I couldn't have lasted 40 years in casinos.  Of course, any comedian will tell you, it's important to know your audience.  But I'm not perfect.  My flippancy has occasionally been taken the wrong way...in this case, it could have been permanently harmful to my health.  Considering I had survived in this racket for so long, as a whole, I wouldn't have changed anything.