ERIC THE GREAT'S BRIEF, CASINO SHEPHERDING MISSION

The story below is taken from my 2004 short story, "RIDEOUT, WHITE-OUT AND RIGHT-OUT." It's theme was; successful, long time casino employment through; the mastery of people, equipment and following directions. 

Spoiler alert!  You'll soon see, how I managed (by accident), to follow the right path, while my Hotel Fremont coworker Eric "Eric the Great" Crossley, months later, failed miserably at the Stardust Casino.

To conform with my 40th anniversary in casinos blog series, this piece has been shortened and modified. 



                                *



In the pre-dawn shadows of a Las Vegas early morning, I felt like a burglar as I opened the creaking, unlocked apartment door.  Inside the one-bedroom unit, my eyes struggled to get used to the empty living room's strange red glow.  Elvis Presley’s “Blue Christmas” was playing in the background which added to the inappropriateness because the holiday had passed.

My eye was attracted to three, stubby jasmine-scented candles.  The candle in the center was the tallest and the one on the left was unlit. Further, on the side wall, I saw a single artificial log burning in the small fireplace. Eerily, the flame had a strobe-effect off a limp, unadorned, “too big for the room” Christmas tree. Barren and flaccid, there was nothing joyous about this symbol of happiness. 
Perpendicular from the hearth was a worn, two-seat vinyl sofa with a black bearskin rug in front of it. Above the fireplace, perched on a narrow mantel, eight fancy picture frames with metallic edge-work shimmered in the scarlet murk.  Adding to the gloominess, the photo’s images were blackened by the lack of light.

To the left of the tree, she mystically appeared. Her face glistened as she provocatively posed in the doorjamb of the bedroom. Our eyes met as the cassette of holiday favorites changed to Johnny Mathis’, “Sleigh Ride Together With You.”

She closed the door and her enigmatic Mona Lisa-like expression phased into a seductive gaze.  She approached.  I marveled at how the dancing flames reflected on her skimpy, fuchsia kimono.  I glanced past the robe's short hem and took-in her supple long legs.  When my eyes returned to her face, her full smile blossomed. 

Her delicate hand slid down her robe’s lapel and her slender fingers undid the sash.  The lyric, “a perfect ending to a perfect day,” filled the air as she exotically shook her head. With a whimsical fluff-up of her tresses, all but her upper arms and shoulders were exposed.

I stammered to say something but before I could udder a word, she placed her index finger on my lips. We came together in a light embrace. Tiny pecks and gentle caresses led to deeper kisses and more purposeful squeezes.  I kissed her satiny neck and cupped her breasts. She guided my hand below her abdomen.  Soon, she began fondling my genitals.  We were pleasuring each other this way until she undid my dealer pants.  She followed my trousers down and rubbed her face into my jockey shorts.  Through the material, she nibbled me and then took minute, loving bites until she paused to pull off my shoes. 

I was led to the bearskin rug where my pants and underwear were removed. She reached into her robe’s pocket and withdrew two, oblong, gel tablets and handed them to me. 

She smiled, “Sweetie, you’ll love these.” 

Against my better instincts, I swallowed them. 

In one continuous lick, she teasingly traveled from my chest to my feet.  She took off my socks and massaged my feet.  Her touch was so sensuous that a luxurious calm came over my whole body. I was shocked she was doing it, but on the other hand, I was more surprised that it didn’t tickle.

This wonderment improved when her tongue darted between my toes. My arousal intensified as she sucked each individual digit. 

At that moment, I became sidetracked by the realization of how sweaty my feet were from dealing craps all night. My uneasiness doubled, when the unknown effect of the pills I had taken began to gnaw at me. I think these distractions helped prevent me from prematurely exploding.      

Suddenly she stopped!  Without warning, firmly with both hands, she grabbed the sides of my right foot.  She bent my foot inward.  It cracked like a knuckle.  I felt an impulse of excruciating pain but it phased gently into euphoria.  I was never so turned on in my life!  I was on my back as Burl Ives’, “Holly Jolly Christmas,” came on, as she straddled me.

A short time later, the climax of, “Come Oh Ye Faithful,” was playing when she dismounted me...in time to intentionally take my “money-shot” across the bridge of her nose.  I watched her tongue strain to collect the droplets and was amazed how she scraped the unreachable excess with her pinkie before erotically inserting that finger between her lusty lips. 

In a tight embrace, we basked in the after-glow when I became disquieted by the thought that I would start hallucinating from the pills.  I forced myself to think of something else. 

My excitement grew until I amorously looked at her and whispered, “Ready.” 

She recoiled and coldly remarked, “You can send in Johnny now!” 

Emotionless, she re-tied her obi and turned on the lights. 

She blew out the other short candle and said, “I need a few minutes to freshen up. Tell Johnny to come up, after I turn off the lights. You and Mark can leave, Johnny’s spending the night.” 

At a loss, I muttered, “See you at work.” 

On my way out Dean Martin was crooning, “Baby It's Cold Outside,” when I noticed the photo array on the mantel.  All the images were of a little girl and a man.

                              *



When Johnny left the car I casually mentioned to Mark, “Eric missed a great night.” 

He sneered, “Eric isn’t into IT!” 

“He’s gay?” 

“No, no, no.  He’s a Jesus freak.” 

I never noticed. Eric and I were hired a day apart but in our four months at the Fremont, these past few shifts were he first time we worked together.

Mark began ranting how much he dislikes Eric especially when he calls himself Eric the Great.

To change the subject I blurted, “Mark, how do you feel?”

“Creepy. Those pictures of her dad were intense.”

“Heh?”

“That was her dad in the photos over the fireplace.”

“What do you mean?”

“I thought everyone knew...her mom died in child birth and she was brought up by her dad.  He was killed by a drunk driver when she was twelve...it was on Christmas Day.”  He then speculated, “I guess that’s why she does the ‘gang-bang’ thing during the holidays.”

I felt dirty.

After a long pause I asked, “But...how do you feel physically?”

“Great,” Mark responded. “Why?” 

“Did she give you anything?” 

“Nah.  It was just wham-bam thank you ma’am. Hell, she didn’t even offer me a beer.” 

I didn't mention getting my toes sucked was the greatest thing that ever happened to me and said, “Yeah, me too.” 

We were turning onto Boulder Highway at the Silver Dollar Saloon when Mark remembered, “Well now that I think about it, she gave me jellybeans.  We were tradin’ ‘em back and forth while we sucked face.” 

In an unimpressed manner I chirped, “Really,” as I tried to mask my relief and naiveté.

                       *

Downtown at Hotel Fremont the next day, our craps crew was standing dead when Eric said, “Mark told me about your sinful night.” 

Caught off guard, I innocently shrugged. 

We were both twenty-four but Eric shook his head and said to me, “Son, you should be ashamed...didn’t you recognize her vulnerability? Have you no respect for her, the job or yourself?” 

His eyes became glossy and as if to shun me, he turned away.

Later, I was the stickman when a player made several bets for the dealers. On the first roll we lost them all.  Out of frustration, I grumbled obscenities. Eric gave me a dirty look and I felt the wrath of his condemning leer. 

Between dice rolls, I said, “Sorry.” 

Eric flippantly said, “You shouldn’t be worried about me.”  He pointed upward, closed his eyes and pontificated in a holier than thou manner, “Perhaps, you should worry about Him?” 

                                                                             *




Our pit boss, Tulio Encanarción was a cutthroat little Cuban with a big, raspy voice.  He was not only famous for demanding payola from craps dealers on big toke (tip) days but he’d threateningly assign entire crews or individuals tasks that were unrelated to our job description.  One such chore was designating random amounts of Girl Scout Cookies or some such item to be bought from his daughters. 

     The backbone of Tulio’s clout was his authority to promote.  Through his recommendation alone, craps dealers were sent to the casino’s mother property, the Stardust. He relished this responsibility and used it as a springboard to extort layoffs, (bribes). 

To get his point across he’d privately say, “You wanna go up to the Stardust?” 

If you said yes, he’d tell you where his burgundy, late model Buick Riviera with the vanity license plate, “WIMPY” was parked and add, “I’ll leave the car window open a crack, just wide enough to slip in an envelope.” He’d finish by saying, “Now, we’ll see how much you want to go.” 

The prestige of dealing on the strip was enough of an incentive but at the Stardust you could also count on doubling your toke income.

Tulio interrupted Eric's sermon by saying, "The other day Mikey V. got a nice Christmas present, 'they' sent him up to the Stardust.  Who knows maybe if one of you lumps keeps his nose clean, 'they' might make 1980, the best year of your life.  And by the way, while you're at it, let's make Hersh's first day, an easy one."

INTERNET PHOTO OF AL CAPONE.  ON THE AFTERNOON OF NEW YEAR'S EVE 1979, HERSCHEL "HERSCH" SCHTIERMANN WAS OUR  BOXMAN (IMMEDIATE SUPERVISOR).  IT WAS HIS FIRST DAY EMPLOYED IN A CASINO, AT ANY POSITION.  THIS NEAR CATASTROPHIC (TO ME) STORY IS NOT RELEVANT TO THIS EPISODE BUT CAN BE FOUND IN THE DECEMBER 9, 2018 BLOG, "TARGETED BY HERSCHY'S KISSES."

          

Three months passed. In that time, I never lost sight of the miracle of surviving the Herschel Schtiermann incident. Still, hardly a day went by that I wasn't spooked by the thought of him. 



                             *



On a random day in early March, I was going on break and Tulio intercepted me. Ever since the problem with Hersch, I had projected a persecution complex onto myself. So out of a fear of Tulio firing me as an after thought, I kept a low-profile and avoided him.  
Tulio’s dour expression looked past me as he silently led me to the quiet side of the pit. My throat burned after a surge of bile gushed into my mouth. The only hope I had was this being a false alarm.  Maybe he was only going to weasel me into buying some shit from his kids.  Hell, I was so tense, I probably would have gladly washed and waxed his stupid Riviera on my next day off.  

My eyes were fixed on the ugly red casino carpeting at my feet when he finally squawked, “Hey man, you wanna go up to the Stardust?”
Beyond the Hersch issue, I only had fourteen months experience. Plus, several other dealers were more polished and had seniority.

     In a stupor of confusion, I hid my joy and mustered, “Yeah!” 

Tulio reminded me where his car was, its color and his, “WIMPY” personalized plates. 

He added, “I’ll leave the window open a crack, just enough to slide an envelope through!” 

I rushed off and used the sixty-one dollars in my pocket to buy, the newest, crispiest fifty-dollar bill the cashier had.  At the hotel’s front desk, I got an envelope.  I ran down an alley off Ogden Street where pit-bosses had reserved parking. I found Tulio’s old burgundy Buick and the passenger’s side window was indeed opened just a crack. When I slid my envelope in, I noticed there already was another on the seat.

     Later, Tulio handed me a letter of introduction to the Stardust and rasped, “Hey man. Make me proud!”

                         *

The next morning, I waited to be processed inside the Stardust’s employment office. Soon, Eric came in.  He was holding the identical paperwork as me. We hugged each other and triumphantly pounded each other’s back. 

Eric pointed upward, "He who looks into the perfect law..."  I knew what was coming and tuned him out.  The next thing I heard was, "and perseveres." I returned to daydreaming until he put his hand on my shoulder and concluded, "will be blessed."
I said, "Yeah, yeah.  Good things come to those that wait."
Soon, we were laughing about the “good old days” when I said, “What a coincidence.  We both started at the Fremont together...and now the Stardust.  Luck was on our side, to get on the strip with so little experience.”

Eric’s face turned serious, “He has pre-destined us.  There are no coincidences.  And luck had nothing to do with it either...remember, we were blessed.”

I wasn't going to let Eric ruin my mood. I forced an uneven smile over my grimace and didn’t tell him off.

                         *



Our first job status was called, the “extra board.”  That meant, Eric and I were on twenty-four hour stand-by, in case an established dealer couldn’t make it to work.       

During the short orientation, we were told that an extra-board assignment could be turned down without official repercussions.  However it was implied unofficially that if you turned down a day, you could “slip through the cracks” and never get another call. 

Regardless of the inconvenience, I accepted every call I received. On my fourth day, I bumped into Eric. He hadn’t worked yet and he came in to complain.

I said, “I can’t believe they haven’t called you yet.”

“Well, they did call me Sunday morning but it was just as I was leaving for church.”

"You gotta pair of brass balls,” I said. 

His face contorted because of my brash language.

I plowed on, “Refusing your first chance probably wasn’t a good idea.”

“No, no. They understood why I wasn’t coming in.” 

I said, “You don’t understand.”  I gave him my interpretation and suggested, “You should be more flexible, at least until you’re firmly established.”



                          *

Three days later I had arrived!  I was off the extra board and assigned a permanent crew on swing shift.  It was during my first regular day that I heard that Eric, later that night, was debuting on graveyard with his first of two, back to back shifts.        

Graveyard craps dealers held sway to a fifty-year-old bully named Billy O’Callahan.  Billy, since he was twelve, had a history of hooliganism dating back to his poker and blackjack dealing days in South Boston.  By the time he was a teenager, he “ran numbers” until getting “jammed up.” After serving time, he moved west. He was now a twenty-year Las Vegas craps dealing veteran.

O’Callahan was only five foot-six but he was animalistic in build and personality.  Some women found him attractive but he had nearly no forehead and a thick uni-brow that narrowly separated his eyes from his slicked-back, black hair. His deeply scarred face and discolored high cheeks personified his beastly image.  O’Callahan’s black eyes (the right one was slightly crossed) when combined with his other traits, added a touch of craziness to his fierce persona.

Billy routinely lashed out at both customers and coworkers.  His temper usually took the form of verbal abuse; however he was no stranger to brawling, even at work.

Eric took a collision course with Billy by introducing himself as “Eric the Great!”  By the time he made his third biblical reference, Billy had heard enough.  Still everything remained quiet until Eric transgressed O’Callahan’s number-one unwritten rule...refusing to hustle tokes!  Without any qualms, Billy ridiculed him on a live game.  

Eric’s snobby response to the belligerence was, “I don’t beg, borrow or steal. And neither should you.”

He was confident his words would quell Billy’s ill-temper and help him to see the light.  Billy boiled inside, but he chose to wait until after work.

At the Stardust, craps dealer’s tokes were kept in slotted, locked strongboxes that were numbered to correspond with each table. At the end of each shift, the crew would take their box of chips to the cage. The cashier would tabulate the contents and convert the proceeds into four equal piles of cash.  That night there was three hundred and seventy-two dollars to be divvied up. 

The cashier as usual asked, “How do you want it?”

Conventionally, that amount calls for four sets of ninety-three dollars. 

Billy smiled and crowed in his stereotypical Bostonian accent, “Doll, keep twelve dollars for yourself.” 

She was appreciative of the larger than usual tip.         Billy kept talking while leering at Eric, “We need three hundreds and three twenties!”

The other two dealers were handed one hundred twenty dollars each and Billy put the remaining one-twenty into his breast pocket. 

“Where’s mine?” Eric protested. 

O’Callahan stuck his right index finger into Eric’s face and blared, “We.” He paused to point to the other dealers and himself before continuing, “Work for tips. Today, you didn’t.  I really hope tomorrow you’ll do a better job and work with us, not against us!” 

Eric whined, “You can’t do this.” 

Billy mockingly sighed, “Hell hath no fury as a woman’s scorn.” 

He led his cronies away.  Eric followed behind as they entered the series of back of the house hallways that led to the employee entrance.  Over the loudspeaker, a Chopin polonaise was being pumped into the corridor as Eric, unsynchronized to the classical music, struggled to keep up. 

Outside the time office, in the warm noon sun, Eric demanded his tip money.

Billy, without animosity explained, “We don’t want to cut you out of the tokes.  Let’s see some results and we’ll give you tonight’s share tomorrow.” 

The trio marched off.  Eric had to run to get in front of them. 

While back-pedaling he reiterated, “I don’t beg borrow or steal!” 

Billy backhanded Eric across the face and shouted, “Beat it candy-ass!” 

Eric didn't back-down and followed them past the barracks-like hotel rooms behind the casino’s main tower. O’Callahan strode away from the direct route to the employee parking lot as if to elude Eric. He cut towards the rooms between a big delivery truck and a tall cinder-block retaining wall that housed trash dumpsters.  Unaware he was being lured into seclusion, naive Eric followed. 

Suddenly Billy stopped and turned to confront him, “I had as much of your shit as I’m going to take.”

Eric mustered, "Due unto...," as Billy sucker punched his face.  
He reeled backwards and righted himself by grabbing the truck’s running board. 

Eric took a step towards Billy and said, “Wait...” 

O’Callahan interrupted, “Who do you think you are, Mary Queen of fuckin’ Scots?”                                                His two toadies chuckled as Billy buried his right fist into Eric’s stomach.  

Doubled over, he careened backward in agony as Billy ordered, “Grab him guys!” 

The accomplices took Eric by the arms and straightened his hunched torso.  Billy punched him three more times in the belly until Eric temporarily wriggled free.  O’Callahan tracked him down and connected with an uppercut wallop to the chin that sent him to the pavement.  Dazed, bruised and battered, Eric was left lying in the gutter. 

In the near-distance, they were laughing as Eric gasped, “And if thine eye offends thee, pluck it out.”

Eric’s immaculate one-day-old dealer shirt was streaked with automotive grease and dotted with blood as he resolved to report the incident.  While dusting himself off, he realized that his right knee was scraped and his pant leg was torn.  Eric staggered to his feet and limped back to the casino. 
He was dabbing the abrasion on his cheek and tasted the blood from his split lip as his pit boss, Rex Dolan came out of the building. He saw Eric’s condition and realized what had happened. Eric began rehashing how he was victimized but had no way of knowing that Dolan and O’Callahan were close golfing buddies, for ten years.  Further, Dolan gave all the graveyard dealers a “license to steal” and his “efforts” were regularly rewarded by Billy.

Dolan’s stoic facade masked his indifference as Eric ranted on. Even if Dolan was objective, Eric’s use of biblical passages in his nagging tirade quickly became tiresome. 

Eric finished by demanding satisfaction.

Dolan feigned concern and assured Eric, “I will thoroughly investigate this matter.”

When Dolan went on his way, Eric knew he had been brushed-off and sought a higher authority. He went back inside and looked for casino manager, Aldo “Pug” Pugliese.

Outside the baccarat pit Eric found the boss.  
Pugliese seemed sympathetic after hearing the story and responded, “First, you’re absolutely correct to come to me.  Hustling tokes has never...and will never be tolerated!”  Pug made a “V” with his fingers and said, “Second, nobody should be forced to do anything they don’t want to do.” 

Eric energetically nodded in agreement.  He took a deep cleansing breath, smiled conservatively and became more at ease.  He voiced his appreciation and closed with a reference to David and Goliath.  To seal the deal, Eric extended his hand. Pug didn’t respond.

In a stronger less polished manner Pug added, “Of course, sometimes you DO have to go with the flow, CAPISCE!” 

Eric’s grin faded. 

“Kid, you realize this business ain’t for everybody.  I’m sure you did uh-adequate job at the Fremont but this is the strip. You’re in the majors now.  You probably ain’t got a care in the world but these guys got family pressure, mortgages, car payments, child support...” Pug looked at his watch in mid-sentence and said, “Geez, I’m late.”  Without further explanation, he abruptly left.

Eric followed him to a black glass door labeled, “PRIVATE.”

From inside, Pug turned around and said, “YOU axt for it. YOU ought’nt’ve fought while on the property.” 

After Pug disappeared inside, Eric pulled on the door but it was locked.

The next morning Eric entered the time office ready for work at 3:45AM.  He had difficulty finding his time-card so he asked the timekeeper for assistance. 

“Name,” the septuagenarian said brusquely without looking up from his TV Guide.

He forced a smile, “Crossley sir, Eric Crossley.” 

The old-timer mumbled incoherently as he shuffled some papers atop his disorganized work area. 

Awkwardly, he sadly muttered, “Oh,” as he discovered a blank sheet of typing paper.  The paper had Eric’s time-card as well as a pink slip stapled to it.  The timekeeper was nervous and had trouble separating the papers. 

The old man looked over his glasses, handed the termination notice through the transom and said, “Sorry.” As Eric turned away the timekeeper growled under his breath, “Goddamned slacker.”

Eric went into the casino and tracked down the graveyard shift boss, Anton Narcotti.  Narcotti took a glimpse at the paper and shoved it back to Eric. 

“Pug signed it,” he said. “Take it up with him.” 

     On his way out, deflated Eric looked towards the craps pit. 

He caught eye-contact with O’Callahan who obnoxiously waved and mouthed, “Bye-bye.”

Eric went home and waited till 11:00AM to return.  Although he didn’t anticipate getting his job back, he wanted to confront the man who fired him one more time.  In the expectation of taking auditions at other casinos, he wore a generic white dress shirt rather than the sky blue Stardust dealer uniform shirt.

When Eric caught up with Pug, he said, “I’d like to talk to you about my job Mr. Pugliese.”

Whether or not Pug recognized him was uncertain but he reacted as if Eric was a prospective applicant, “We aren’t hiring. Try the Fremont.” 

“Sir, I’m Eric Crossley, I spoke to you yesterday.”       Preoccupied, Pug focused on the distant casino activity.     

Eric held up his discharge notice and asserted, “You fired me, this is your signature and now you act like you don’t know me!” 

Composed, Pug pointed to the sunshine pouring through the main entrance. At first he spoke wryly, “Get out ‘Eric the Great.’”  Then, in no uncertain terms he snarled, “Get right out...right now...or I’ll make it tough on you!”

When Eric didn’t budge, Pug snapped his fingers and pointed at him.  Two burly security guards and an angry-looking undercover officer in a business suit appeared from nowhere. Eric was abruptly ushered out. 

Eric Crossley’s one-shift career at the Stardust was over.



                         *



Two weeks later, I ran into Eric at a gas station.  
He shared his awful experience and said, "I returned my three dealer shirts and apron.  They wouldn't accept the torn, dirty and bloodied one.  My one day check had me owing them money."
I said, "That fuckin' sucks."
Before I could apologize for using such foul language he said, "It was my fault.  I failed Him.  I had faith that I could make a difference.  You know, raise-up the misguided in this den of iniquity."
I said, "Heh?"
"I wanted to work among you sinners and save some souls."  
I raised my eyebrows, "So, you're the savior?"
"Of course not. I took saving people as my personal mission and...I didn't succeed, not even once.  That was supposed to be what made me great."
I said, "I'm speechless."
Eric sighed, "When Satan reminds you of the past, remind him of the future.  You'll never see me in a casino again."
On my drive home, I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.



                        *



Throughout my forty years in casinos, these people find me.

In Eric the Great's case, I hope he found enough inner peace to lead a normal life because it looks like his stairway to heaven eluded him.  Otherwise, he could be a challenge to a mental health professional and/or be heavily medicated.  Either way, he never mastered people, casino equipment or following instructions.