A common question about my forty years in casinos is, who was the best, (in countless categories).
Today's blog is about the most *universally beloved craps dealer I ever worked with. His name is Bob Lee and he not only stands alone but there's a tremendous gap to whoever's second.
In the coming weeks, my time at the Stardust Casino in Las Vegas will be featured. In those articles, "Courtesy" Bob Lee's name will come up frequently.
Spoiler alert! My loyal followers are familiar with my 15% embellishment factor. I'm happy to report that Bob was so warped that 15% of his abnormal behavior is purposely watered down or omitted because you'd think I was a liar.

* In an ironic twist, while Bob Lee had a tremendous positive impact on me and so many others, there was also a tiny yet strong community of conservatives coworkers who thought he was the devil.

*

Thirteen-year-old Bobby looked up from his intricate Civil War jigsaw and sighed aloud, “It was the best of times; it was the worst of times...” He then thought; that Dickens knew how to cover his keister.

His mind was wandering because he had a big school assignment due in two days. But neither the book nor the puzzle was causing his greatest distraction; he was pining for his parents to leave.

Bobby's folks traveled forty minutes away every other Saturday night to play bridge so this was his rare chance to listen to his radio programs in peace. Robert Edward Lee looked down at his puzzle and reflected upon the great Confederate general for whom he was named. In fact, Bobby had an appreciation for Southern culture and congeniality. He adopted those traits from his dad. Nine years earlier his father, an ambitious life insurance salesman sold their rural home in Mason, Tennessee. That property had been in their family for generations until moving to Chicago. In the big city, Bobby’s dad flourished. He combined his sense of hospitality with enterprising hard work and outgrew his company. Soon, he uprooted his family again, to their current home in Rancho Palos Verde, an upscale suburb of Los Angeles and opened his own office.

Bobby seemed like the epitome of serenity as he hid his urgency at the dining room table. Like a Norman Rockwell painting, with classical music playing on the phonograph, he pondered a misty, whitish gray puzzle piece edged in a medium, solid gray.
Bobby stared at the semi-completed torso of a rebel lieutenant poised atop a stone-wall. He was brandishing a broken saber reduced to the size of a dagger as he rallied his troops to overtake a union artillery battery. Bobby turned the next piece this way and that and became frustrated because he couldn’t connect the gray of the tattered uniform with billowing, fiery smoke of a cannon’s discharge. Instead, Bobby focused on the missing space at the officer’s stomach. Morbidly, he envisioned the effect of an exploding shell hitting someone’s mid-section.

A sudden twinge of fear shuddered through his belly as his mother clomped down the steps in high heels.

She stood before him and drawled, “Robert Edward, did you finish your book?”

Bobby’s mind shifted gears to the half-finished Dickens classic on his bureau. He knew he shouldn’t procrastinate with schoolwork to be done, but he longed for control of the forbidden radio.

His mother smiled as he huffed, “I was just going up.”

“Have a good night; I’ll see you in the morning.”

She went out the back door and joined her husband. Bobby’s dad took an eternity as he backed-out his two-day old, brand new 1946 Packard through the alley along side the house. Bobby rushed to turn off the music. From the living-room window, cloaked by the drapes, he watched his parents disappear up the street.

For the next four hours nobody would come into the quiet house and nobody would leave. Yet blood was about to flow and Bobby’s life was to be indelibly distorted as the familiar clang of the upstairs shower pipes tolled.

Unlike Bobby who was confined to the house, his sixteen-year old sister Annabelle Lenore had the autonomy to come and go as she pleased. Yet she chose to stay home. Socially inept, Anna was not affable like her father or brother. Tall and overweight, her otherwise plain face was plagued by acne. An unpopular girl, she was saddled with a coarse, opinionated demeanor and had a habit of disliking people before they had a chance to dislike her. She had no real girlfriends and there were no suitors.

Anna’s shower water was running unattended. Bare, she stared through the steaminess at her skewed image in the mirror. Distressed by loneliness and perceived ugliness, she deeply scraped her gnawed fingernails down her pimply face. Anna was disappointed that she didn’t bleed and sobbed as she stepped into the shower.

The pipes were thumping overhead as Bobby opened the icebox. He grabbed a bottle of grape Nehi and advanced to the radio. Like a safe-cracker, he turned the tuner to his station’s sweet-spot. After a few minutes, a wave of guilt brought the French revolution and the travails of his novel’s heroin, Lucie Manette to mind. He took a long, thoughtful mouthful of his drink and succumbed to accountability. On his way up, he resolved to read fifty pages.

Bobby’s first step on the upstairs hallway’s parquet floor was at the same time Anna exited the bathroom. Clad in two towels and looking downward, she attempted to affix a third towel, turban-style to her head.

The boy didn’t realize that he was being waylaid and said “Hi.”

Full of pretense, Anna screamed. She raised her arms and let the towel that shielded her sagging, varicose vein-scarred breasts to drop. Bobby’s soda pop crashed to the hardwood. Its fizzy liquid erupted into purplish white, foamy gauze...the spewing contents of the cracked bottle looked like a bloodstain against the brown floor.

In 1980, I became a craps dealer at the Stardust Casino.

In my third week there management, during my days off, changed the craps dealer crews. I was nervous about leaving the comfort of my original group as I struggled to connect the faceless names on the revised roster sheet.

Bob found me there and introduced himself. His magnetic disposition was cordial and funny, plus he was enthusiastic about working with me. Whatever anxiety I had felt, Bob had magically dispelled.

*

I would soon learn that Bob's persona was honed by being raised in three diverse settings while being nurtured by his father’s affinity for people. His combination of charming manipulation, mercenary street savvy and an easy-going yet wry wit resulted in a man that easily got people to like him.

Our customers, (craps players), gravitated towards these qualities which produced excellent tokes (tips). Therefore, nearly all the other craps dealers wanted to work with Bob both economically and for pure entertainment. For these reasons he earned the nickname “Courtesy Bob;” the most universally beloved dealer I would ever work with.

Bob's peculiarities also included an odd mixture of extreme ethical opposites. He was worldly, yet rather shortsighted in his close personal relationships. Bob was generous with his time and expertise but, perhaps due to the stereotype of his Scottish ancestry, he was comically frugal. A health-nut, Bob took mammoth handful of vitamins and preached the virtues of maintaining a proper diet, yet he was no stranger to barbiturates. However, where Bob was most enigmatic was in regard to being a “Babe-Hound.”

Despite dying his short-cropped Afro chestnut brown, Bob, at five-seven looked older than he was. His cheery face was leathery and dominated by deep, thick wrinkles. Yet, he must have given off a scent only women could appreciate because he didn't have the look of a lady’s-man. Nonetheless, propelled by the gift of gab and incredible swag, hardly a shift would go by without something sexual happening to him.

Bob was a master pick-up artist.
He sealed many deals with his signature statement by saying: “Be-back here, later."

Then with a glowing smile he’d sternly add, “Between now and 4:AM (or some other specified time) take a shower and brush your teeth or forget about it.”

Bob made me a believer because even though I wasn't privy to his small talk, I witnessed a high percentage of success with that routine. So while his common nickname was Courtesy Bob, many others also called him, “Be-Back Bob."

Bob Lee managed to inject sex into our first conversation.

After greeting me he said, “You’re a kid, right?”

I shrugged, “I'm twenty-four.”

“I got a problem. Maybe you can help?”

“Advice,” I beamed, “ask away.”

“My son Louis will be sixteen in July. What should I get him?”

“I dunno. Sporting goods?”

Bob shook his head, "No. What else?"

“Stereo equipment?”

He contritely said, “Louis has it all.”

“What’s his mother getting him?”

“Can you believe it; she’s knitting him a sweater. Now I ask you, we’re in the middle of the friggin’ desert for God’s sake...is that impractical or what?”

I was thinking, maybe he likes sweaters or needs one, but Bob burst back, “She’s always knitting something or other, it must be a fetish.”

Suddenly, I had the definitive answer, “A car!”

“No, no, no, we already settled THAT. Let him get a job. He can pay for his own damn car.”

“C’mon, give me a clue,” I whined. “What’s he into?”

“How should I know?” Bob scratched his head, “He rides his bike to school. After dinner he gets back on his bike and hangs out with his friends.”

At that point we were interrupted by our other two crew members. It was time for my new team to go to work.

On our way to our table Bob poked my ribs, “I was thinking about hiring Louis a hooker.”

During my breaks, I questioned other dealers about Bob. I weighed the information and deduced that he was a sex machine. Although married to an attractive woman, Bob had arranged his schedule, unbeknownst to his spouse, to be freed-up to carouse on his first night off each week. He had accomplished this feat by taking her once to watch him play poker. He treated her like a princess and she sat with him for ten hours. The next week, he suggested that they do it again; she insisted he go alone. Bob never played poker again.

In addition to his full night of carnal revelry, due to his wife's work schedule, he was also unencumbered by responsibility after work every night, (4:00AM).
He was obsessed by sex; if he wasn’t doing it or talking about it, he was planning it.

Bob was not only a pick-up artist for himself; his unique talent frequently brought multiple women into the equation. In these situations Bob had a pecking order of supervisors he’d invite. This brought about another quirk. There were times when Bob’s “guest” would look at the options and remark that he didn’t want to get stuck with the inferior girl.

Under those circumstances, Bob would pretend to be angry and say, “Are you fucking crazy, that one’s mine!” There would never be a conflict because Bob always gravitated to the least desirable choice. Among these supervisors, Bob, in regards to tokes, had a “license to steal.”

Later that first night while standing dead, Bob got more detailed in explaining his son’s birthday gift. I was disturbed by his callousness but politely listened.

“Steve, one of these days I’ll introduce you to Dennis the bell captain,” he said. “He’s the man to see when you need something out of the ordinary. And, if he doesn’t have it, he’ll get it.” A broad smile blossomed on his face as Bob continued, “Dennis found this call-girl for me named Candee Cotton. Imagine that, she actually gave me a business card.” He excitedly laughed, “She’s twenty-three but she’s so sweet and virginal, she looks sixteen. For $250.00, it’ll be arranged that she’s the daughter of a high roller. She’ll take Louis in taxis to dinner, a movie, whatever the hell kids do these days; then back to her room at the Dunes. He’ll think he’s getting lucky.”

Bob paused when he saw the stunned look on my face.

Philosophically he explained, “She understands her role. She’ll be very supportive and gentle. It’ll be nice.”

I almost choked on his words.

“For that kind of money,” he added, “she better be nice!”

Regardless of what people say, you still have to see certain things for yourself. That first night, Bob didn’t disappoint me.

In most casinos, the PBX operators are responsible for paging guests. At the Stardust, the staff was prohibited from being contacted that way. However, Bob devised a system of pseudonyms, for his regular “girlfriends” to page him.

To reduce the chance of scheduling conflicts or being caught off guard, each caller identified herself by using a designated alias.

Bob got such a page shortly after midnight, “Telephone call for Mr. Million, Mr. Duane Million telephone.”

Bob perked-up, “Oh good, it’s my West Covina girl.”

I hadn’t heard the announcement and asked, “West Covina girl?”

Bob explained his system and added, “I’ll call her on my next break.” He then calculated aloud, “If she leaves soon, she can ‘be-back’ here by four.” Between the dice rolls, Bob shared some of his other code names: “Matt Lapper, is my San Bernadino girl, Dick Marathon, is my Malibu lady, hell even if Phil Dole gets paged, I’ll know its my wife!”

An hour later, a pudgy dude in his mid-twenties waddled to our game. He looked like he just walked out of a western clothes outfitter and played on Bob’s end of the table. He was wearing mint condition powder blue sharkskin cowboy boots, stiff Wrangler jeans, and a white shirt with a paisley design in the shoulders. His ensemble was topped off with a light gray cowboy hat, which was enhanced by a black satin band that supported a large, rakish white plume that hung backwards at a 45° angle.

The man bought in for two hundred. Bob soon found out that his name was Dirk Jones; that he had inherited a horse farm on an island, outside Brunswick, Georgia and, he and his wife Clarisse were in town to celebrate their first wedding anniversary.

Through Bob’s friendly persuasion, Dirk had already tipped us thirty-five dollars when Clarisse arrived. At six-foot, she towered over her rotund husband. She was big-boned, had a rugged face and an athletic physique. To call her overall looks plain would have been a compliment. Although Clarisse had a wholesome complexion, the natural curvature of her face left her small mouth with a pronounced frown. A chipped tooth and a crooked, twice broken nose dominated her looks.

Masked by her cowboy hat, Clarisse’s plain, medium-length, brown hair was combed straight back. When she removed her rose tinted aviator glasses, it revealed she that was unadorned by make-up. She wore the identical new clothes as Dirk but there were two distinct differences in the way they were worn. Firstly, her shirt was unfastened, save the last two buttons; at and above her navel. This fashion statement exposed the bra-less cleavage of her over-sized breasts. Secondly, her hat’s fluffy red feather stood erect.

When Clarisse arrived, she held her right palm up and placed her left hand at her hip.

After hesitating for a few seconds she twanged, “Dirk honey, give me some money.”

At first, her chubby hubby didn’t acknowledge her.

A few seconds later he said, “No.”

Clarisse made a playful, half-hearted grab for Dirk’s rack of mostly $25.00 chips and whined, “C’mon.”

“Damn Reesie, didn’t I give you ten dollars an hour ago?”

She stomped her foot and pouted as our craps game carried on. Clarisse dragged over a slot machine stool and sat behind Dirk. While examining her split ends, her exaggerated sighs of boredom served well to distract him.

Bob gaped at her semi-exposed bust long enough that she knew what he was doing. They made eye contact. Bob smiled. Clarisse smiled, turned her body and arched her back to exemplify her chest. Bob summoned her closer. To Dirk’s dismay, she squeezed between him and the stickman.

Bob said, “Young lady, do you know how to play our little game?”

Clarisse shook her head as if too bashful to speak. Bob then shamed Dirk into staking her $20.00 to play. She won a few bets in a row and now heeded Bob’s every word.

The stickman called, “Six hard, no field six.”

Bob chuckled, “The hard six. That’s the national average.”

A few players grinned.

Bob paused and looked at Clarisse, “But not at my house.”

She blushed, covered her mouth and looked away from Dirk before giggling.

When Bob was relieved, he broke the rigid dealer break schedule. Instead of leaving the pit, he came around and sent the stickman on another break. The staff didn’t care and the gamblers didn’t notice this blatant disregard for procedure.

Clarisse was now on Bob’s left as the game heated up. Everyone was winning. A man “shoehorned” into the spot to Bob’s right, there were nine players on each end.
This new player peeled off five twenties and said, "One black chip in the field."

I wished him luck and Bob added, “I have a good feeling about you, you’re going to win.”

A group of onlookers formed behind Bob and strained to peer over the player’s shoulders to watch the mounting excitement. Dirk was unaware or disinterested that Clarisse wasn’t frowning.

In fact, she and Bob were whispering and laughing, when he called the next roll, “Four easy four.”

Bob not only reminded everyone that the hard four lost but he waited until he had Dirk’s full attention and said, “Don’t forget your hardway.”

Dirk whipped two, five dollar chips towards Bob and said, “One for me and don’t forget y’all.”

What Bob did wasn’t unusual. What made Bob special was, he also simultaneously maintained the game’s tempo, kept Clarisse smiling and still had enough gumption to “butter-up” the field bettor too.

I followed the trajectory of the next toss and noticed as Bob retrieved the dice, he rubbed left elbow across Clarisse’s breasts. Rather than being repulsed, she leaned forward to create more friction.

After back-to-back nines were rolled Bob called; “Ten hard ten.” He brought the dice back to the rest position in front of the boxman and whispered in Clarisse’s ear, “Speaking of hard tens...”

Bob's left arm disappeared behind Clarisse and her right arm disappeared behind Bob. With the crowd concentrating on the game’s action, only I noticed them fondling each other.

When all the payoffs were complete Bob asked Dirk, “Press up your hardway?”

Dirk responded by tossing in two more reds and saying, “And don’t forget y’all.”

Still with so much going on, Bob had the wherewithal to tell the field bettor, “That's four winners in a row. How about one for me?”

The man was unsold by Bob’s cheeriness and snarled, “Are you crazy? These are a hundred each!”

Bob crowed, “I know that. Set one down and Steve’ll change it up for quarters.” In a huff the field bettor complied as if to say, imagine the nerve of some people asking for hundred dollar tips. His next bet was one-fifty for himself and fifty for the dealers. It too would win.

Two rolls later the field bettor left as Bob and Clarisse continued pawing each other. When the hot roll ended, much of the crowd dispersed as Bob was “re-relieved.”

The incoming dealer tapped Bob off the stick.
He winked at me and said, “See you in twenty minutes.”

Clarisse, (who had stashed six red chips into her back pocket), handed Dirk the balance of her winnings and declared, “Thanks Sugar. I gotta pee.”

Dirk was elated that his wife gave him $85.00 and didn’t care where she was going.

Bob lead Clarisse through rows of slot machines, past the sports book and covertly through a door labeled, “Emergency Exit.” Still inside the building, she found herself in a large triangular, two-story anteroom with a two-flight metal staircase on the left wall. On the right, an unpainted cinder-block wall tapered in and led to the actual exit. Opposite it, hidden underneath the stairs, was a metal, battleship gray door with “SNOW REMOVAL EQUIPMENT” stenciled on it. This door had a thick silver hasp with a combination lock secured to it.

In this secluded alcove their lips came together.

When Bob’s groping intensified Clarisse wriggled free and whispered, “I don’t know about this...I need more privacy.”

Bob sweetly kissed her cheek and said, “No problem.” He stepped past her and began turning the lock’s dial. “Voila,” he declared as he led her into the musty darkness.

He pulled a forty-watt bulb’s chain and closed the door. Amid hibernating snow blowers, rows of shovels, rock salt and sandbags, they lustily attacked each other.

In the dimness Bob paused. He peered into her eyes and delicately kissed her. He seductively removed her glasses and hat and opened her shirt. His face feasted in her chest as his hand pleasured her through her jeans.

Clarisse eagerly massaged his groin until Bob said, “Take it out.”

When she obliged, he set a hand on her shoulder and encouraged her down. She hesitated. He pressed a little harder and she relented.

From her knees Clarisse confessed, “I’ve never...”

Bob cut her off in mid-sentence, looked at his watch and said, “You’ll be fine.”

He placed his hands at her temples and led the novice where she’d never gone before. At first their rhythm was awkward. When they became synchronized, Bob let up on his grip. Soon without guidance she went about her task with considerable zeal. When she was done, she profusely thanked Bob. After a tender caress, they left separately. Clarisse was first back onto the casino floor...followed by Bob, thirty seconds later.

*

At the end of that shift, we cashed out our tokes. Bob was still sharing intimate details about Clarisse as we clocked out. In the employee parking lot, Bob asked us each for $15.00.

One of the other dealers asked, “Why?”

Bob was evasive until finally saying, “It’s for a good cause.”

The dealer said, “You’re gonna have to do better than that...I ain’t givin’ away squat without a reason.”

Bob repeated himself three different ways but it all ended with; “Trust me.”

Our huddled quartet stood in the darkness until Bob broke the impasse, “Lookit, we’re buying roses and cigars. It’ll cost sixty bucks because I’ll have to throw Dennis the bell captain a twenty.”

None of us understood, so Bob added, “Look you cheap bastards. When you work with me you get fringe benefits! For one, Dennis lets me know in advance when my regulars are coming to town. So...this Thursday when my Mr. C. and his wife open the door to their suite, our roses and stinky-ass cigars are going to be on the bed with a note. Trust me, he’ll come to our table first and your measly $15.00 will easily return you a hundred!”

We caved-in to Courtesy Bob’s allure and ponied-up.

I was grinning all the way to my car until Bob punctuated my eventful first night by calling out, “Steve, my West Covina girl loves anal.”

A mentor/protégé relationship spawned between Bob and me. We began socializing and he counseled me in; real estate, retirement planning, stocks, gardening, used cars as investments, simple auto mechanics, home repairs, day trips, game fishing and of course nutrition. So when somebody said anything derogatory about him, I was quick to defend him.

*

On that Thursday, during my first break, I got into an argument with one of Bob's detractors on whether he exaggerates his sexuality.

To end the stalemate I said, “I like him, period! He’s a great friend. He might be perverted, but I have respect for the total, Bob package.”
His rebuttal was, "Okay. But ask your good buddy how he lost his ‘cherry?’ Then, get back to me and try to use the word ‘respect’ and Bob Lee in the same sentence.”

*

Throughout the early part of that night, Bob “casino-gazed” trying to spot Mr. C.

While scanning the crowd he said, “I definitely decided to go through with my son’s ‘rite of passage.’”

“What do you mean?”

“Candee Cotton, you remember...”

I nodded.

Bob continued, “The festivities will be on July fourteenth. I reserved my kid’s exact birthday but I had to pay-up today.” His face soured, “That whore was quite adamant, no refunds! If junior can’t get it up or runs away, I’m screwed!”

Bob's topic made it appropriate so with my argument with his adversary weighing on my mind I asked, “When did you lose your virginity?”

Bob looked past me surveying the casino and proudly stated, “Thirteen!”

“Wow, that’s pretty young, who was the lucky girl?”

Nonchalantly he said, “Anna...my sister.”

My jaw dropped...I was speechless. Despite my sickened look, Bob cheerfully went into a lurid oration.

“Annabelle and I never got along. When our folks left to play cards, we occupied ourselves as far away from each other as possible. One time, she came into the hallway after showering wrapped in towels. She planned it so I’d be coming up the stairs at the same time and she pretended to be startled. Anna screamed and the towel covering her chest dropped. I was frozen in fear; I couldn’t speak or move. Like a statue, I just stared."
I said, "That's messed up."
Bob plowed on, "She hollered, ‘You’re a sick pervert, I’m telling Mom.’”

Bob paused, raised his right index finger to stress his point and continued, “But she never picked up the towel. Instead her voice eased up and said, ‘Oh you like looking at my titties, don’t you?’ I wanted to run away so bad but I couldn’t. She took a step closer and said in a soft throaty way, ‘you little sex maniac. I guess you won’t be satisfied unless you feel them.’ She guided my hand. In no time, I was using both hands. Anna said, ‘I know you want to kiss and suck them.’ She put her hand on my hard dick and angrily said, ‘I knew it, I knew it, you are a pervert. I’m telling Mom!’ I must’ve sniveled I’m sorry ten times until she said, ‘Okay, I won’t tell but you’ll have to do everything I tell you.’ She led me onto our parent’s bed. Twice a month, for over three years...we did it all.”

That was the most uncomfortable I ever felt in my life.

I was glad when the stickman’s cry, “We’re coming out,” broke my uneasiness.

Our game was opened for only a minute when a well-dressed couple, both around fifty approached Bob’s end.

“Big Bob-A-Lou, how are you?” proclaimed the stocky, gangster-like cigar-chomping man. Before Bob could answer, the man leaned over the table and whispered, “Bobby thanks for them ‘heaters.’ How’d you remember I smoke Berings?”

Cocksure Bob broadcasted, “Mr. C., the best deserves the best and you got me. Now, who might this vision of loveliness be?”

“Oh, this is Therese, my mother-in-law?”

“My daughter,” Therese said, “wherever the hell she is, liked the flowers.”

They remained on our game for hours, swilling scotch and being entertained by Bob. Mr. C. toked us continuously in ten-dollar increments and Therese did the same, almost as frequently with fives.

It was after 2:00AM, when drunken Mrs. C. made her grand appearance. She was carrying her black stiletto heels and decadently dragging a narrow gray fur behind her. She was a plainly pretty, petite, brunette around thirty years old. She was wearing a bright red silk blouse, a tight, black skirt cut above the knees and a gold fleur-de-lis stickpin adorned the lapel of her matching black jacket.

Mrs. C. and her mother started bickering in whispers.
Therese said, “It’s getting late, I’ll take Francine up now.”

Mr. C. played until we were going home.

He tipped his loose twenty-two dollars plus a fifty dollar bill and said, “I’m going up. You guys were great, see you tomorrow.”

That night, after skimming thirty-two dollars per man for layoffs, we each took home $345.00 (mostly from Mr. C and Therese).

Outside the employee entrance Bob swaggered, “It’s a good thing I’m not an, ‘I told you so,’ kind of guy.”
Indeed, we were humbled for having doubted him.

Bob called out sick the next night. The casino stuck us with an Asian kid off the extra-board who was scared stiff. The first half of the shift, we made only a few dollars.

At 1:00AM Mr. C. showed up and asked me, “Is Bobby on a break?”

“No, he called out.”

“Oh, I hope he’s okay. Make sure you tell him Tom Cabroni was here.”

Mr. C. played with us but I struggled to duplicate Bob’s energy.

I handed-off a winning come bet and set up his new one with odds and asked, “Where’s the rest of your team?”

“We ate in the Bacchanal Room at Caesar’s. They stayed to see Dangerfield and some singer. By now, I guess they’re playing their quarter machines. I don’t know how people can do that all night...it’s fucking boring. You play slots?”

Caught off guard, I stammered, “N-Nah. Slots are for women. Craps is my game.”

“My Francine is addicted to that shit.” After a thoughtful pause he added, “At least she budgets herself to three hundred dollars. Would you believe it, one night last year she didn’t come back to the room till seven in the morning? And broke even.” Mr. C. chugged a double Johnny Walker Black and said, “Either way, what a waste of time.”

Mr. C. took care of us but he never got lucky. After an hour, of losing, he tipped us his last $12.00 in chips and added a twenty dollar bill.
He said, "Sorry, you guys are great but Bobby's the best. I bet even when he's sick, he's a load of fun to be around."
Cabroni bounced from one table to another and was still playing when our shift was over.

Two weeks later on July sixteenth, Bob came to my condo in his mint condition 1963, split window coupe Corvette.

He was proud to describe how he chiseled down the price before bragging, “This ‘vette’ isn't a car, it's an investment.”

I said, “It looks more like mental masturbation.”

“Hey, I like that.”

Cryptically, he then implied that the mental masturbation had cost over fifteen thousand.

He stroked the hood and said, “This is the original paint, they call it ermine white.” He pointed to the red interior and added, “Those seats are leather.”

My eye caught his “B-BACK” vanity license plate and I asked, “How did you explain that to your wife?”

“Easy,” Bob chirped as we went inside. “That’s my nickname, ‘B-Back Bob’. I told her the name comes from telling it to my favorite players. She doesn’t have to know they’re females.”

In my garden, Bob marveled at how well my banana squash crop was doing. While he made crude dildo references, he explicitly toyed with the longest one.

Suddenly, he stopped, “I knew there was something I wanted to show you.”

“Oh yeah,” I remembered. “How did it go with Candee Cotton?”

“No, no this first.” From his billfold, Bob removed a wallet-sized photo of a woman. Carefully, he put his thumb over the face and gushed, “What do you think?”

“She’s okay.”

“OKAY! What are you fucking blind?”

I took a second look at the spread-eagled woman posed with her hands clasped behind her head. I focused on her satiny black crotch-less panties and her matching bra with cutouts at the nipples.

“It’s just a picture. Without the face, it’s meaningless.”

“Swear you won’t tell anyone,” Bob warned as he exposed the familiar face. It was Francine Cabroni, Mr. C’s wife.

“Yes, this is definitely a great picture,” I cooed.

“For her, I call-out once a year and she bankrolls everything. This time after we got wasted, she wanted to go to the pornos...the first flick was called, ‘Double Penetration Nation.’ When the second one came on, I gave her a Quaalude. She got so horny; I had to fight her off until we got to Crest Motel...Dennis the bell captain's connection gets me a cut-rate room. Believe me, this minx is insatiable. Later, I stick her in a cab and what’s left from three hundred, I keep.”

“So,” I impatiently asked, “what about the birthday boy?”

Bob reluctantly changed the subject, “It’s no big deal.” But soon he began, “I’m getting ready to take Louis to the Dunes and I didn’t like the way he was dressed. So, I told him to put on slacks and shoes. Out of the clear blue he said, ‘Dad you seem jumpy, I hope you aren’t sending me there for sex...you do remember, I have a girlfriend?’”

“Whoa! That must have been awkward,” I said.

“Louis said, ‘’cause that’s not what I want for my birthday.’”

I scratched my head and said, “Oh.”

Bob got worked-up, “I told the little shit, this is the daughter of a high-roller, you gotta go! You wouldn’t want to disappoint her? Then Louis bellyached, ‘but dad...’ So I had to think fast and said; if you’re sure that’s the way you want it. ‘Yeah dad, I get sex any time I want.’ So tell me I said; what do you want for your birthday? ‘That’s easy, a new bike.’ That’s it? I mean, that’s great. I’ll get you a bike.”

Bob paused.
“I wanted to protect myself in case he was flimflamming me,” Bob said. “So, I made one condition; you can have any bike you want as long as it doesn’t have a motor.”

“Well that must have sucked,” I said. “No refund on your two-fifty from the prostitute, plus the price of a bicycle.”

Melodramatically, Bob emoted ala Ronald Colman, “It’s a far, far better thing that I am doing...”

I didn’t understand.

“No refunds my ass,” Bob laughed. “I made Candee Cotton my birthday present. I went in his place.”

“That’s what I love about you; you always come out on top.”

He furrowed his wrinkled brow and concluded, “WRONG! I should've said any bike from Sear's. I didn’t realize Louis was a frigging competitive cyclist. He took me to a bicycle store and picked out a piece of shit imported from France. That sucker cost me seventeen hundred and eighty nine bucks. Could you believe it...for that kind of money...it didn't have a motor.”

*

In 2005, I found out that Bob, (in his seventies) was still dealing craps at the Stardust. For a guy that who knew every investment angle, was flipping houses before the term was invented and probably still had the milk money his parents gave him when he was a child, it was sad to imagine him bent over a craps table at that age. Of course, he may have needed a truss and Viagra but it would have been worth it if his legions were still willing to be-back and be bent over themselves.