"Standing Dead" is a casino term for dealers at an open table without players. The phrase may also imply that gaming is overwhelmingly a dead-end job. While cynics metaphorically imagine themselves at their tables being offered a last cigarette or blindfold waiting to be disciplined, (fired).
In general, 75% of dealer income comes from tokes, (tips). However, for craps dealers whose tokes are split only four ways, (going table-for-table), standing dead serves as a worthy short-term breather and social opportunity but reduces the valued time for optimizing tokes.
The harsh reality of going table-for-table is that not everyone has the same financial drive or responsibilities. Therefore, clashes arise over the degree of zest people have for hustling gratuities. This can create pressure for less enthusiastic earners to be equally mercenary.
All casinos prohibit dealers from asking for tips. In a table-for-table house, (where dealers are more aggressive), management to maintain a higher percentage, (edge), assigns hard-nosed supervisors to minimize hustling. Plus, it's a regular practice to reward informants who covertly infiltrate the unsuspecting staff, catch tip solicitors and to weed-out dissidents, malcontents or anyone detrimental to the company.
From the outside looking in, you'd never expect casino work to be a life or death struggle but it can be.
*
In March 1980, (with fourteen months experience in minor league casinos), I was hired at the Stardust Casino in Las Vegas. On my first day with a permanent craps crew, I received a warm, innuendo-filled welcome (regarding hustling for tokes), from fellow dealer Robert E. Lee, (Bob).
During Bob's breaks, the other two dealers were far less cordial. Other than flimsy introductions, they made me an outcast. Typically, established dealers in table-for-table houses are over-protective of their job security and weary of newcomers. This "wait and see" dynamic covers a wide scope of reasons, (oddly, actual dealing ability is not an important criteria). The key element is trust; more specifically, a willingness to solicit tips and protect crew members when they do it. These secret evaluations also try to determine if a newbie is an upper management stooge.
The two other dealers were Jerry and Gabe. Jerry was more accepting and occasionally gave me advice.
By my third day Jerry loosened up enough to say, "You realize that dealing craps isn't as important as getting paid for it. Don't let anyone fool you, filling the box (toke box), is job-one...and there ain't no job-two! All the supervisors will help us. Except one. Be cautious of Ernie, the lead floorperson, (relief pit boss, Werner 'Ernie' Trohlmann). That neo-Nazi prick is a hatchet man and will fire you on the spot if you ask for tokes."
Gabe, the other dealer on my crew was an understated petty conniver. He rarely spoke up except to complain or to detail schemes, like reusing postage stamps. Up to that point, he never addressed me.
He interrupted Jerry to carp, "My roast beef sandwich sucked. It was dry, fatty and fuckin' cold."
Everyone pretended to listen. They were used to his whining and soon tuned him out. Jerry and my two supervisors began chatting about in-house issues, going out for drinks and locker room talk.
Gabe was such a doofus, he kept blithering, "You'll see. I'll get even," long after losing his audience.
I fixed on his profile as he yapped. What he said didn't matter, I was lured by his odd looks.
Suddenly, this self-absorbed, monotone dullard became animated, "There goes that big piece of shit, Mick Savis!"
This was ironic commentary from a man who could have been nicknamed Dracula. Gabe (40) was a hardened fifteen-year craps dealing veteran. He had a sullen quality due to dark splotches around his deep set, beady eyes.
Gabe was bone skinny with a receding hairline. His pronounced forehead featured a long, single bluish vein that ran perpendicular like a plumbing pipe from above his right eye to the first wisps of his thinning black hair. It was that hair and the bags under his eyes when contrasted against his ashen complexion that gave him a ghoulish appearance. So I was surprised that Gabe would be calling anyone names.
I said, "Who's Mick Savis?"
My question was the best thing that ever happened. The bland conversations ended. Everyone focused on me and shared their infamous recollections of the legendary asshole, Mick Savis.
*
Our cocaine infused floor supervisor spewed, "Savis is the worst person I met in this business." He interrupted himself, "No! He's the worst excuse of a human being I ever met in my life!"
"That's right," added Jerry, "in the forties, he bought his way out of a murder rap in Amarillo."
Our fossilized box man said, "That buzzard owned a string of used car lots all over the southwest. He jack-potted himself plenty, (got in trouble), by hiring inexperienced, pretty girls as secretaries for more than they were worth. If they didn't put-out, he'd fire 'em, till he found one that would."
Bob said, "You'd think other players would complain. He doesn't pay 'vig.' So when you deal to him never mention the word. And watch that jack-off. He'll steal a forgotten $5.00 chip off the layout so fast, it'll make your head spin. And he only bets hundreds."
Gabe said, "Never wish him good luck. Shit, don't say anything to him. He spits on dealers, curses old women and Jimmy K. (a dealer from a different crew), saw Mick piss in the rail."
Jerry added, "Don't cross his path. He's a degenerate and'll knock down a priest to get a bet down."
During a pause I said, "Who is he?"
Our floor supervisor said, "He's playing the don't come, on table two
AND four."
I said, "But you're not allowed to play on two games at the same..."
He cut me off, "I know. But telling him whats what, is not in my job description. . Hell, the big bosses are afraid of him too. They might nod to that dick but they don't say squat to him."
*
Mick Savis (70) at six-foot-six, two-hundred-eighty pounds was a mountain of a man. He was a little paunchy but his physique was intimidating. Even more threatening was the permanent scowl on his scarred, rugged face. Later, when I saw him up close, his leathery sun-baked face was deeply wrinkled. But those wrinkles couldn't hide a nasty triangular divot on his cheek or a slash under his other eye.
 |
| HIS SLASH REMINDED ME OF MY BROOKLYN DAYS WHEN WE CALLED SCARS LIKE THAT, "THE MARK OF THE SQUEALER." |
In that scant calm moment, Mick stood still. But his underlying (perpetual), nervous energy made him seem like a crazy man ready to explode. I caught another quick glimpse of this brutish figure's face. His rigid expression and piercing, uneven eyes convinced me that he was unapproachable.
Savis was a local. So each month, you could count on this lone wolf to show up at least twice. You could rely on him chain-smoking and dangling an unfiltered Chesterfield from the corner of his mouth as he jack-hammered chewing gum. Mick was clean but unkempt. Like a uniform, he wore dress shirts open at the collar, baggy trousers and the same stained, light blue, polyester sports jacket.
*
A week later, we were standing dead and Gabe was ranting about "Macho," his live-in brother-in-law. Gabe made it clear that this illegal Guatemalan immigrant was unwelcome because he doesn't work, drinks like a fish, screws every chick he sees and sponges off his wife.
Our roly poly box man said, "Stop! You shovel the same bullshit every night."
"Oh," said Gabe, "Okay. Did you see in the paper, another bank got robbed?"
"Yeah," the box man said, "that little one down Swenson. He only got $183.00."
Gabe said, "Must've been desperate to hit a bank in Vegas. Only an idiot takes that kind of chance. Plus he wound up with chicken feed. Even for a few thou, he's risking a federal rap."
Bob joined in, "You're right."
Gabe perked up, "I know the move! Jump Mick Savis."
We laughed.
He said, "No, no, no. I'm serious. Check it out. Micky is an old-man. He's big but he ain't bad. You know, all yak and no shack. I say, he can be taken down."
We were still laughing.
Gabe said, "How much cash does he walk in here with?"
Jerry said, "He does flaunt a giant wad..."
Gabe said, "It's so big . He can't fold it. It's a friggin' wheel of bills wrapped in thick rubber bands."
Our chubby box man said, "I've seen him all over town for twelve years and I've never seen him peel nuthin' but hundos off that BR."
Jerry said, "At least five grand."
*
At three in the morning that same night, the casino had light action.
We were standing dead when Gabe unexpectedly gasped, "Oh fuckin' no," as his silly, million-to-one prophesy unfolded in front of us.
Mick Savis walked by our table and aimlessly meandered towards the exit while adding a chunk of bills to his enormous money bundle. A young Latino came running up from behind and up punched Savis in the head. The mighty blow knocked Mick down as his tight bankroll fell to the ground in three loose segments. The assailant dove on the floor and scooped up his booty. He scrambled to his feet but was slowed down as he concentrated on clutching his prize that was slipping through his fingers.
The exit was fifty feet away. Savis as spry as a hungry predatory animal, sprang to his feet and made up for lost time. The thief was twisting his torso to hold the door open with his hip when Mick Savis crushed him up against the heavy glass. The money limply fell to the ugly red casino carpet as Mick pummeled him.
A crowd obstructed our view but later a bellman told us, "That schmuck took ten punches in the kisser. His own mother couldn't've recognized that bloody mess. If that giant didn't stop, he wudda killed that guy. After the body fell on the money, his blood stained a lotta bills..."
*
I don't do well with change. I was still adjusting to life at the Stardust when a newly hired box man came to our shift. This tall, silver-haired, anemic, triple-chinned old turd had strong liver-spotted hands and enormous, bratwurst-like fingers. Like a maniacal chain gang boss, he remained aloof until scaring the staff by hissing commands in a hoarse, difficult to understand Cajun accent.
Every supervisor at the Stardust wore a name tag. This new box man didn't. Even nitpick-happy Ernie Trohlmann never busted his balls over it. Another old-time box man, (Tony Lane), referred to him as Whitey but the duty roster listed him as Tom Gray.
A dealer on another crew tried to break the ice with Whitey.
The curmudgeon barked, "Dummy-up and watch y'all's fuckin' layout."
Another dealer said, "Whitey stopped me from putting a toke in my pocket. He said he'd break my hand if I took anything off the table without his say so."
Shock waves filled the craps pit. Whitey's reputation with us was bad but far worse, he took many of his breaks with the shift boss and casino manager.
On a dead game Jerry whispered, "We gotta feed fat boy some cheese."
Later in private, I had Bob translate the cryptic message, "All rats love cheese. He's
their eyes and ears. He's a spy."
*
Ernie Trohlmann had a fetish for firing people and was tenacious about preventing dealers from hustling tips but he was a pussycat compared to Whitey. So with Whitey around, the craps staff never strayed from the formal dealing of the game. Our prisoner/prison guard relationship soon spurred the nickname, Cool-Breeze.
The box man Tony Lane was a chronic complainer. He was easy to ignore because he almost never had anything interesting to say. During a moderate craps game, Tony was bitching about dragging his hemorrhoid ring everywhere he went.
Suddenly he stopped his droning and said, "You know I like all you fellas."
There was an intensity to his voice. In anticipation of hearing something special Bob (the stickman) slowed the pace of the game. Jerry was riveted on Tony so I leaned in closer too.
"His name ain't Tom Gray," Tony's eyes shifted left then right to check for eavesdroppers. "I don't know where
they come up with this bull crap. I only call him Whitey to test whether he remembers me. That's what we called him in '58." Tony's voice was getting lower as our game came to a near standstill, "We worked up north at the 'Shy,' (The Shy Clown Casino). His name is Clyde Moates and he was garbage then and it's a sure bet, he's garbage now."
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| INTERNET PHOTO - THE SHY CLOWN CASINO IN RENO. |
Jerry said, "What's his game?"
"Simple," Tony shrugged, "he's connected with the Chicago big boys. I dunno about now but back then a lotta bad things happened around him. He was a brawler and built like a brick shit-house. Plus, he carried a heater and was good with a knife. Nobody messed with him. He did odd jobs for the joint. We had no security so he was like a bouncer and just hung around a lot. But he was also a chauffeur, he'd walk the boxes, empty the cigarette machines and even deal blackjack or craps in a pinch."
Bob lamented, "Now we're stuck with..."
"No," Tony interrupted, "It's worse. He was their bag man and enforcer. They sent him to collect markers. He was a bone breaker. I saw him fracture a dealer's elbow for swinging with checks, (stealing chips off the table). If management didn't like a player or an employee, they sent ol' Clyde. He'd call the guy a commie, a faggot some such nonsense and that made it okay to rough him up."
I asked, "Did he ever kill anyone?"
Tony had never given me a straight answer about anything until then, "I don't wanna say 'cause I didn't know the whole story then and my memory ain't what it used to be. But Moates was handcuffed and arrested in the parking lot as I was coming in one night. Before my second break, he was back and yucking it up with the CM, (casino manager). The next day, the newspaper said the body of a Carson City man, (a noted Shy Clown customer) who had been reported as missing was found in the woods along the Truckee River with a single gun shot in the head."
Jerry said, "Holy shit!"
Gabe was returning from his break as Tony said, "It don't matter! Just be careful around him. Now shut up and get a roll."
Thirty seconds later Tony whined, "I gotta damned sardine bone stuck in my dentures."
*
Five minutes before each new craps shift at the Stardust, a muster call was held. Ernie Trohlmann presided over these meetings. He took attendance, revised policies and gave updates on restaurants and incoming conventions.
While waiting for
Herr Trohlmann, a group of early arrivals were grousing about Tom Gray.
Johnny Palmero (50), a prominent and respected dealer from another crew. There were no casino dealers unions back then so Palmero, a Korean War veteran was an unofficial shop steward to us.
He said, "I got an idea how to get rid of Cool-Breeze. We set him up for a confrontation with Mick Savis."
"Hostile" Artie Logan a retired New York City fireman squawked, "Forget Savis. You want a confrontation? I'll follow that dinosaur out to his car and beat him within an inch of his life."
Gabe said, "Let's all kick in $200.00 and put a contract out on him."
Palmero ignored Hostile Artie and said, "Gabe you're a moron."
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| ***STOCK PHOTO*** PALMERO WAS IN THE ARMY AND SURVIVED TEN MONTHS OF COMBAT WITHOUT A SCRATCH. BUT HE LIKED TO JOKE, "I LOST AN "i" IN THE WAR." HIS REAL SURNAME WAS PALMEIRO BUT AFTER HIS DISCHARGE, HIS NAME ON ALL HIS PAPERWORK WAS MISSPELLED. SO RATHER THAN INCURRING A CONSIDERABLE COST TO CHANGE IT, PRIVATE PALMERO NEVER RETURNED TO JOHN PALMEIRO IN CIVILIAN LIFE. |
Palmero continued, "Look, you guys got nothing. And I admit, what I got is close to nothing. But even if my idea doesn't work, we got a shot at embarrassing Cool-Breeze without a chance of any shit staining our hands, (management recognizing the incident as a conspiracy). I haven't seen Mick Savis since Cool-Breeze started. I say
they never told him Savis don't pay vig. It's a longshot but if we spread the word to all the dealers to keep Cool-Breeze in the dark..."
Artie Logan nodded, "Maybe Mick'll slash that bastard's throat for us..."
Palmero shrugged, "If you got cancer, you cut the shit out as soon as possible and learn to live with the scar..."
*
A few nights later the stage was set. My crew was saddled with Tom "Cool-Breeze" Gray and Mick Savis was spotted buzzing around the craps pit.
Later, Savis elbowed another gambler out of his way and was standing next to me. Anxious dealers on other tables looked our way and without any grand gestures wished us luck. It was showtime.
Mick liked the position next to the dealer so he could make "don't come" bets on two different tables at the same time. His bets were simple and almost always the same; $300.00. Regardless of the point, he'd lay an addition $600.00.
 |
| A DON'T COME BET (far left) WILL BE PLACED BY THE DEALER IN THE EMPTY BOX BEHIND THE NEXT NUMBER ROLLED. ONCE A DON'T COME GOES BEHIND A NUMBER, THE ONLY WAY TO LOSE IS, THAT NUMBER BEING ROLLED BEFORE A SEVEN. THE ONLY WAY TO WIN WOULD BE A SEVEN BEFORE THAT NUMBER. ALL THE OTHER DICE ROLLS ARE PUSHES. |
Savis also placed an additional $600.00 "overlay" wager when his bet went behind the four and ten. It was these bets that were central to our sting operation because they required the player to pay (when making the bet), a 5% commission, (aka vigorish, vig or juice), on the potential winnings.
If the vig was not paid immediately, the box man, as a courtesy would "mark up the juice" and keep a running tab to be paid when mutually convenient. Nice in theory, except Mick Savis
never pays commission.
Dealers from other tables gawked at us waiting for the fur to fly. I caught eye contact with Brad, a dealer on the adjacent table and pumped my eyebrows. It was a nervous reaction but he thought I was slick to signal that the fix was on, by imitating Groucho Marx.
During the next fifty minutes, I went on break, did twenty minutes on stick and returned to my base next to Savis. Every few rolls, Cool-Breeze announced the accumulating vig total. The pile of debt reached $195.00 and Mick still hadn't acknowledged these reminders.
Savis lost a few in a row and had one bet in action on my table when he turned away.
At the next table, he peeled off three, hundred dollar bills from his gigantic wad and snarled at Brad, "Three don't come."
Cool-Breeze croaked, "Hey friend."
Mick looked back long enough to sneer at the fat old man and made more bets with Brad.
Cool-Breeze muttered some obscenities and called out, "You! You in the blue sports jacket."
I didn't offer help and made myself look busier than I was. It didn't matter because Cool-Breeze wasn't going to delegate any authority to a snot-nosed kid, (me). He didn't even follow the chain of command by summoning our floor supervisor Herman Franz. Herman was a savvy old-timer and sensed it was a good time to "get lost" by closely overseeing his other table. Cool-Breeze didn't care. He probably saw this as another chance to assert his power and strengthen his reputation.
Cool-Breeze was still seated as he projected a loud, piercing, high-pitched yelp through me, "Hey Mack!"
Savis ignored him but I'm certain he heard.
A player tapped Savis' shoulder, pointed at Cool-Breeze with his thumb and said, "He wants you."
Mick snapped, "Dirt-bag, don't ever touch me," and turned away.
Cool-Breeze got out of his seat and got Mick's attention as well as everyone in earshot, "Buddy! Y'all can't play on two tables at once."
Savis flicked the last nub of his Chesterfield to the floor and said, "Drop dead."
I wasn't between them long because Cool-Breeze stuck his flabby forearm across my chest and pushed past me. To "help, " I took a half step back to make it easier for him to pass.
Cool-Breeze got in Savis' face, "Where ya runnin' off to? You owe
ME $195.00 in vig."
Mick Savis jabbed his right index finger into Cool-Breeze's blubbery chest and said, "Fuck you!"
Before Cool-Breeze could react, Savis' finger violently stabbed him in his man-boob again. The second blow knocked our nemesis off kilter. He reeled behind me as Savis, ready to pounce, followed. Cool-Breeze back-peddled into a small pit stand that wasn't bolted to the floor. He managed to keep his balance but the podium toppled and crashed to the floor.
Mick's cocked fist was ready for the knockout punch but he stopped. In a flash, it was over. Cool-Breeze was stunned and blankly stared off into space.
Savis calmly said, "Take down all my bets."
Brad and I complied. Savis pocketed his chips, strolled around to the far side of the pit and resumed playing as if nothing had happened.
Pit boss Chick Halversen hurried over. If Cool-Breeze wasn't panting, he'd have looked like a cold, alabaster statue. Chick put his hand on the defeated man's shoulder and made a short phone call. Our hated, behemoth box man seemed to be in a trance as Chick whispered encouraging words in his ear.
Casino manager Aldo "Pug" Pugliese and an army of security guards rushed into the pit. Two minutes later, we had a new box man and it was business as usual. Cool-Breeze sat on a slot stool inside the pit and sipped orange juice. He seemed shaken but unhurt as he rose up and dejectedly was escorted to Pug's office.
None of the Stardust officials confronted Savis. He continued playing. An hour later, he returned to my end of our table. The dice were hot for Mick. He was so lucky that his customary $300.00 don't come bets were pressed (increased), to $500.00 and soon raised again to $1,000.00.
Mick Savis continued to add lay bets to his action and when he went behind fours and tens, he overlaid, $4,000.00, (and didn't pay the $100.00 vigorish for those big bets either). Even though his strategy never allowed him to play more than two numbers, there were times he was risking $14,000.00 at once. He kept winning.
Mick had a fortune in mostly thousand-dollar chips in front of him when he pressed his next new bet to $2,000.00, (the Stardust maximum).
Pit boss Chick Halversen told Bob, "Turn the dice."
Mick growled, "Don't sweat the money. Those are your dice."
The house max bet went behind the ten. Mick laid $4,000 and overlaid $8,000.00 more, (nobody mentioned or marked up the $200.00 vig).
Surrounded by the tension of risking $14K, (to win $8K), on a seven coming before a ten Savis called out, "Wait!"
Mick pulled out a tattered black wallet. It was shocking because nobody ever saw him stop a game and no one ever saw his wallet. More surprisingly, Savis removed an eye-glass case from his inside jacket pocket. This super-human, anti-Christ was flawed.
It was comical to see this near-sighted mountain of a man with nerdy black horn-rimmed glasses on and his nose deep in his billfold, as he squinted and poked around in an unmanly manner.
Finally, he used his thumb and index finger like awkward tweezers to pull out a five-dollar bill.
Bob whispered aloud, "Did I just see a moth fly out of there?"
Mick tossed the bill in front of me and declared, "Five-dollar any seven for the dealers."
Jerry did an exaggerated blink of astonishment. I smiled as he put his hand to his chest to suggest he was having a heart attack.
Bob, (the stickman) with mock pride repeated the bet, "Nickel any seven for the dealers." But Bob's voice was barely audible when he called next dice roll, "Ten easy ten."
Not only did the dealers fail to win Savis' first attempted toke in the annals of history but he lost $14,000.00. Mick Savis' ten-second bubble of benevolence, had burst.
His unbelievable streak was over and to express his frustration Savis bellowed, "Every time I bet for you ass-holes, I
lose!"
The Stardust didn't have bigger chips so Mick stuffed 114, thousand-dollar chips into his pockets. He seemed preoccupied as he lingered at my side for several seconds. Mick looked miserable as if he lost his last dime. I convinced myself that he was calculating the proper toke on his windfall. I was wrong. There would be no tip. Impulsively without looking up, he darted away and slammed into another really big dude who was approaching to play.
This hulk (25) was the same height as Mick. He had a white cowboy hat and a white western shirt with its sleeves rolled up to expose his rather muscular arms. Anyone else on the planet but Mick Savis would've dismissed the harmless accident by saying; excuse me.
Instead Mick crackled, "Get out of my way!"
The young buck didn't give an inch. Mick lifted his head. The two were eye to eye.
The stud scoffed, "In a hurry old man?"
Mick gave the kid a searing stare down and roared, "Beat it chump."
The kid menacingly got in Savis' face and grinned, "You really want me to break your fuckin' jaw?"
Savis gulped, hesitated and grumbled, "Sorry," as he ducked his head and humbly slithered by.
Mick was probably protective of his winnings. But I get satisfaction in thinking, he was not only mortal but a weasel too.
*
A large group of dealers and staff met after work at the Silver City Casino's bar.
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| ***INTERNET PHOTO FROM 1981*** SILVER CITY (1974-1999) WAS DIRECTLY ACROSS THE STRIP FACING THE STARDUST. THEY HAD 50c DRINKS AND LOW TABLE MINIMUMS. MAKING IT A FUN AND CONVENIENT PLACE TO MEET AFTER WORK. ALSO, SILVER CITY BECAME A TRENDSETTER IN 1991 AS THE FIRST LAS VEGAS CASINO TO BAN SMOKING. |
My coworkers saluted me as a hero. "Little" Willie Little, another dealer must have called me his savior ten times. My money was no good that night and I had several free drinks backed-up. Everyone kept asking; What did you do? What did you say? But I did nothing and said nothing. I stood still on center stage and had no lines. I was part of the scenery, followed the script and everything fell into place on its own.
On my way out Herman Franz said, "I overheard Cool-Breeze tell Pug, 'I'm too old for this shit.'"
He must have been right because we never saw Tom "Cool-Breeze" Gray again.
*
Several weeks later, on a cold and windy night in early December, the Stardust was so empty that if cannons were fired in the casino, nobody would get hurt. But the Christmas spirit shined on my table because while everyone else stood dead, in our first hour, my crew and I amassed $2,151.00 in tokes.
Bob came back from his break.
We were standing dead and Gabe said, "Our 'angel toker' is gone and left the building."
Bob said, "You're not gonna believe this..."
Jerry was too excited. He cut Bob off and detailed the highlights of our score.
Pit boss Chick Halversen interrupted Jerry to congratulate us on our good fortune .
In an unprecedented waiver of Stardust protocol Chick added, "You guys wanna go home now? Take and hour and a half shift and let these other guys have a chance at making a little money?
Jerry smiled, "Yes Chick, that'll be just fine."
*
My crew redeemed our tokes and gave the cashier a generous tip. On the way out, we agreed to give-up $75 each for lay offs, to helpful supervisors. We each netted $450.00.
In triumph, through the blustery raw night, we took the long walk to the employee parking lot. Before going in different directions to our cars, we were hopping around freezing till the last anecdote was told.
Seconds after saying good-bye Jerry called out, "Hey Bobby. When you came back from break, wasn't there something you wanted say?"
Bobby bopped his fist on his head and said, "Oh shit. I almost forgot." He called the group back together, "Mick Savis is dead."
Gabe chuckled, "Good. A month apart, I saw the day Mick Savis toked...and croaked."
Bob said, "No you dip-shit. He was murdered." Gabe's grin disappeared as Bob continued, "I had my break with Brad. He showed me the article in the RJ, (
Review Journal newspaper), it was buried on page fourteen. Brad said the
Sun, (the other local newspaper) didn't even run the story."
I said, "Do you have the article?"
He said, "No. But I'll tell you what I remember."
Bob recited, "Retired local businessman Michael Theodore Savis (73) was found bound and gagged, shot through the head and locked in the trunk of his badly burnt 1981 Cadillac. The car was discovered outside Jean (Nevada) by off-road enthusiasts in the mountains, above the snowline, on an unpaved access road, south of the old Sloan Highway."
Our meeting adjourned to the warmth of Jerry's car. We eulogized Mick Savis for twenty minutes.
Gabe said, "That scumbag wanted you to hate him."
"Yeah," said Bob, "and he was very good at it."
Jerry said, "I don't hate him now. I think I'm gonna miss him."
Gabe said, "Yeah but..."
Jerry jumped in, "Hell Gabe, my shit-list changes every day. Besides, I know he never did anything for me but 'ol Mick never did anything to me. C'mon admit it fellas, he made our work more interesting..." Jerry continued, "Mick Savis was a private man. He loved his solitude. Folks just overreacted to him. He didn't want to be kowtowed to. Shit, he never asked for a meal ticket or even a cup of goddamned water. He was more comfortable having the lunkheads of the world avoid him. Think about it, when someone gets in your face, you protect yourself. Right? Well Michael T. Savis just had a bad-ass way of expressing his protection."
Bob nodded, "Yeah. Wow. I believed a lot of rumors...I never saw him spit on anyone, take stray chips off the table or piss in the rail..."
Gabe said, "I seen him curse old ladies."
Bob nodded, "Oh yeah, I've seen that..."
Jerry shook his head and sighed, "Like the cowboy and blacksmith, his ilk is a vanishing breed. Next time you have a drink, raise your glass and toast Mick Savis, last of the great independents."
*
The following night, typical of the holiday season, the casino was dead again. Prior to Ernie Trohlmann showing up for our pre-shift muster call, everyone was clucking like gossipy chickens about Savis. A few jerks aimed barbed comments at me as if my role in the Cool-Breeze incident led directly to Mick's horrible demise.
Even "Little" Willie hissed, "You ace-deuced (killed) him man."
I guess I didn't get a lifelong warranty on being his savior.
I took more grief until Jerry said, "Shut-up! There's a million guys who had it out for Savis." He looked around to see who might be within earshot and whispered, "Y'all know it's a mighty big desert out there. If
they had something to do with it, the body would never have been found."
*
We stood dead that night for long periods of time. A general malaise gripped my crew and in silence, we reflected upon our experience.
I wasn't happy about Savis' death. Instead I was indifferent which made me feel guilty for not being sad. My mind drifted to the time I asked Tony Lane;
did Cool-Breeze ever kill anyone? The ghost of Mick Savis had a hypnotic, Svengali-like grip on me from the grave. I scared myself as my thoughts included reprisals by Cool-Breeze and his resources and capabilities.
Luckily Gabe broke my inner turmoil with another nonsensical rant. Apparently, for a long time, he had been bribing the waiters who served the staff into writing up his dinner check, for 17c, (one doughnut).
I was the only one listening as Gabe said, "The checks aren't numbered. Why give bigger tips? Why pay 17c.? Why
not, just rip up the check and walk-out without paying anything."
Bob didn't welcome the distraction and said, "Stop flapping your gums. You ignorant bastard..."
Our roly poly box man said, "Do you ever have anything positive to say?"
"Okay," Gabe said, "Remember that kid who smashed Savis over the head? That was Macho, my bother-in-law. But on the bright side, he's in jail and hopefully, they'll deport him."
*
I buried the memory of Mick Savis and the likelihood that I had any responsibility in his death. Still, it wasn't until 1996 that I felt comfortable enough to exhume those events and write, the first of my (19) short casino stories, "MICK SAVIS, LAST OF THE GREAT INDEPENDENTS."
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| THAT STORY WAS SO OLD THAT IT WAS WRITTEN ON MY FIRST COMPUTER WHEN PAPER WAS EDGED WITH SMALL TEAR-AWAY CIRCLES THAT WERE POWERED THROUGH THE PRINTER ON SPROCKETS. |
This story has laid dormant in a file cabinet for 22+ years. I was such an amateur writer back then that I even used real names. So with every page needing to be overhauled, I never took on the Herculean task of editing it. Instead, I just wrote (18) new stories.
In the last few weeks, I worked off the original (discolored, crumpled and at times illegible manuscript), to clarify and organize the best excerpts to produce this new and improved blog-worthy version, for your approval.
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