COMBAT HARRY

One of my craps floor supervisors at the Stardust Casino was Carl "The Mole" Blessing.  Due to inner demons and a warped sense of right and wrong, he hurt a lot of people.  Fifteen years ago, I wrote a short story about him called, "BLESSING IN DISGUISE." 

Today's blog is taken from excerpts in it.  To make that story and this piece possible, much of Blessing's dubious distinction was made clear to me during a venting rant by his former mistress.

Alas, this article is not about Blessing.  Instead it's the tale of a (not so innocent) friend of mine who ran afoul him.



                                              *



I dealt craps on swing shift (nights) at the Stardust Casino.  During my first year, Carl Blessing, a wounded Vietnam army veteran had established himself as a hardcore company man on day shift.  He was such a valued hatchet man and spy that when he terribly offended a customer, rather than getting fired, he was demoted and sent limping to my shift.

Unrelated to Blessing getting reassigned, a dealer on my crew was fired. His one-day replacement from the extra-board was Harry Curcic; it was his first day on the job. 

HARRY CURCIC RESEMBLED BASEBALL'S LEN DYKSTRA.  I SOON LEARNED THAT THEY ALSO HAD SIMILAR HOT-HEADED TENDENCIES.

Harry (28) from Astoria (Queens) New York came-off as upbeat and uninhibited.  

He got our approval with his first question, “Where’s the toke box?”  

Harry further ingratiated himself with us by being aggressive for tokes, (tips).  The Stardust was a table-for-table casino so craps crews split their gratuities four ways.  His energy was endearing but like all new hires, our fear of management “plants” created an indeterminate “wait-and-see” period. 

My gut told me that Harry was okay.  He probably just wanted to fit in and maximize our earning potential. But he lacked finesse and failed to take into account the fragile nature of table-for-table job security.  One of our seasoned dealers pulled him up, (encouraged him to tone down). Unfortunately, Harry was highly competitive, full of braggadocio and didn't take well to constructive criticism. 

He snarled in his heavy New York accent, “I ain’t afraid of nuthin’!”  

This attitude led Harry Curcic to be labeled a “loose-cannon.”  On one of his breaks, this description became perversely accurate as he compared the “minefield” of hustling tokes to his battle experience in Vietnam. 

Harry a former marine corporal then displayed his wallet full of laminated, gory, close-up photos of Vietcong he had killed.  

IT WASN'T SURPRISING, HE HAD NO PHOTOS OF HIS WIFE JANET, SON NELSON OR ANY PETS.

His aggressive personality and reckless solicitation of tokes was bad enough but glorifying his role in the unpopular war caused many to ostracize him and led to his uncomplimentary nickname, Combat Harry.



                                                     *



Harry worked with us just that one night.  A week later, he was promoted from the extra-board and became a fixture on another crew.  

Harry and I were on the same break one night.  I remembered my first couple of weeks and how uncomfortable I was before I became one of the boys.  I decided to reach out to Harry. I started by telling him about lead floorman, (relief pit boss) Werner "Ronnie" Trohlmann.

I said, "He's a sick pup and shudda been in the friggin' Gestapo. Trohlmann gets off by weeding out undesirables, complainers, incompetents, thieves and toke hustlers. He loves making us miserable and will fire anyone who crosses the line."

Harry scoffed, "Line?  What line?"

"It doesn't matter, whenever he gets a wild hair up his ass," I said. "Just shut up and deal when he's around."

He rolled his eyes, "Whatever..."

"The other problem child we have is Carl Blessing, We call that rat-faced prick, 'the Mole.' He had the same slot as Trohlmann on day shift.  He fucked up so they sent him to swing and demoted him to floor.  Now were stuck with informers, in stereo."

Harry sighed, "Okay. Great."

I said, "Actually, it's pretty entertaining. Blessing is trying to push Trohlmann out of his spot.  Maybe they'll both destroy each other?"

"Fuck 'em both, " Harry said.

"Wait," I said, "you have something in common with the Mole.  You both saw active combat in Nam."



                                            *

                                                                                                                                                    

Later the same night, I told Harry some of Carl Blessings war stories that had filtered down from day shift.

He said, "Convenient how he always just missed the action."

I continued.

Harry interrupted, "Privates DON'T drive colonels around in jeeps. And MP's turning them away from a VC occupied village..."  Harry shook his head and grinned, "I wonder if the army awarded him with the 'K-Turn of Valor.'  Sounds like your friend lives in a fantasy world or he's just a bullshit artist."

I laughed and was satisfied, Harry was no spy.  Buoyed by our shared New York upbringing, a friendship developed.



                                          *



Harry and I were fans of three perennial losers, New York's Mets, Jets and hockey's Islanders.  In regard to the upcoming NHL playoffs, it was ironic to be in the midst of the only dynasty our sports teams would ever enjoy and be stuck in the cultural void of Las Vegas.                                            
                                       
Harry suggested,  "On game nights, we can watch Islander games before work at Skinny Dugan’s,”   

***CURRENT INTERNET PHOTO***  SKINNY DUGAN'S BAR HAS COME A LONG WAY.  IN THE EARLY 1980's, IT WAS A DARK AND SEEDY MONTREAL CANADIANS-THEMED DIVE.

Cable TV was a rarity back then so I wondered, “How do you know they’ll put our Islanders on?”                                                                                                                                      
Harry said, “I got juice, I know the owner.  My son Nelson plays squirt hockey in Henderson with his twins. After their kid game, the dads get to lace ‘em up and scrimmage for forty minutes.  One of the  "Frogs" has extra equipment you can borrow.  So if you got ice skates, you can play?”

       
I was excited and said, "Yeah," even though I had only played roller and street hockey.

Harry added with a strange laugh, "Remember, this shit is just for fun. There's no checking and no slap shots."

                               *

I showed up at the rink and saw the end of the kiddie game's organized chaos.                                      

Harry found me while I was putting on my skates and said, “You can use my helmet but the Canuck with the extra equipment didn’t show up.”  

He handed me his son's little stick, under-sized shin guards, a pair of gardening gloves and said, "I hope you got your own cup, Nelson didn't want to lend-out his."

I was doomed from the start.                                                                                                                     

THE SNIPER CRUISING INTO THE SLOT WITH THE LITTLE STICK IS ME.  THIS ADVENTURE WOULD BE A QUANTUM LEAP UP FROM ROLLER HOCKEY.  SO DON'T BE FOOLED BY THE PHOTO, (I'M STANDING STILL), I COULD BARELY SKATE, LET ALONE COORDINATE MYSELF TO SHOOT A PUCK.

Thirteen players, (including me) showed up.  That meant there would be one rotating reserve. 

It was obvious from the opening whistle that I couldn’t keep up with these gifted, (mostly Canadian) men.  I took two shifts and quit after my shoulder slipped out of joint when I tried to get up from a fall.  My mishap left them with no substitute.                                                                     

Nelson approached me. This nine-year old reminded me of the street-urchins in the 1937 movie, "The Dead End Kids." 

HARRY HAD BRAGGED ABOUT HIS EARLY ADOLESCENT "YUGOSLAV MAFIA" FRIENDS AND HOW HIS GANG ALL MANAGED TO STAY OUT OF JAIL. MEETING NELSON MADE ME CERTAIN THAT THIS LITTLE BASTARD WOULDN'T BE AS LUCKY.

In a low-class New York accent Harry's diminutive scion said, “Why ain't ya out dere?"            

I smiled, ignored him and hoped the pipsqueak would go away.

He continued, "A lot of dem guys are ovuh fifty.  Dey smoke cigarettes and dey get tie-id.  Dey need a break.  So git out dere!”

I wasn't going to validate this fledgling criminal.  

To Nelson's utter disapproval, I skirted the issue, “I had enough.”

Full of contempt the third-grader blared, “Whaddaya a fuckin’ pussy?”

                                            *



I stuck around to thank Harry and return his gear. In the parking lot, I found Harry embroiled in a fierce argument over his rough play with the owner of Skinny Dugan's.  Witnessed by many people including women and children, the man rebutted Harry's harsh profanity by cursing in French.  There was some pushing and shoving. On the verge of fisticuffs, they were separated. 

Harry was still seething as I followed him to his car.  In a moment of calm, I brought up my incident with Nelson.

Harry threw the equipment into his back seat, slammed the door and snarled, “Maybe you are a fuckin’ pussy?”

                               *

A week later, before work, Harry and I took advantage of the three-hour time zone difference, to watch the first two periods of an Islander playoff game at Skinny Dugan's.  

Much of the time, I watched alone at table-5, (the Bernie “Boom-Boom” Geoffrion table), as Harry argued with his “frog friends.”  He didn’t see it but this wasn’t harmless raillery, they hated him.

"BOOM-BOOM" GEOFFRION (1931-2006), PLAYED IN THE NHL FROM 1950-1968.  HE'S A HALL-OF-FAMER, THE 1952 ROOKIE OF THE YEAR, 6-TIME STANLEY CUP CHAMPION AND IS CREDITED FOR INVENTING THE SLAP SHOT. 

                                                                                                                                                    

Outside the bar Harry said, "They're thinkin' about changing the name to the Forum."

I avoided the fact that I didn't enjoy myself and was uncomfortable there.

I didn't want my virility insulted again so I twisted the truth, "Harry that was great but coming here is completely out of my way."

Surprisingly, he agreed.



                                             *



At work, Carl Blessing as if to outdo Ronnie Trohlmann, firmly left his footprint on swing shift by firing three dealers, (two for hustling tokes and one for incompetency due to drug use).  

So Harry had poor timing when he needled Blessing, "It's all in the training; that's why the army had tons more casualties than the marines."

Blessing didn't dignify the insult and ignored him.

Harry was wired differently.  

He couldn't resist the temptation and served up another salvo, "You guys just couldn't hang tough like marines..."

Blessing broke his silence, "Stand down and face fire!"

"Damn Carl.  It's just a joke, from one grunt to another..."

"Buddy boy, you better watch your P's and Q's..."

Harry mockingly saluted Blessing and chirped, "Well private, I was a corporal, so I out rank you."

Blessing walked away.  He seemed to turn the other cheek but he was tortured by profound insecurities and wasn't going to tolerate sarcasm or any humor at his expense.



                                         *



 On the same day, Harry asked the head of the Stardust sports book to show the next Islander game on the giant screen.  Apparently hockey isn’t profitable, so the games aren’t put on in the big room. 

The sports book manager adjusted his thinking after Harry greased his palm with a twenty-dollar bill. 

 “It might be claustrophobic," the manger admitted, "but I can wheel a TV into the Meteor Showroom and set up chairs for you.”  



                                        *



This tiny, obscure lounge was away from the gaming tables, on the opposite side of the Stardust.  

Harry told me the good news, but I balked, “We aren’t allowed in that part of the building.”

“Says who?”

Unable to spout any specific policy I blurted, “We just can’t...and I won’t.”

“I just had orientation and they never said anything about it.”

“Sorry, not interested.”

“Nelson was right, you are a pussy.”

“Call me whatever you want, I’m not risking my job.”

“Look, you said it yourself, nobody at work is allowed there, right.  If we wear civvies, we’ll blend in.  Besides it’ll be day shift and no one knows us anyway.”

Shamed, three days later, I was sitting on a folding chair watching the game on the Meteor Lounge’s dance floor.  The manager did a good job advertising this game because all forty chairs were filled, there were several standees and the cocktail waitresses serving free drinks did a brisk business. 

Boisterous Harry ordered three beers during the course of the first period and another two during the second.  I maintained a low profile and didn’t even get a Pepsi.

During the second intermission, we searched for a restroom.  At the arcade, Harry called my attention to a crowd watching somebody play Pac-Man.  My bladder was about to explode, I kept going. 

PAC-MAN WAS THE HOTTEST ARCADE GAME .  THE BASIC STRATEGY WAS TO TRAVEL THROUGH THE MAZE, GET POINTS BY CONSUMING PELLETS WHILE AVOIDING GETTING EATEN BY GHOSTS.

When I retraced my steps, smiling Harry signaled me nearer, “Look, that guy's on the eighth level, he’s going for the pineapple.”  

In shock, I pulled him out and said, "That guy, is Carl Blessing." 

There was no way we could've known but Carl's wife kicked him out of their house, served him with a restraining order and "robbed” his money stash.  He was living at the Klondike Motel for a week and came into the Stardust earlier and angrier each day.                                                                                                                                                              
Harry wanted to congratulation Carl.  

I said, "Don't!  You're messed up."

"Steve," Harry hiccuped, "I hate repeating myself but you are a fuckin' pussy.  Nelson was right, you're a fat-ass FUCKIN'' pussy."

I couldn't sway him away from this bad decision. Harry, reeking of beer clawed through the spectators.  I left the building and reevaluated his value as a friend. 

Harry forged ahead and complimented the unsuspecting Blessing’s video-game prowess before pointing at the screen and playfully jabbing him, "If the VC really ambushed you or you were in a fire fight, you'd run like hell and never get caught by these ghosts.  Shit, you'd have the highest score ever on this baby." 

Carl got distracted and his long successful run ended.

Harry didn’t know it but Carl had already been plotting to get rid of him.  He was afraid that Harry's actual Vietnam experience could unearth his history of lies. 

IN HIS FIRST AND ONLY ACTION, CARL BLESSING'S BIG SECRET WAS A SELF-INFLICTED "MILLION-DOLLAR" WOUND.

This unexpected meeting made Combat Harry’s dismissal easy. Cited only for drinking on the job, (Blessing couldn't be in that part of the building either), Harry wasn’t permitted to clock-in that night.



                                           *



A month later, Carl Blessing was returned to day shift and his demotion was rescinded.  I never saw Harry again.

Carl's mistress Vera-Lynne was a sexy cocktail waitress at the Stardust.  To honor her bother, (missing in action in Vietnam), she wore a POW-MIA bracelet bearing his name.  She was attracted to Carl's military "bravery" and felt a kinship to this less than plain looking man.

When I bumped into Vera-Lynne, in a drunken rage she told me that she dumped Carl after his wife confronted them.  Mrs. Blessing called Carl a coward and detailed the mosaic of broken thoughts he said aloud during recurring nightmares.  In reality, she knew little of the magnitude of his failings.  Carl panicked because he thought she knew everything.  So to Vera-Lynne's shock, he confessed his battlefield sins to the two women.