THE PERFECT CASINO STORM

To quote an extremely bright and articulate person, "Only a thirty-year veteran homicide detective has seen more shit than a decent craps dealer with five years experience."

"THE PERFECT STORM," from 2000 was a fact-based movie about the high-risk, high reward nature of commercial fishing.

THE VICTIMS OF THE PERFECT STORM WERE A CREW OF UNLUCKY FISHERMEN WHO UNEXPECTEDLY SAILED INTO THE CROSS-HAIRS OF THREE CONVERGING STORMS...RESULTING IN BEING CAUGHT IN THE FIERCEST, GRANDDADDY OF LETHAL STORMS IN MODERN HISTORY.

From the movie, the term "perfect" has become chic to add to a wide assortment of acutely bad situations.  Today, I have the perfect casino story to attach this "perfect" moniker.



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From late 1984 to mid-1986, I dealt craps, in the perfect toilet of Atlantic City casinos, (the Atlantis),

THE ILL-FATED ATLANTIS (far left) WAS IN A GREAT LOCATION NEXT TO THE ATLANTIC CITY CONVENTION HALL (center) AND TRUMP PLAZA, (far right).  IT HAD ITS HEY-DAY JUST BEFORE I STARTED THERE AS THE PLAYBOY CASINO, (1981-1984).  DURING MY TIME, THE CASINO (NICKNAMED, "THE DUMP NEXT TO TRUMP)," QUICKLY SPIRALED DOWNWARD.  AFTER I LEFT, IT HIT ROCK BOTTOM AND LOST ITS GAMING LICENSE IN 1989. 

While I worked at the Atlantis, the financial value of dealing at any casino in town was about the same. However, two joints stood out as slightly better...and one (mine) was a distant worse. For this blog, it's not relevant why our tip income was inferior...what is important is, the low-class clientele.

The Atlantis' casino space was separated on three gaming levels.  The top floor had the high-roller games. Overwhelming, the folks who were attracted to these tables played close to the minimum ($25.00).  So these self-proclaimed big-shots...who would have been complete nobodies anywhere else...made themselves out to be aristocrats.

On weekends, many regular customers treated the old dump next to Trump as a private social club. They gambled, had meals, saw shows and hung out with casino friends, (strangers, whose schedule regularly coincided).  Some extended families did the same.  Once these clans learned the ropes, they played the system to maximize their freebies.  But far worse, they abused the privilege and treated the place (and employees) like they owned it.

Sometimes, we (the workers) felt like we were witnessing them playing pinochle on their kitchen table. They were so at home that it wasn't uncommon to hear embarrassing details of their lives or "too much information" when grievances turned into family arguments and dirty laundry was aired.

"SCARY MARY" WAS AN ESPECIALLY CLASSLESS, ABUSIVE, BIG-MOUTHED, CHAIN-SMOKING PHYLLIS DILLER-LIKE HAG WHO'D TORTURE THE STAFF ALL NIGHT.  IT WAS A RELIEF WHEN SHE WENT TO BED.  BUT WHEN HER *HUSBAND FELL ASLEEP, SHE'D EMERGE FROM THE ELEVATOR IN CURLERS LIKE A CHARGING RHINOCEROS, SLOVENLY DRESSED IN A SCHMATEH (RAGGEDY HOUSECOAT THAT ANY WOMAN WOULDN'T BE CAUGHT DEAD IN), AND FUZZY BUNNY SLIPPERS.  AT HALLOWEEN WHEN THE STAFF WAS PERMITTED TO WEAR COSTUMES, THEY USUALLY INCLUDED A THEME. ONE YEAR, THE FEMALE EMPLOYEES, (AND ONE GUY),  HAD A PRIVATE CONTEST TO RECREATE THE SCARY MARY LOOK, (I'M PRETTY SURE THE GUY WON).  

*  Scary Mary's milquetoast husband was nicknamed "Bullet-Head."  He had a golf ball-sized divot in his forehead which among my Atlantis craps brethren resulted from a failed gunshot suicide attempt.  After all, why would someone married to Scary Mary die so young...because he wanted to.

Matriarchal Scary Mary and her kin (sometimes as much as twenty people), became weekend fixtures. As "big fish" in a "small pond," they cut themselves a large chunk of influence and convinced management that the casino couldn't survive without them.

By using an iron-fisted personality, Scary Mary's three generations of low, high roller minions were forced to follow her lead.  Soon, in a family dominated by weak males, they all knew how to use their sense of entitlement.  With complete disregard to a craps employee's reputation and job security, this ploy was especially efficient to bolster their odds by making false claims, (lying and cheating).

These people wielded so much clout that well-adjusted employees wouldn't dream of correcting them.  They saw how Scary Mary treated her own family, so most of us got out of their way and hardly a brave soul reprimanded them.  So if there was a dispute on a craps game, any attempt by the staff to defend the house's best interest was guaranteed to result in a severe and demeaning tongue lashing.  If the situation erupted into a federal case, someone (100% in the right)...could lose their job.



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I have done a good job in forgetting nightmare customers. Unfortunately those harsh thirty-year old memories were rekindled last week at my present job.

 "B," my supervisor that night as well as being a former Atlantis coworker, pointed out a player and whispered, "There's Calvin Park."

This skinny, sickly man looked like he was over seventy.  I imagined him to be an old biker who led a tough life.  His companion was an equally mature woman with a bad blond dye job.  This lady took on a curious position behind him at another craps table.  She seemed to be his watchdog as she alternated watching him play ten dollars at a time and protecting his blindside from would-be rail thieves (chip robbers) and/or knife wielding enemies.  I don't use the term "broad" to describe women but that's what came to mind. This hard woman made me think what gun moll Bonnie Parker (Clyde's Barrow's Bonnie) might have looked like if she lived to be a senior citizen.

IN 17th CENTURY ENGLAND THE TERM "MOLL" OR "MOLLY" WAS SLANG FOR PROSTITUTE. DURING THE GREAT DEPRESSION, (above) EVELYN "BILLIE" FRECHETTE (1907-1969) WAS DILLINGER'S GUN MOLL FOR SIX MONTHS. AFTERWARDS, SHE MADE A CAREER MAKING GUEST APPEARANCES AND DISCUSSING HER EXPERIENCES.

Despite my talent for remembering people, I told "B", "Who's Calvin Park?"  Within seconds of his description, I not only recalled the Calvin Park legend but I also remembered going out of my way (thirty years ago), to catch a mere glimpse of his incredible skyrocket to notoriety. To prove Park's rapid ascension was so unique... when I stole my tiny glance at him playing craps at Atlantis' top level...the last thing I was looking at...was his face.

THE "BOXMAN" IS THE SUPERVISOR SITTING BETWEEN THE TWO CRAPS DEALERS.  TIPS WERE SO BAD AT THE ATLANTIS THAT IT WAS A CUT-THROAT PROCESS FOR DEALERS TO ENTER LOWER MANAGEMENT.  THE ONLY CRAPS DEALERS CONSIDERED FOR THIS PROMOTION DEALT ON THE UPPER LEVEL.  I DIDN'T CARE ABOUT UPWARD MOBILITY  BECAUSE I WAS BIDING MY TIME, WAITING FOR MY DEALER TRAINING ACADEMY LICENSE TO BE APPROVED.  THAT MEANT, UNLESS THERE WAS AN EMERGENCY, I NEVER WORKED UPSTAIRS.

"B" was the boxman when Calvin Park had the defining moment of his life.  So he had first-hand knowledge of the backstory he shared with me.  Most notably, Park was a small business owner who had enough disposable income to burn $1,000.00 playing craps at the Atlantis high-roller pit, a couple of weekends each month.

Unlike the families and faux-social clubs that also met up there, Park was a withdrawn man.  While the others (that everyone hated) whooped it up, Park (who was equally loathsome in his own way), was a loner, playing a different style... quietly.

THE GREAT MAJORITY OF CRAPS PLAYERS WANT THE DICE SHOOTER TO WIN. THEIR BETS ARE PLACED ON THE "PASS LINE" OR THE "COME."  HOWEVER SOME FOLKS PLAY THE "DON'T PASS" OR THE "DON'T COME" AND HOPE THE SHOOTER WILL LOSE.  WHILE THESE APPROACHES SEEM OPPOSITE, THE BUILT-IN HOUSE EDGE USUALLY RESULTS, OVER TIME,  IN EVERYONE LOSING.

Park was a "don't" player.  Despite being razzed by the low-class masses on the pass line, he never wavered.  On several occasions"B" referred to him on that historic night, as golden.  He might have had temporary set-backs but overwhelmingly, he couldn't lose.

At first, the family took harmless verbal swipes at Park.  But soon Scary Mary led her entourage into an escalation of childish insults that morphed into a deluge of obscenities.  One by one, someone from the family exceeded what they were willing to lose and quit. But Scary Mary forged on. Between prolonged episodes of intense coughing, in her harsh, shrill voice, the black-hearted witch used language that would make a longshoreman blush, to profane Park every time he won.

Scary Mary didn't take her losing streak laying down.  Through vicious insistence, she demanded that the casino change the dice.  Even though it was against their policy, they accepted being manipulated, (they secretly rooted against her in general but in this rare case, they were superstitious and willing to do anything to stop the casino from hemorrhaging big money to Park).

To rationalize the switch and to eliminate the idea of a conspiracy, the casino manager showed Calvin Park an insignificant flaw in one die.  Park was in his rights to protest and stop the bullshit but he was so focused on winning that if a black cat was thrown on the table, he couldn't have been bothered.

When the game resumed with an aura of invincibility, he remained stoic and ignored Scary Mary's renewed verbal attacks.  Instead of being distracted, to spite her and the big bosses, Park rode the crest of this perfect casino storm and multiplied his bets to $1,000.00 each..

Scary Mary remained stubborn but over time, the intensity of her sarcastic MF-ing foul mouth weakened. Her barbs became infrequent as the new dice remained cold.  Soon, Park's most stubborn adversary raised the white flag of defeat as she pissed and moaned about her worse loss, EVER!

A large throng of spectators remained as Park played alone.  The area was as quiet as a cathedral until Scary Mary reminded everyone how evil she was even when she wasn't playing by yelling at a waitress, "I said six fucking sugars in my coffee not five...you think I can't taste the fucking difference!"

Park was in the zone.  Within a couple of hours, he was betting the $5,000.00 table maximum and making additional side bets to further support his cause.

That night I was dealing on the middle level.  Like a telethon, the news filtering down to us from upstairs reminded me of the giant tote board with spinning numbers always getting higher.

I REMEMBER AS A KID BEING ENTRANCED BY TOTE BOARD NUMBERS SPINNING HIGHER.  NOW THAT THEY ARE DIGITIZED, I THINK IT LOSES SOME OF ITS FASCINATION.

Some of my middle level cohorts went upstairs to see the action with their own eyes.

Each new report of Park's luck sounded like an exaggeration.  When I broke down to sneak my own peak, his rail included a gazillion gray chips, (each $5,000.00).  Which explains why I said I never saw his face.

"B" reminded me that late that night Park broke his silence and made one announcement, "I have $800,000.00 and I ain't stoppin' till I have a million."

To keep Park (and his booty), in the casino, the well-trained Atlantis management team used psychology and persuasiveness to arrange for Mrs. Park (in her pre-gun moll days?) and other family members helicoptered in.  Over the course of a marathon gambling session, (twenty hours a day for five days), the winds of Park's perfect casino storm simmered down to doldrums and finally stopped.

When a new storm brewed, the gale came from the opposite direction. So while he and his family were lavished with every amenity the casino could throw his way, Park lost every single dime back...plus some fresh, out of pocket cash.

"B" sighed, "The best casino stories involve greed, stupidity and a lust for power...that's why so few have happy endings.  You'd think that Park would have known...the freight train doesn't come through town every day. Just look at that burnt-out degenerate, he's still chasing the fantasy of another one-in-a-million perfect storm ."  I looked at the seemingly vigilant Mrs. Park and said, "So his misses isn't watching his back, she's just being polite and trying to hide her boredom."  "B" scoffed, "That dude could've had the world by the balls...and now look at him...thirty years after his ten minutes of fame, he's just a punchline, playing for peanuts and cursing the world every time he loses."

THE MAGIC GENIE AND MY CRAPS DEALING DESTINY

Maturity and flexibility allows us to cope with life's little curve balls. But being a well-adjusted adult doesn't disqualify the staunchest, most patient people from making poor decisions. Yes, we've all been pressured, failed to digest the bigger picture and made knee-jerk reactions that spiraled a simple matter out of control.

Today, I will discuss how my entire professional destiny hinged on a bad choice.  But due to laziness and the lack of convenience, I was prevented from making that crucial error.

I CAN RECALL THE EXACT MOMENT WHEN I CAME THIS CLOSE TO HAVING A COMPLETELY DIFFERENT FUTURE.

This pivotal point in my life came to mind earlier this week.  At work, I found out that my friend EEBEE and three other coworkers are being informally taught how to deal craps. I admired him because with little exposure, (without the benefit of classroom training and actual equipment), he seemed unusually well-versed.  I was confident that EEBEE, a twenty-two year veteran dealer of other casino games, was dedicated to learning this specialized craft.  He further impressed me when he referred to himself as "anal" in regard to the challenge of becoming a craps dealer. So because he is in no way an up-tight individual or someone prone to drawn-out explanations, I concluded; he meant that he pays excessive attention to detail which in craps, can be a handy trait to have.

BEFORE DE-REGULATION RUINED ATLANTIC CITY, (IN SO MANY WAYS), CRAPS STUDENTS WERE REQUIRED TO ATTEND A 240-HOUR CLASS.  NOW, ALL YOU HAVE TO DO IS LEARN ENOUGH TO PASS A CASINO AUDITION.

I volunteered to help EEBEE.  I said, "You have a good foundation as to the theory of the game but you need to understand the practical, full-speed application of what you know."  He accepted my pledge because I not only have 36 years of dealing experience but because I once owned a dealer training academy, taught tons of students, prepared instructors on how to teach and contributed in writing how-to manuals.  So it really didn't matter that I also got a ringing endorsement from his sister Kim, who was one of my students, in 1987.

Even while I lived in Las Vegas, I got satisfaction from helping my friend Dick Paynlewski teach his craps class.  One of his students, LTJEFF, I later introduced to my boss.  LTJEFF not only got hired on my recommendation but he became my coworker, a lifelong friend and regular MGTP reader.

The twisted irony of my long and successful gaming career can be traced back to my first exposure to being a craps student. Because if not for my laziness and NOT listening to the sober, well-thought out opinion of my inner sabotaging demon, I would have quit within the first hour.

If you've never attended a continuing education class, you're pretty much stuck in the mind set that all schools start in September, (or January).  So in August 1978, it seemed normal that the craps class I selected at the New York School of Gambling (West 32nd Street in Manhattan) was starting right after Labor Day.

Unfortunately for me, my uncle died right before class started, (it was of course a lot worse for my uncle).  Tuesday September 5th was the first day of class.  But in a freaky scheduling clash, it was also the date of my uncle's wake. I didn't want to dig myself a hole by getting behind in my schooling but my parents insisted that I attend this family function.

On Wednesday morning, I was edgy on the subway and more so on the elevator up to the school's seventh floor mock casino and classroom.  I took comfort when my instructor, MITCHM, didn't hassle me for missing the first session. Instead, he welcomed me with open arms.  Oddly, he didn't introduce me to the others.  He brought me to a secluded, unoccupied blackjack table and gave me two stacks of twenty casino chips.  Mitch demonstrated how craps dealers are expected to manipulate them. The other fifteen students (spread out around the room) were doing similar "warm-up" exercises.  So I fit right in.

Mitch was a whiz.  He "cut" the chips, "sized in" and "drop cut" them like a machine.  But at no point did he tell me how difficult it might be.  Before leaving me to practice on my own he said, "It's critical that you learn how to handle the checks first."  Checks?  So while piecing together that "checks" are casino-speak for chips, I set out on my journey, working with the chips (checks).

This critical talent wasn't hard for me to do...it was impossible!  I struggled just to hold all twenty chips in one hand.  Far worse, the inner-most check kept irritating me and blistered my palm.

The instructor had organized drills designed to develop speed and accuracy with the chips.  From afar, the others were getting a high level of satisfaction while sharpening their skills during friendly competitions. While segregated, I became frustrated by my total ineptitude.

I heard Mitch's commands. From his earlier description, I could picture what the class was doing.  I couldn't imagine catching up to them in four hours but I was determined and kept at it.  My comfort zone suddenly disappeared when their ten-minute hand calisthenics exercise ended and they all gathered around a craps table.

From my isolated station, I saw that the class had been given a written homework assignment.  I might have been sharp enough to pick-up that chips were checks, but I was 100% clueless what the hell they were talking about.  I thought my brain was going to burst through my skull when Mitch called out, "Three each high-low?"  A student cried, "Eighty-seven!"  "Jesus H. Christ," I murmured, "how did they learn all this shit yesterday?"

I made zero progress with those stupid chips...checks...whatever you want to call 'em.  Plus it was boring. A conspiracy theorist might have thought working with the chips was a clever way to weed-out the bad apples who didn't have what it takes to join the craps army.

Mitch noticed that I was distracted and stopped cutting the chips. He broke my concentration by calling across the room , "Remember to work your left hand too." Left hand?  I couldn't even do this with my right.

In a combination of feeling sorry for myself and eavesdropping on the perceived upbeat activity, I got lost in another daydream.  That's when the checks squirted out of my hand.  A couple rolled off the table and fell on the floor. I was too embarrassed to bend over and retrieve them until I realized that I was so invisible that nobody gave a rat's ass enough to turn away from their lesson.

The students loved Mitch. Like a powerful preacher, his flock heeded every word, especially when he added a humorous anecdote to a specific point he was reinforcing.  Unfortunately for me, the grand old time they were having served to spur my insecurity. But my self doubt really skyrocketed when the homework review ended.  That's when they started to run a simulated craps game.

I was shocked how much material the group mastered in their first meeting. They must all be geniuses I concluded...or far worse...I was an idiot.  I had no idea what was going on but everyone knew what to do.   While everything was going along so smoothly over there, I was aware that I hadn't cut one chip or properly sized-in. And drop cutting!  That was so fruitless that I rubbed the chips like a magic lamp and wished a genie would appear and bestow the check handling gift I needed.

MY TASK WAS SO DAUNTING THAT IN LESS THAN SIXTY MINUTES, I WAS FANTASIZING ABOUT DIVINE INTERVENTION.

No genie or holy roller of any kind came to my rescue. Instead, in a language as strange as Hungarian, the class under Mitch's tutelage continued to run their own craps game. I was depressed by what I missed in one friggin' day. I was so buried that I was willing to walk away from the hefty down-payment I paid. I thought about an exit strategy.  If I didn't have to run the gauntlet and walk past Mitch and my "classmates," I would have sneaked away with no regrets.

With each spike of laughter from the group, I felt more trapped.  It was clear that I was out of my element.  I seriously looked at the open seventh floor window as an escape hatch as my panic hit a zenith.  While I was gazing around the room, Mitch slipped away from the class.  In that instant, I would have felt worse, if I noticed that the class was smart enough to happily take care of their business without an overseer. I was internally cursing my lack of manual dexterity as Mitch mysteriously appeared at my side.

I was tongue-tied as I failed to express that this class wasn't for me. Mitch ignored my bumbling and smiled, "Now I can get you up to speed."  I groaned, "I'll never be able to handle these chips...I mean checks." Mitch said, "Be patient. Nobody becomes a clerk over night. It takes sacrifice, dedication and practice."  It didn't set right in that "clerking" meant being an outstanding craps dealer but the concept of success not happening overnight excited me.  Still I whined, "The class started yesterday and these guys are pros."

Mitch put my mind at ease and said, "Learning to deal dice is fun." In a short time, in an upbeat manner, he taught me the basic rules of craps while schooling me on what he called,  *"staggered student entry."

Mitch said, "Our class size will never be over twenty.  Right now, including you, we have sixteen. So forget about the course structure you're used to.  New people might join in tomorrow or next week. Plus some of these guys are graduating in October. Remember this school is a business." He pointed towards the office with his thumb and in a lower voice said, "The owners out there don't down turn down anyone's money.  If you want to start now, you start now.  Or next week or only on Thursdays...whatever "  I said, "So I didn't miss anything by not being here yesterday?"  Mitch was so friendly and calming as he avoided my question, "Stick with me. I'll have you in with the others by the end of today."  And...he did. Maybe Mitch was the magic genie I wished for?

* Staggered student entry became a valuable asset when I owned my dealer training facility.  That's also when I realized that Mitch wasn't really a saint.  He was probably motivated into manipulating me to stick it out because earned a commission for each head that paid their full tuition.

Looking back on my first day of dealer school, I showed no sign of being well-adjusted with no patience or flexibility.  I wonder what my life would have been like if I managed to sneak out that day.

JAMES BELUSHI STARRED IN THE UNINSPIRING 1990 MOVIE, "MR. DESTINY."  IN THIS CHEESY RIP-OFF OF, "IT'S A WONDERFUL LIFE,"  A SUCCESSFUL MAN CAN'T GET PAST THE HAUNTING MEMORY OF STRIKING OUT TO END THE CHAMPIONSHIP GAME IN HIGH SCHOOL...UNTIL HE'S SHOWN HOW HIS LIFE WOULD HAVE BEEN (WORSE), IF HE WAS THE HERO.

I don't always love casino work.  The serving the public lifestyle, extreme conditions and crazy hours are a major drawback to this overwhelmingly under appreciated, dead-end job.  But as my accountant once said, "You made the system work, when so many others have failed."  Loosely translated he meant; I'm a dinosaur.  While most casino workers get chewed-up and spit out fast, I made a long career from what most burn-outs look at as, mission impossible.

MGTP readers can thank my indecision back in September 1978 too.  Because without it, so many of my best casino adventures would never have happened.

I'm looking forward to telling EEBEE this story.  Now that I have the teaching spark, I'm also anxious to share more ideas with him.  I'm just hoping when the training throws him too many of life's little curve balls, he doesn't get frustrated, drop-out or look for an open window.

REMEMBER THE OPENING SCENE OF 1981's, "RAIDERS OF THE LOST ARK."  THAT'S HARRISON FORD (above) TRYING TO OUT-RUN A COLOSSAL,  BOOBY-TRAPPED  ROLLING BOULDER.  DURING MY CRAPS TRAINING AND CONTINUING INTO MY EARLY YEARS OF DEALING, I HAD SIMILAR RECURRING NIGHTMARES THAT I WAS BEING CHASED BY GIANT DICE.

It's a good thing that EEBEE is flexible and mature. But like I said, even the best of us get caught-up. In the near future when the curtain rises on his craps dealing career, I hope he keeps his cool when the shit hits the fan (and it will).

I shouldn't worry about EEBEE but...not everyone has a magic genie...and I know he has access to the building that houses New Jersey's tallest non-profit organization.  With so many levels to choose from, a swan dive from thirty stories up, could get messy.

CASINO WAR STORIES

My wife and I had dinner with another couple last night.  We got on the topic of terrible casino supervisors and unfortunately for anyone who has ever been a dealer, a floodgate of stories gushed forth.  

One of the jerks I mentioned was the main character from my short story, "BLESSING IN DISGUISE."  I hope after you digest the condensed version below, you'll want to read the full-blown story...which I can E-Mail you.   

In Las Vegas (1981), while I was dealing craps at the Stardust, I was meeting friends after work at our favorite watering hole, "Mickey's Appetizer." I got there first and was approached by a noticeably tipsy Vera-Lynne Kirby.  This slinky, blond bombshell was a thirty-ish cocktail waitress who worked with me.  She saw my uniform and wanted to vent about a prick she had been seeing.  

The blood and guts of this piece were made possible by that chance meeting.  Therefore, Vera-Lynne alone, is responsible for the intimate details on the life of her former lover...the Stardust's most hated craps supervisor.

Carl "The Mole" Blessing grew up in rural Utah.  His father was physically abusive to his mom and verbally abusive to him. At a young age, he was an emotional cripple whose damaged personality was perpetuated by an exaggerated over-bite, bed-wetting and stuttering. All through grammar school he was picked on by bullies and left by his parents to fend for himself.

A friendless nerd and an average student, Carl's situation worsened in junior high school as his rodent-like facial features became obvious. Even some teachers called him "The Mole."  If life through adolescence wasn't bad enough, this loner was forced deeper into obscurity by developing a severe case of acne.

In his high school years Carl outgrew his bed-wetting, his face cleared-up and he stopped stuttering. Still, he had bad teeth and little self-esteem when he enlisted in the army, at the height of the Vietnam War.

Carl wanted to validate his life.  He envisioned getting a fresh start in the military and becoming a respected hero. On the day he landed in Vietnam, Carl's odd-ball personality made him an immediate outcast.  None of his new platoon mates took an interest in him and the few that made reference to him called him, "Rat-Face."

On his first night, Carl was deployed (alone) on guard duty, in a foxhole at the perimeter of Danang Air Base. In ninety degrees and oppressive humidity, he shivered in fear for hours as he stared beyond the treeline, at the "in-country's" blackness. Carl fought off the ubiquitous flying insects as surges of fear shuddered his innards every time a branch snapped, an animal howled or he heard distant artillery.

Nervous Carl developed worsening stomach cramps.  When the pain got the better of him, he tried to relieve the pressure with quiet flatulence.  Unfortunately, a wet fart spewed out and he was forced to lay in his own waste all night.

Carl made a buddy on his second day, but it turned out to be the worst day of his miserable life.  His platoon was sent out on patrol and got ambushed.  In the early stages of the firefight, he saw his sergeant get shot through the neck.  He was already in panic mode as a loud ping produced a hole in his helmet and a flesh wound in his scalp.  Carl tossed aside his unfired M-16.  When his friend came to help him snap out of his funk, Carl saw his buddy's arm get blown off.  His friend without thought of his own injury staggered to his feet to rally Carl but a bullet zapping through his eyebrow ended his life.

Before the skirmish was over, Carl was shot again.  When the enemy overran their position, Carl Blessing soiled himself again as he hid under the bodies of fallen comrades.

Private Blessing would be one of three survivors.  In the manic hurry of getting air-lifted to safety, his rescuers and later the triage doctors (under fire themselves) didn't notice one missing boot.

Carl became a craps dealer in Las Vegas.  His stormy life, adult shortcomings and cowardice would prove to be an asset in the casino industry.  He got some experience and two years later was hired by the Stardust.  His new bosses recognized him as insecure, spiteful and ignorant so they groomed him as a spy, to infiltrate the front-line employees.  They called him their "Eager Beaver" because he'd step on anyone who got in the way of his upward mobility. Two promotions later, he had graduated to lead floorman on day shift, (a dual-rate pit-boss,in Atlantic City).

When I worked at night, I understood that all the day-shift dealers hated Carl Blessing and not surprisingly called him, "The Mole." Not only because of his face but because he was also a covert stooge of management.

He was so arrogant that he didn't realize that we knew he took joy in being a hatchet-man and "ratting-out" anyone who hustled tips, stirred unrest among the employees or otherwise strayed from the casino's best interest.

My situation got worse when Carl unforgivably insulted an Asian-American player's heritage. Blessing blamed the North Vietnamese army for maiming him but he outwardly hated all Orientals. This situation put management in an awkward position.  They knew they had valuable asset so rather than cultivating another moron to take his place, they demoted Carl and sent him and his bad leg limping to my shift.

Carl did not endear himself to his counterpart on our shift.  The nighttime lead floorman Werner "Ernie" Trohlmann was a psychotic, Neo-Nazi ass-hole himself.  But he seemed normal compared to Carl Blessing.  Carl confessed to Vera-Lynne that he wanted to undermine Trohlmann and take his position.

Blessing was petty and did everything in his power to make himself look good at the expense of others, particularly dealers. A couple of Ernie Trohlmann's golfing buddies complained about Carl. The hostile work environment every night was awful.  Luckily, I had little exposure to Carl during his short stint on my shift. The only time he seemed human was when he came off like a big-shot and spoke about getting shot-up in Vietnam, (Vera-Lynne would later clarify that his courageous tour of duty...was only a two-day stint).

We received a breath of fresh air when a new dealer was hired who took the wind out of Carl's sails. "Combat" Harry Lorenz was a New Yorker and a Vietnam vet, (he kept laminated photos in his wallet of a couple of Viet Cong he killed).  Despite the ghosts in the former corporal's closet and the uncool "combat" part of his personality, he was immediate smash with the dealers because he was mercenary when it came time to hustling tokes (tips). He and I became close and socialized outside work.  One of the things we had in common was that we were big hockey fans, (specifically of the New York Islanders).

Harry was incredibly brazen.  He approached the head of the Stardust sports book and asked him to put an Islanders playoff game on one of their twenty TV's.  Harry was told, "Nobody bets on hockey." He didn't like being turned down, so Harry tried bribing the man.  This gentleman wasn't going to risk his lofty position for fifty bucks...but to pacify Harry, he offered a free compromise. Two days later, he set-up for Harry, a single TV and a couple of dozen folding chairs, on the dance floor of a rarely unused lounge.

I explained to Harry that we weren't permitted on the property before or after our shift. He didn't care and said, "That lounge is completely away from the casino and no one knows us on day shift." I didn't have my heart in it as I agreed to watch the first two periods before work.

On game day, I took the precaution of leaving my uniform shirt in my car.  Harry didn't and wound-up with a bulls-eye on his back.  I didn't even want to sit next to him. But it got worse because when the seats filled-up, the casino provided cocktail service and that idiot Harry bought three beers before the first intermission.

In the second period, Harry sucked down two more.  I was so antsy, I didn't even order a coke. During the second intermission, it was time for us to go on duty.  Harry needed to pee and I had to get my dealer shirt from my car. On the way, we passed the arcade.  There was a huge crowd watching someone play Pac-Man. We heard a voice say, "This guy is great, he's now going for the grapes."

Harry pushed through the throng to get a closer look.  He recognized the player and called back to me, "Look, it's Carl Blessing!"

Secretly, Carl had Harry in his cross-hairs for two reasons.  One was his sloppy way of hustling tips and secondly, Harry's actual knowledge of Vietnam might expose him as a fraud.  So Harry's best interests (especially while reeking of beer) would have been better served by avoiding Carl.

Blessing was there early because he had a poor home life.  To provide an outlet from mundane domestic accountability as well as a buffer between him and his wife, he tinkered with small appliances in his garage.  Soon he was fixing other people's items, doing bull-work and using his pick-up truck to do light hauling.  One of his repeat customers was Vera-Lynne.  She was so satisfied by his work that she acted as an unpaid dispatcher and hooked him up with her wide range of friends. Carl's business skyrocketed as other waitresses and women from all walks of life kept him out of his house.

Some of these women occasionally bartered sex for his services, including Vera-Lynne.  Vera-Lynne could have any man she wanted but she had a soft spot for Carl because he was wounded in Vietnam. Her sensitivity was proven by the MIA bracelet she wore because her twin brother was still listed as Missing In Action, (MIA) ten years later.

Mrs. Blessing had no idea that Carl was spending many afternoons with females.  But she figured something positive had to be going on because he had a wall safe installed into their walk-in closet.

In the early stages of marriage, Carl had a chance to end the cycle of abuse that he had endured. Instead, he allowed his weak personality and thin-skin to overwhelm him. So Carl drank a lot. Sometimes he smacked his wife around and threatened their two grade school daughters.  These episodes became more frequent when he was given the third degree after he partied with his customers. When Mrs. B. finally suffered enough, she took action.

One day Carl came home to an empty house.  On his gimpy foot, he ran upstairs and found a hole where he had squirreled away $20,000.00 in the safe that had now been excavated out of the wall. On the same day, Carl's wife got a restraining order which forced him out of the house.

Carl was living in an efficiency at the Klondike Motel, just south of the Tropicana Casino. Sometimes, he got bored in the tiny apartment, so that's why on the day of our hockey game, he came to work early.  Harry shouldn't have congratulated Blessing's success in the arcade.  When we came into the employee entrance, Harry wasn't permitted to clock-in; Blessing had already had him fired.

At that time, the Stardust had one Asian craps supervisor, Byron Fong.  This jolly floorman used the same line over and over, "I'm half Chinese, half Korean and a quarter Philippine...but I was born San Bernadino, so I'm just an American."  Fong was a diabetic with a gambling problem who frequently needed to sit down when his feet swelled.

One night Vera-Lynne approached Carl Blessing and said, "That Chinese floorman is stealing from the casino." How do you know?"  "Everyday, he gives me five bucks to bring him a plain tomato juice in a coffee mug."  Carl said, "Yeah, you can't trust Charley (Asians) but as crazy as a coffee mug for tomato juice sounds..."  She interrupted, "He takes one tiny sip, sets in on the craps rail and then replaces the boxman.  While sitting there, he fixes up the chips and then just before he stands back up...he coughs." Carl said, "I see..."  Vera-Lynne said, "Then he takes a big gulp of juice. When he goes on break, he brings the mug with him." Carl said, "I'll fix that U.F.O. (Ugly Fucking Oriental) but good!"

Carl reported these finding as his own to his boss.  The next night, the surveillance cameras and the eye-in-the-sky were focused on Byron Fong.  Throughout the shift, a cordon of undercover security guards were strategically positioned around the craps pit waiting to pounce.

The sting operation when into motion at 1:00AM when Vera-Lynne gave the signal by putting a paper cocktail umbrella in her hair. Everyone went about their business as the target repeated his usual MO. The posse followed him into the men's room and seized the mug. Inside, they found two, hundred dollar chips.

The big bosses fired Fong and planned (after the following week) to give Carl a raise, a package of goodies including dinner for two in their gourmet room and tickets for, "Siegfried and Roy." But more importantly, reinstating Blessing back to his coveted lead floorman position, on day shift.

During the next few days, Carl was especially full of himself.  Even though he had no idea how well he impressed his bosses, he strut around the craps pit like he owned the place.  A big part of his braggadocio was making disparaging remarks to Orientals.

On one of the rare days that Carl was my supervisor, he had no idea that he was about to shoot himself in the foot as "Crazy" Janie Kuhaulua marched towards the craps pit.

Janie was a junket rep from Hawaii.  That meant she was a Stardust VIP because she brought huge groups of wealthy gamblers in from the islands, several times a year.  Apparently, Carl didn't know her because he was new to our shift and she only hung out in the casino at night.

Crazy Janie was an obese six-footer with an entertainingly foul mouth.  All the dealers loved her because she was the essence of positive energy and an incredible tipper.  But on this occasion, she trudged past my table in flip-flops with her Vienna sausage-like toes sticking out of the front without stopping. Her black muumuu with embroidered purple orchids surrounded by golden hibiscus flowers was flowing in the breeze as one of the other dealers on my crew called out to her. Janie's thumping stride never wavered as she announced over her shoulder, "One of my people just hit a big jackpot on a one-armed bandit.  Maybe later..."

Her one-armed bandit statement caused Carl Blessing to have a legitimate Vietnam flashback as he pictured his only buddy's arm get blown off. He leered at the back of Janie's flabby arms, enormous calves and unsculptured ankles as she disappeared behind a row of slot machines.  He squawked, "I'd hate to get between that (her) and the last pork chop."

Months earlier in a drunken stupor, Janie confided in me and other dealers that she was once a fashion model. She showed us lingerie photos when she was a teenager, and she was gorgeous.  Janie sighed, "My fiance got messed-up in Vietnam. He came back in one piece but he saw too much shit and it hurt him deep down inside.  A year later, he was making great progress so we picked a wedding date and made all the plans.  One day, at a lunch counter downtown, he collapsed in my arms and died...a brain aneurysm...I stopped caring about myself...it's been twelve years."

Janie didn't seem so crazy that day.  She had a tear in her eye as she added, "His dad died a month after that.  He had no heirs and willed me his small pineapple plantation.  I can't sit in an office, I hired people to run it.  Now I travel all over the world...I'm afraid to stop."

Luckily, an hour later Janie came by again.  The same dealer from before made a "pocko-lo-lo" reference which is the nickname for high-grade Hawaiian marijuana.  In a nasal voice Janie said, "I can use some.  I feel like shit.  We just came from Frisco and I froze my ass off.  Now I have a fuckin' sore throat."

The dealer who flagged her down was going on break.  He said, "Stay here a sec, I have just the thing that will help you." He scampered off and returned with a thirty-eight cent box of Ludens cough drops.  Janie grabbed a bunch put them in her mouth and said, "I'm feeling better already...maybe I'll play a little." She threw down three hundred dollars and said, "Keep fifty for you guys."  Carl didn't notice her cough drop generosity but his eyes bulged out of his head when she kept tipping us without being prodded.

Janie was doing well.  But when she shot the dice, she got on a serious roll.  Her five-dollar bets across the board were soon increased to a hundred.  Her bet on the hard six was $25.00 and she announced, "When it hits, I'm splittin' it with the dealers."  Carl looked at gratuities as money the casino could not possibly win back.  So he showed his annoyance by pacing and cursing under his breath each time our ton of tips grew.

Carl's fellow supervisors could have have clued him in on Janie's superstar status but they hated him too.  So by ignoring the rising tension, they set him up to take the fall.

Janie noticed Carl's lack of professionalism.  To piss him off, she started making every odd-ball bet on the table for us.  Carl slammed his clipboard down when she raised the amount of each tip.  That's when she started adding to her hard six and said, "I'm gonna keep pressing that hard six till it hits...and then I'm splittin' it with the dealers."

To distract her, began Carl nit-picking us.  Janie addressed Blessing for the first time by saying, "We gotta get you some pocko-lo-lo brudda."  Carl said, "Just shoot the dice."  After a short pause he mumbled, "Fuckin' gook."  She heard him but maybe she wasn't certain or didn't feel well enough to cause a ruckus.  But she was a powerful, liberated woman who wasn't going to take any sass.

Janie turned her ire on superstitious Carl after he started throwing pennies under our table. She was amazing as she concentrated on staring him down as she upped our bets.  Janie was still shooting after fifteen minutes when the hard six (with $90.00 on it), rolled.  She was so hoarse that she held her hand against her throat and shouted, "Boys, you take your half and I'm coming down."  The boxman set aside $450.00 for us when Carl interjected, "The dealers have a $25.00 'max' on hard ways.  They get 270!  $250.00 for the quarter but they had no action on the other twenty."

Janie screamed, "That's fuckin' bullshit!"  Carl said, "Watch your language...there's lady's present."  "Do you know who I am?"  Carl said, "Yeah, a woman who doesn't understand that this is a strict casino policy and there's nothing anyone can do about it."  Janie sneered, "If it lost, you wouldn't have given them shit!"  Carl smugly smiled, "That's not true.  You know why they aren't complaining?  'Cause they know the rules.  Isn't that right boys?"

Enraged Janie barked, "Then fuck the dealers!  Give me the whole damned nine-hundred!"  When she had the chips she added, "And let it be on your head that I never bet for the dealers again.  So fuck the dealers, fuck this place and FUCK YOU too!"

Carl said, "Didn't I tell you to watch your language?" Janie was clutching her painful neck as he murmured the same insult from before. Janie yelled, "What did you say?  Did you call me a fuckin' gook?"  He went into damage control and snarled, "I said...you got your nine hundred.  Now I'm saying...take down all her bets.  This dragon lady has no action here."

Janie smiled, "You don't know who your talking to you weasly fucking piss-ant. Now answer me this. Before you try throwing me out, can I give my fuckin' money away?"  Carl was dumbfounded.  Janie winked at me, counted out $450.00, added an extra hundred and shoved it towards me.  Janie said, "Now you can take all my bets down.  I gotta find the casino manager."

Vera-Lynne said she saw Janie arguing with the biggest boss in the building.  Janie was shaking as she rasped, "Your employee called me a 'dragon lady' in front of everyone.  That's like saying I'm a whore and a mean-spirited, controlling bitch.  Plus, he called me a 'fuckin' gook' twice! I want that ferret-faced imbecile fired!"  He smiled, "Calm down..."  She cut him off, "No!  I'm a full-blooded Hawaiian and as much of an American as anyone...and so was my fiance, who died from getting messed-up fighting the Viet Cong..."

Carl wasn't fired and Janie didn't take her lucrative trade to another casino.  So apparently a deal was struck because instead of Carl getting lavished with bonuses, a raise and being brought back to his former day shift position, he was re-demoted and send to the least desirable shift, graveyard, as a boxman.

Blessing didn't take well to working 4:00AM till noon.  At the suggestion of his accountant, he called out as much as possible to minimize potential alimony while bolsterinjg his private enterprise and undeclared income.  Carl got his own apartment and started exclusively seeing Vera-Lynne.

A week after being served divorce papers, Vera-Lynne was at his place when he got a call from his wife.  She demanded money for ballet lessons for their girls.  He said, "No."  "Well, they are both going to need orthodontic work too..."  Carl spat, "Hell, they don't need braces."  His wife countered, "Yes they do!  Looking like you, is much worse for a girl."  "Shit, if you're that hard-up for cash, why don't you use your stolen money from the safe you ripped out of the goddamned wall."

Months later at an impromptu meeting with the graveyard shift boss Carl was threatened with dismissal because of pattern call-outs. The boss said, "This will be your only warning."  Carl said, "Do whatever you gotta do."  His boss said, "If this is an elaborate scheme to get fired and collect unemployment, you're sadly mistaken."  "Shit!  Is that what you think?  Well, I don't give a rat's ass.  I'll make it easy on you, I quit."

On the following Sunday, Mrs. Blessing marched past the crowded pool at Carl's apartment complex. Carl's door was ajar.  She tried to peer in before knocking but her husband appeared at the door.  Carl was wearing a swimsuit and black socks (he always tried to hide his war wound) as he stirred a pitcher of what looked like lemonade.

Mrs. Blessing came in peace.  But she tried to look past him into the apartment while offering one last stab at reconciliation. Before Carl could react she added, "Of course, we insist on a commitment from you, to seek professional help for your drinking and anger management."

Vera-Lynne got up from her poolside chaise lounge and strolled over.  She exuded confidence in a yellow string bikini that highlighted her deep suntan as she said, "Everything okay pumpkin?" Frumpy and pale, Mrs. Blessing in a black, polyester K-Mart suit was intimidated by her rival. To make matters worse, the door opened enough for her to see a bottle of Gordon's gin on the coffee table and a floor cluttered by clothes including a bra and panties.

Sweaty Mrs. Blessing was demoralized and ready to slither away.  But she gave her outrageous proposal one last try. Carl had his arm around Vera-Lynne's waist, gave her a healthy fanny squeeze and said, "Get the fuck out of here!"  His wife shouted, "You're pretty brave standing behind this bimbo..."

Everyone at the pool was standing, trying to get a better look at the brewing battle. Mrs. Blessing motioned towards Vera-Lynne's MIA bracelet and growled, "He was pretty brave in Vietnam too. You know what the 'million-dollar wound' is?"  Vera-Lynne cautiously shrugged as Mrs. B. continued, "Did you know our little  'yellow' hero shot himself in the foot?"  Had Carl not over-reacted Vera-Lynne probably wouldn't have believed her.

"Who told you that?" Carl seethed. His wife said, "You did!"  She turned towards Vera-Lynne and self-righteously added, "I guess you already know he talks in his sleep..."  Vera-Lynne broke free from his grasp and snapped, "You fuckin' bastard!"  Carl didn't know the scope of what his wife knew and neurotically admitted, "We got ambushed...it was crazy there...everyone getting shot up all around me...it was only my second day..."  The two women simultaneously said, "WHAT?"  In tears, Carl purged his guilt, spilled his guts and unraveled the convoluted resume that he had for years sworn by.  He might have been gaining some sympathy until he shot himself in the foot again by saying, "Blowing off my toe was the only round I fired..."

Sickened, Vera-Lynne went into the apartment and slammed the door.  A minute later, clutching her scant belongings, she came out screaming obscenities. Carl limped behind her as she scurried to her Corvette.  He begged her to come back.  She said, "Don't call, don't look for me and don't expect any more help either."  She burnt rubber as she sped away.

Humiliated, gimpy Carl hid in the shadows as he walked against the farthest wall away from his finger pointing neighbors.  The day had been designed to be an emancipation from casino work. Instead it turned out to be a complete disaster. Inside, he found his wife waiting.  He ignored her and advanced to the bathroom.  He looked with disgust in the mirror and saw his sallow, ratty reflection. He realized he didn't have a conventional job, he was disconnected from the vast majority of his clientele, ineligible for unemployment, spurned by his lover and had his unwanted wife in the other room waiting for a decision.

Carl came out into the unlit living room.  He didn't address his wife as he removed his socks.  With a sense of purpose, without hobbling, he strode out into the sunshine and retrieved some personal items he left at the pool.  Back inside he said to his wife, "I thought about your demands...and I'm not interested.  I'll be fine...so get out."

ROBBING THE SUPER BOWL BOX POOL...THE PERFECT CRIME

In the early 1990's, fifty-year old Bill Derry was an Atlantic City casino floor supervisor and coworker of mine.  From the outside looking in, most people would think he had the world by the balls. But Derry had four major vices; three of which he handled well but the fourth, (unseen to nearly everybody) was his downfall.

Bill's first vice was being a wheeler-dealer with an incredible energy to legally earn money.  Derry owed much of his success to his semi-retired father's connections with Chester Pennsylvania bus rentals.

Derry capitalized on dad's influence to inexpensively charter buses, (later, he bought his own).  He started by organizing sightseeing trips for casino workers, (plus friends and family), to New York City, Washington DC, Baltimore and Philadelphia.

He soon parlayed his service to include Broadway shows, concerts and sporting events.  Derry's all-inclusive service earned a loyal following because he provided a sandwich, chips and soft drinks to all the passengers...plus a customer satisfaction guarantee.  So when one of his buses to Baltimore broke down on I-95 after an Orioles game at Memorial Stadium, he refunded 100% to everyone who suffered while waiting three hours for another bus to take them home.

THE 1990 GOODWILL REFUND FROM THE BALTIMORE TRIP REWARDED BILL DERRY WITH A RESPECTED REPUTATION WHICH RESULTED IN A TREMENDOUS AMOUNT OF POSITIVE, WORD-OF-MOUTH ADVERTISING.

Derry's broadening empire soon included buying two buses. He used them to bring gamblers from New York's Chinatown, to, two different Atlantic City casinos.  Those buses eventually grew to make three trips a day, every day of the year and were full.  He and his partner in Manhattan got a cut from each bus ticket sold and a healthy kick-back from the casinos.

Derry's next vice was being an excessive over-eater.  Due to his weight, he earned the hated nickname, Bill "William the Refrigerator" Derry.

WILLIAM "THE REFRIGERATOR" PERRY (1962-PRESENT) PLAYED IN THE NFL FROM 1985-1993.  HIS NICKNAME WAS IN REFERENCE TO HIS ENORMOUS SIZE, 6 FOOT 2 AND 335 POUNDS.  BILL DERRY WAS NO ATHLETE AND WASN'T NEARLY THAT BIG...STILL THE NAME FIT.

Like William Perry (above) Bill Derry had an engaging, upbeat personality.  So, he never let petty barbs get in the way of his cash flow.

It's hard to believe that Bill's life-of-the-party spirit could ever get more robust but it did when his third vice kicked in...drinking. Derry was famous for leading hordes of people, after to work, to his favorite watering holes, (maybe he was getting a cut from bar owners too)?  Bill was usually the first to order a round for everyone...even for the leeches who never bought anyone else a drink.

BILL WAS PARTIAL TO CHASING JAMESON SHOTS WITH HEINEKEN.

Bill held his liquor well and was never out of control.  But when he was well-lubricated, he was usually an easy touch for any sponge that had a family or health crisis.  Even at work, he was generous and likely to volunteer a donation to a bad situation or to help celebrate wedding and baby showers, special birthdays, retirees etc.

In support of Derry, he had a live-in girlfriend Reiko "Rico" Dunlap.  A blackjack dealer in our high action baccarat pit, Rico was a forty-year old divorcee, originally from Indonesia.  She combined a delicate femininity with an exotic look and raw sexuality.  Rico's flirtatious, outgoing nature and years of experience dealing in Las Vegas made her a toke (tip) earning magnet; as she made many high-rollers think they had a romantic shot with her.  Even our jet-setter coworkers who tried to woo her with their self-professed machismo and offers of cocaine were gently turned down.  On the job, there were always gossip-mongers and jealous haters but not a single, decent person I knew doubted her fidelity.

On a rare occasion, Rico spent her break at work alone.  She had a way of sitting in a booth with her legs tucked under her body and putting on a pouty, I need male companionship face.  This stance always caught my attention and made me think she was posing for a nudie magazine.

(Stock Photo) AT FORTY, RICO WAS A FANTASY MACHINE.  IT WOULDN'T SURPRISE ME IF SHE LOOKED LIKE THIS WHEN SHE WAS TWENTY.

Together Bill and Rico were the ultimate power couple.  Even though he was obese and she was nearly perfect, these soul mates were always on the same page.  Their public shows of affection didn't occur often however the sexual chemistry between them was obvious. More importantly, this odd couple was most amazing when their sizzling gift of gab was channeled to satisfy their thirst for money, (he often bragged how they double-teamed a New York businessman, to solidify the Chinatown to Atlantic City casino bus junkets).

I bet everyone who knew them were at least a little envious.  But there were red flags that should have been a clue to underlying problems. Bill and Rico lived in a crumby apartment in Pleasantville and shared an unimpressive, eight-year old sedan.  The reason why they lived like that and never went on vacation...was Bill's fourth vice.

EVEN ON THE DAY IT WAS INTRODUCED, THE CHRYSLER LeBARON WAS NEVER A COOL CAR!

It was so out of character that Bill drove such a beaten-down, boring car. Far worse was the comical contradiction that when that hunk-of-junk was in the shop, he drove around in a little, yellow nursery school-sized bus with Pennsylvania license plates, (which was probably supplied through his dad's influence).

I REMEMBER HOW SHOCKED I WAS THE FIRST TIME I SAW BILL PULL INTO THE EMPLOYEE LOT IN THAT LITTLE, YELLOW SCHOOL BUS.  BUT I WASN'T SHARP ENOUGH TO IMAGINE THE SYMBOLIC RELEVANCE OF SUCH A COOL GUY, DRIVING A GOD-AWFUL LeBARON AND HAVING A NURSERY SCHOOL  BUS... IMPORTED FROM PENNSYLVANIA...AS A BACK-UP. 

At that time, New Jersey casino workers weren't permitted to gamble in Atlantic City. So Bill feverishly entered into negotiations with the elders at the Foxwoods Casino, to bus his gambling deprived New Jerseyians to the Nutmeg State.

BEFORE FOXWOODS OPENED IN 1986,  NEW JERSEY CASINO LICENSE HOLDERS HAD TO GO TO LAS VEGAS TO GAMBLE...OR THEY STAYED IN ATLANTIC CITY AND WORE OUTLANDISH DISGUISES TO DIMINISH THE POSSIBILITY OF GETTING CAUGHT.  NATURALLY, THE REALLY RIDICULOUS GET-UPS DREW MORE ATTENTION TO THE KNUCKLEHEAD TRYING TO KEEP A LOW PROFILE.

One of our pit bosses heard that Derry was trying to make a deal with the Indians and said, "In the mean time, you and Rico should come up to Connecticut with us and take a shot."  Bill said, "No way!  It's okay for my customers to work forty hours a week in a casino and then drive three hours each way on their days off...just to spend more time in one..."  The boss said, "Yeah but..."  Bill interrupted, "Me gambling in a casino would be like a Greyhound driver going on vacation by bus."

The hidden truth was Bill was already addicted to gambling but not on table games.  He was a glutton for punishment through bookies.  His first love were the ponies but during football and basketball season and to a lesser extent baseball, this sports betting vice trumped all three of his other shortcomings.

Bill did a great job keeping this weakness secret. So despite his outward generosity when he had money, he was overwhelmingly broke.  He was caught in a trap, riding a roller coaster lifestyle with more down cycles than up.  Far worse, later it became known that his father's wish to permanently retire was hampered by having to bail his son out from strong-armed collectors.

While waiting for the contracts with Foxwoods to be finalized, Bill and Rico got the idea of brokering a cruise.  They found out that while plenty of people would go to Connecticut by bus, others with more discerning taste were willing to cough-up big bucks to do something colossal and unique with a group of friends...that included legally gambling, out at sea. Bill figured they'd get a volume discount from the cruise ship, give his customers a perceived deal while getting a commission for each cabin filled.  In the end, they would get paid, to take a free vacation.

At that time, (December 1991), Bill's friend, (a shift manager from his former job), told him that corporate lawyers had forced his old casino to officially ban Super Bowl box pools on the property. Bill's mind went into hyper-drive while his buddy blithered on about the usual yaddy-yada phrases like, "disciplinary action up to and including termination."  Bill realized, in the past, upper management in Atlantic City turned a blind eye to these illegal, but highly publicized pools, (for different, yet modest amounts).

Bill mulled this information and recalled that some Wall Street, executives have a Super Bowl box pool with a million-dollars at stake.   That's when he hatched the idea for his own exclusive Super Bowl pool that would net him a free chance to make; $30,000.00, $15,000.00, $7,500.00 or a combination of those amounts.

Derry's Atlantic City Super Bowl box pool would be the biggest in town, EVER!  At a cost of $600.00 per box, he would create $60,000.00 in prize money, (there were a hundred boxes), Bill got the word out to every casino in Atlantic City. Like wildfire, the news spread quickly even beyond the casinos.

At first, the payments came in slowly.  But Bill took no chances on friends or strangers and extended no credit.  All through January, while the NFL playoff tournament played-out, gamblers, (some weren't even football fans) came out of the woodwork to meet privately with Bill, pay up and pick a box.

A BOX POOL IS UNLIKE BETTING ON A SPECIFIC TEAM.  EVERYONE HAS AN EQUAL CHANCE BECAUSE THE WINNERS ARE ARBITRARILY DETERMINED BY THE LAST NUMBER OF EACH TEAM'S SCORE.  THE POOL STARTS WITH A TEN-BY-TEN GRID OF EMPTY BOXES.  THE TEAM DESIGNATED AS THE HOME TEAM IS WRITTEN ACROSS THE TOP. THE VISITOR IS WRITTEN ON THE SIDE.  BEFORE THE NUMBERED SEQUENCES ARE ESTABLISHED, THE BUYER SELECTS A RANDOM BOX. .

To avoid getting in trouble, fictitious names are used in the boxes to protect the participants from incriminating them self. Some of the encrypted identities are simple initials but more creative ones include; nicknames (Ice-Pick), cute phrases (Dead and Buried), favorite teams, (Vikings #1), home towns, (The Nutley Nuisance) or toilet humor (Sir Farts A Lot) and of course perverted ones, (Opti-Lingis).

Bill created his own conversion chart that included his customers encoded names, real names and phone number. When the next to last box was filled, Bill took the last one for himself, (he fronted the money but it was a freebie because the winners always tipped the organizer).

In the past, for other people's box pools, Bill used, "Bonnie and Clyde."  But for his own, he merely wrote,"72," (a sarcastic reference to William "The Refrigerator" Perry's uniform number).

Most everyone at work knew where Bill's dumpy apartment was.  So as a precaution against theft, he told people, in confidence, that his father was holding the $60,000.00, in Pennsylvania.  The reality was, the money was in a Neimann Marcus boot box, in his bedroom closet.  To insure a quick and efficient delivery, he had separated the jackpots into two packets of $7,500.00 and one each of $15,000.00 and $30,000.00.

A few days before the big game, a ceremonial meeting took place to establish the positioning of the all-important numbers.  To do this, twenty playing cards are used from a normal deck, (specifically the ace through ten of a black suit {spades} and the ace through ten of a red suit, {diamonds}).  To avoid any hint of cheating or collusion, these cards are "washed," "riffled," "shuffled" and cut, (note the box pool sample above, it identifies the sequence of the cards and placement of the numbers for that pool).

The winners are determined by the last number of score after the first quarter, halftime, the end of the third quarter and the final score.  Like the old board game, "BATTLESHIP," if you search where the two numbers meet, you'll find the winner's name.

HASBRO'S "BATTLESHIP" USES LETTERS AND  NUMBERS TO FIND IT'S TARGET, (THEREFORE, "B-6"  WOULD BE AN EXCELLENT SELECTION TO SINK YOUR RIVAL'S BATTLESHIP).  THE SUPER BOWL POOL USES RED AND BLACK  NUMBERS TO DETERMINE ITS WINNERS.

So instead of sinking enemy war ships, by using the box pool grid (scroll up), you can see that "RS" was the first quarter winner because the Patriots (red) had 7 and the Giants (blue) had 3.  If the score at halftime was Patriots 10 and the Giants 3, that would explain why "BB" won.  If the score was Patriots 24 and Giants 17 after three quarters you can see why "BA" won.  If the final score was Giants 27, Patriots 24...then "BA" would have won the third quarter prize as well as the grand prize final score, (because the Patriot stayed on 4 and the Giants added ten points and remained on 7).

If that grid represented Bill's pool, "RS" would have won $7,500.00 for the first quarter.  "BB" would have won $15,000.00 for halftime.  And "BA" would have won $7,500.00 plus the $30,000.00 bonanza.

On Sunday January 26, 1992, the actual Super Bowl for Bill's pool featured the Washington Redskins and Buffalo Bills.  I had to work that night but Bill and Rico were off.  In a party-like atmosphere, Bill arranged a free buffet at a bar in Egg Harbor Township which drew a crowd of participants, their friends and curiosity seekers from work.

On one of my breaks during the early second quarter, the game was tied at zero. I was sitting next to roulette floorman Jimmy Hu.  He pointed at the Xerox sheet that Bill Derry provided with all the boxes and numbers and said, "I got the shittiest numbers."  Hu showed me the 8-8 box that had his coded name, "WHO'S ON FIRST." He added, "I got no shot."  When I shrugged he pointed at 0-0 and said, "Do you know 'GIRL POWER,' he won the $7,500.00 first quarter."

The halftime score was Washington Redskins 17 and Buffalo Bills 0.  So whoever "JELLO-n-MILK" was, they had black, zero and red, seven and won $15,000.00.

The score after three quarters was Washington 31 and Buffalo 10 that made a $7,500.00 winner out of "GOOFY AND PLUTO."

I wasn't involved with betting on the game so to me it was a dull blow-out. Towards the end, I was sitting on break next to a pit boss.  He was silent as we watched the game's last few minutes dwindle. When the Bills scored what seemed like a meaningless touchdown, the score became 37-23. A crazy bolt of electricity shot through him.  I asked, "Are you okay?"  He whispered, "If Norwood kicks this extra point..."  He took out his Xerox pool sheet and showed me the box where the red 7 box, met the black 4 box...it read: "COL. STINK-FINGER."  He said, "Then, if there is isn't any more scoring...I win thirty grand!"  I said, "What if he misses?"  He gave me a dirty look, found the red 7, black 3 coordinate and murmured, "Then this, 'BRAIN DONOR NEEDED,' guy wins."

I wasn't on his shit list long because the kick was good and the scoring was over.

Meanwhile, twenty miles away at Bill's Super Bowl party, everyone in the bar was begging Bill for Col. Stink-Finger's identity.  Bill never noticed during the game but Rico kept handing him phantom Jameson shots that she bought.  He was still in control but he was noticeably drunk as he announced who the big winner was.

Lost in the excitement, Rico got in Bill's LeBaron and went home.  An hour later, Bill didn't need to be a detective to figure out why Rico and his car were missing.  He got in a taxi and sped home.  He was relieved to see his car out front.  But the apartment was empty and so was the boot box with $60,000.00.

It was the perfect crime.  Bill couldn't involve the police.  He correctly assumed that she would be abandoning her job so complaining to his employer would only jeopardize his position.

In desperation, Bill called every casual friend Rico had. He questioned coworkers and came up empty. He realized the only people out-of-town that she was in contact with was a cousin and her family, a girlfriend (Nadine) and Reggie Dunlap, her ex-husband...all of whom lived in Las Vegas.

On Wednesday afternoon Bill Derry landed in Vegas. He knew the address and the casinos where Rico's cousin and her friend Nadine lived and worked in.  Bill staked-out Rico's cousin's house and accosted her in the street.  He was so angry the innocent girl cried.  He believed that she hadn't seen or heard from Rico.

Nadine dealt blackjack at the Frontier Casino.  When he got there, a pit boss said, "She called out yesterday and today."  Bill went to Nadine's apartment.  He sat on a park bench across the street for hours until Rico and her friend came home.  They were each carrying several bags each from high-end department stores.  He timed his approach that he came upon them as the front door opened.  He forced his way inside.  A violent argument started.  Bill searched the guest room as the girlfriend screamed for help.  Bill said, "Go ahead, call the fuckin' cops too."  The girl stopped yelling as Bill found a treasure trove of cash. He knew that he had carefully packaged the money so he could see at a glance that a big chunk was missing.

"Where's the rest of it?"  Rico snarled, "I spent it...it's gone."  He readied a backhand slap but Rico defiantly, stood still, eyes open and awaited the blow.  Bill stopped himself. He grabbed up as many shopping bags as he could.  At the door he threw them down in futility.  He was about to tell Rico that he loved her as Nadine lashed out in a profanity laced tirade.  Rico cut her friend off and softly said, "'Fridge,' be happy with what you have and go."  Bill stood frozen in disbelieve for several seconds.  He reflected on the biggest fights in their gambling, codependent relationship and that she never called him by any form of his hated nickname.  Defeated, without speaking, he slunk away.

On the flight home, Bill regretted not going through Rico's purse. He came back to New Jersey $22,000.00 short. He made five phone calls. The last four was to inform the pool winners that he would pay them in full...in installments.  The first call was to tell his father why he needed so much more money. Now, twenty-three years later, I wonder if the senior Mr. Derry ever got to fully enjoy retirement.

THE RETURN OF STEVE THE SLEEVE

In August 1982, the Las Vegas Golden Nugget Casino hired me as a craps dealer. I was lucky that Nick Tucker, a fellow student of mine from the New York School of Gambling, (in 1978), dealt craps there too. Tucker took me under his wing, introduced me to people and showed me the ropes.

IN THE BACKYARD OF MY CANFIELD DRIVE CONDO, NOBODY WAS MORE MONDO BOFFO THAN ME DURING MY GOLDEN NUGGET CAREER, (1982-1984).

The Nugget was unique, in that it had no help's hall.  By not providing the staff with an eating facility, everyone was free to leave the building to eat...or whatever they pleased.

Nick said, "This free pass policy seems like a good idea but it leads to temptation, problems and trouble.  A lotta guys (girls too) do drugs or drink, get messed up and lose their job." 

I reminded Nick that I got my foot in the door when a dealer vanished in the middle of his shift, (vice detectives arrested him at the adult bookstore around the corner), after he stuck his penis through a "glory hole," (to be orally satisfied by an unseen solicitor on the other side of the wall).  

Nick was suggesting where to eat as we were about to leave the Nugget. We agreed on a burger from the Horseshoe Casino snack bar, (across the street).  We still had the strength of the Nugget's air-conditioning on our backs as the triple-digit desert swelter hit us in the face. Suddenly, as we stepped outside, Paul Proctor an old man blackjack dealer from the Nugget jostled Nick as he stormed past us, (Proctor was about sixty.  Oops, old man? That's how old I am now). 

Fremont Street was teeming with cars, (way before it became the Fremont Street Experience...see below...a canopied, pedestrian-only thoroughfare). 

NICK AND WERE CROSSING BETWEEN THE GOLDEN NUGGET SIGN AND THE BIG "B" (BINION'S HORSESHOE).  DON'T LET THE CANOPY, FOOL YOU,  THIS PICTURE IS OUTSIDE!  IN MY DAY,  FREMONT STREET WAS FILLED WITH CARS.  ON WEEKENDS, LOCAL TEENS CRUISED UP AND DOWN THAT SAME STREET (above) TILL THE WEE HOURS OF THE MORNING.

Paul Proctor hustled out into traffic and dodged between taxis. Suddenly, four uniformed Golden Nugget security guards and one plain-clothes supervisor rushed past Nick and I. They caught up with Proctor as he reached the opposite curb.

     

Like the wild west, women started screaming as the officers unprofessionally drew their weapons.  The supervisor was readying handcuffs as he ordered, “Empty your pockets!”  

In seconds, Nick and I were in a mob of curiosity seekers that encircled the performance. I was five feet from Proctor as he grudgingly turned out his pants pockets. All he had was; a money clip with eight dollars, some coins, a comb and a key-ring.

     Proctor innocently shrugged, “You must have me confused with someone else.”

     The stone-faced supervisor said, “Breast pocket.”

     Proctor pretended to be surprised as he patted his shirt pocket and said, "Geez."  He gulped and forced a laughed as he produced three, green Golden Nugget chips and two reds, ($85.00). “Goddammit fellas," he groaned, "I forgot to drop these tokes.”

Proctor was cuffed.  The supervisor leered at Nick and I, "He wasn't stealing company money...that was YOUR tips." Together with his posse, the plainclothesman prodded the perpetrator, for his walk of shame, back into our casino.

Nick jabbed me in the ribs, “See what I mean, drugs, booze and stealing.  That asshole was going to drop the stash off in his car and come back for another load. Lord knows how long he was doing that shit. Strange things happen when they let weak people come and go.”  I said, "Wow."  Nick sighed, "After security gets done with him, I bet he accidentally falls down the same cement staircase ten times in a row.  While he's in the hospital, they'll make him sign a waiver."  I said, "Waiver?"  He said, "Yeah, like a trade off.  That way he doesn't risk jail, in exchange for not suing them.  Either way, we’ll never see that prick again.”

Whether Nick's assertion was true or not, Vegas had an unwritten law against stealing from casinos due to the implied (real?) existence of organized crime.  So unless you were especially desperate or thought you were smarter than everyone else...the casinos were rarely victimized, (certainly ol' Paul Procter thought he was being clever by robbing the dealers instead of management).

Three years earlier, after six months experience dealing craps in Las Vegas, I got my first taste of conniving people who thought they were smarter than everyone else.

At 5:AM, on my way home from work, (the Holiday International Casino),my car was sideswiped, (a hit and run), on Interstate-10.  I was hit so hard, I lost control near Sahara Avenue and crashed, knocking over a light pole, (you may recall my April 1, 2013 blog, "THE SHORT LIFE OF THE MAFIA STAFF CAR."  In it, I described how that accident totaled my $385.00 used car and broke my hand).

I came to work the next day in a cast.  I had a good relationship with my pit boss (Paul "Shag" Darrow) and asked if they would hold my job while I healed, (seven weeks).  He excused himself.  Ten minutes later he returned and said, "It's all fixed, you'll work here."  I said, "Doing what?"  "You're a dealer, right?"  I said, "Yeah.  So I'll operate the Big Six wheel?"  He said, "You're a craps dealer."  I said, "I'll sit box? (supervise)" Shag said, "No, you're a craps dealer, you'll deal craps."  And I did.  Shag did say if anyone ever objected that he'd move me...but no one complained, (last week was my 36th anniversary in the gaming industry and I never saw or heard of anyone else dealing craps with their hand in a cast).

SUMMER 1979.  THE ONLY PICTURE OF ME WITH THE CAST.

The only cast-related problem I had was end the end of my first night.  The pit boss and other supervisors from the next shift (graveyard) relieved my bosses.  On my way out, I was intercepted by the six-foot-six graveyard pit boss John Garrison and his toady lead floorman, Mackey Jones.  

Garrison said, "Hey Jonesy, how many greens ($25.00 chips), you think he can you stuff in that cast?"  I was naive and thought they were kidding.  Mackey lifted my cast, stared me down and said, "We better keep an eye on Steve the Sleeve."

A sharp person would have been insulted...I was intimidated. The whole time in the cast, I exaggerated, "clearing my hands" before touching my body, to prove I wasn't putting chips in my cast or up my sleeve. 

A few days later, my closest friend "Ciro the Hero" told me about his friend's friend, Mike "Mooks" Mamoukian.  Mooks was a likable dope who months earlier had worked with Garrison and Jones.  Ciro's tale was chilling, (for a fuller version of Mike Mamoukian's story, read my June 24, 2013 blog, "MULTIPLE MOOKS.")

Mamoukian was from Buffalo New York and been a strip club bouncer.  His scary face was covered by occupational hazard scars.  But because he regularly ran afoul of his criminal employer, (unpaid debts and insubordination), they "owned" him.  As a testament of their hold on him and his unwillingness to, "get with the program," his mangled hands and gnarled fingers looked like they were twisted and broken a gazillion times. 

MOOKS' FINGERS, KNUCKLES AND HANDS REMINDED ME OF NFL HALL-OF-FAMER CHUCK "CEMENT CHARLIE" BEDNARIK'S, (above). BEDNARIK (1925-PRESENT), PLAYED FROM 1949-1962.  HE WAS THE LAST NFLer TO REGULARLY "GO BOTH WAYS", (PLAY ENTIRE GAMES, CENTER ON OFFENSE AND LINEBACKER ON DEFENSE).  HIS DISFIGURED HANDS ARE A RESULT OF RIVALS WHO TRIED TO CRIPPLE HIM IN PLAYER PILE-UPS.

Mooks knew he had no life in Buffalo.  When he saw an opportunity to break his cycle of abuse, he not only fled to Las Vegas but he virtually kidnapped Maria, a kindred spirit dancer.

Eventually, Mooks became a craps dealer at the Holiday International.  But between his lack of intelligence and inability to handle chips, his coworkers labeled him; the worst dealer in Vegas.  One day John Garrison took him aside and said, "Mike, not everyone is cut-out to be a craps dealer."  Mooks took a deep breath in the expectation that he was getting fired.  

Mooks reflected on his heavy responsibility, supporting Maria. As ugly as Mooks was, that's how beautiful this illegal refugee from Estonia was.  In the late 1970's, while the Cold War was still going strong, her family paid a heavy price to smuggle her (alone) into the country. Unfortunately, once here, the unscrupulous broker sold her like chattel to the strip club owner.  While working in his club's kitchen, Maria was duped into using heroine.  Once addicted, this lonely, non-English speaking, flawless beauty became enslaved as a topless dancer and prostitute.

John Garrison interrupted Mooks' daydream about his platonic relationship with Maria, "Mike, did you hear me?"  Mooks said, "Heh?" Garrison huffed, "I said, dealing craps is not for everyone.  But I can see you're a bright, decent guy who may be better suited to help our company in a management position."  Mooks scratched at his uni-brow and nodded. Garrison said, "I just got a promotion and I think with your people skills, you'd do a bang-up job replacing me as the graveyard craps pit boss."   

In the blink of an eye, moronic Mooks had gone from thinking he was unemployed to doubling his salary.

The reality was, Mooks was set-up to be a patsy.  While getting wined and dined, respected and appreciated, he was getting indoctrinated to be a fall-guy.  Between lavish meals and personalized hostess service on the casino floor, Mooks was inundated with providing his "John Hancock." The new position was exciting and he felt important, (in his private time, he even practiced his signature).  So there was little chance he'd do anything to jeopardize the bonanza he fell upon.

The casino had the least customers in the overnight hours. So someone with Mooks' intellect wouldn't think twice why he was bombarded with signing mostly bogus paperwork, (for the floor waxing team to be on the casino floor, clearance for the exterminator , overhead light bulbs to be replaced, memos approving new dealer aprons, the master attendance sheets and more).  What he definitely never picked up on was that all these signatures and initials came at the same time as fills, (fresh casino chips to replenish a table's bank).

On his third day, Mooks was distracted with a new, more complex version of the attendance sheet.  Mackey Jones shoved the fill slip (receipt for the chips), in Mooks' face and said, "I see you're buried, sign here and I'll put the fill on the game for you."

Mooks thanked him but never counted the chips (money). This scheme worked perfectly five shifts in a row, as he signed for $500.00 that wasn't there...and was subsequently stolen by Garrison, Jones and two others.

One morning, a young, hippie-ish dealer came into the restaurant while Mooks was waiting for his stuffed veal chop at 6:00AM. The kid said, "I could be wrong because I was reading the fill slips upside down but three nights in a row, a tray of nickels (one hundred, five-dollar chips, $500.00) was missing."

Mooks dismissed the kid as he shoveled spoonfuls of shrimp bisque into his mouth.  Suddenly everything came together.  He ripped off his soup-stained napkin from the neck of his shirt and sped to John Garrison's office.

Garrison listened to Mooks accuse Mackey Jones and the boxman of plotting to rob the casino. Under his breath Garrison said, "You're smarter than you look."  Mooks took it as a compliment, smiled and said, "Well I can't take all the credit, I did have help."  Then he named his informant. Garrison said, "I want to thank you.  I'm gonna have to fire those guys...but I can't take a chance that you and that kid aren't in it with them.  You understand."

Mooks was unemployed for months until he got hired as a blackjack dealer, at the bottom of the barrel, Lady Luck Casino.At that point, Garrison, Jones and their fellow conspirators, (the boxman and the cage cashier) were still at the Holiday International when I was asked, "How many green chips could I stuff in my cast?" 

Last week, I was telling a new MGTP reader (EEBEE) about a recent scam at the Cosmopolitan Casino where a dealer was permitted by his accomplice supervisor to hand off $60,000.00 in chips to a third comrade posing as a customer, (of course these desperadoes weren't smarter than everyone else and got caught).

EEBEE countered, "I just saw on the Travel Channel a casino stealing device called the 'sleeve.' It looks like a big, plastic twist-off cap from a water bottle."  

UNLIKE THE SMALL TWIST-OFF CAPS, (above), THE NEARLY UNDETECTABLE "SLEEVE" IS CLEAR, SPECIALLY MADE OF A NON-REFLECTIVE MATERIAL AND HAS NO LINES OR GROOVES.

The sleeve is deep and wide enough to jam five standard casino chips in.  To start the process, an actual five-dollar chip from that casino is pushed to the bottom and brought onto the table by a roulette dealer.  The dealer secretly squeezes four, one-hundred dollar chips into the bottom of the sleeve.  The camera above sees a typical pile of five, red chips.  The sides of the sleeve are painted red to match the wall of the chips.

The dealers accomplice makes bets of five red chips on an even money bet, (odd-even or black-red).  When it loses, the team is out $25.00 .  When it wins, they get four hundred, hidden under a five-dollar chip, (an undeserved $380.00).

EEBEE and I discussed the obvious shortcoming of such a scam. Primarily, a halfway sharp supervisor would notice the shortage in hundred dollar chips. But if done once a night it, it could work. Maybe even once an hour as the sleeve is brought back after each of the dealer's breaks.  But the biggest drawback would be greed.  It might seem so easy that dastardly duo might get impatient and try to pass it back and forth several times over the table, (a new bet with the sleeve would reveal one red at the top and be otherwise empty.  It would be paid $25.00 when it won.  But when it lost, (only five dollars), the dealer would have a chance to reload it.

EEBEE said, "It was that kind of greedy bullshit that got Steve the Sleeve caught."  I said, "Where did you get that name from?"  EEBEE said, "On the show, the dealer they caught with the sleeve was named Steve.  That's what they nicknamed him."  I said, "Well, it's the return of Steve the Sleeve!  At least I'm not the only one."


Then I explained about Paul Proctor and Mooks before telling him that that thieving John Garrison and Mackey Jones had the audacity to imply that I was stuffing chips in my cast and calling me, Steve the Sleeve.

EPILOGUE:

In 2009, I saw "Ciro the Hero" for the last time, (that's when he became "Ciro the Zero"...but that's a story for another time).  

He told me that Mooks was paranoid for a long time about his old strip club bosses ordering a hit on him so they could recover their property, (Maria). Considering that the schmuck told strangers he was from Buffalo and never changed his name (there can't be too many Mamoukians out there), it's a miracle the baddies never caught up with him. 

Ciro said, "Mooks might have been an imbecile but he was a champ, the way he cared for Maria while she was going cold-turkey," (I saw her once in 1979 and she seemed catatonic before I found out why). 

Ciro said, "Mooks was all she had.  They fell in love. Twenty years ago, I was a witness at their courthouse wedding.  The first thing Mooks did was contact her family.  They had no idea what happened to her and assumed she was dead. Then as a honeymoon, he took Maria back to Estonia."

Mooks is still dealing blackjack in some dive casino downtown and Maria has a big pit boss job on the strip.  Having nothing to do with why he's now "Ciro the Zero," Ciro wouldn't tell me where they were working.