DEBBIE DOTSON

"Skitzo" Al Muñoz once told me that Las Vegas is a sanctuary for the lunatic fringe.  I found his point to be spot-on and it became a familiar theme in my writings. 

He felt tons of lost souls move to Vegas for the wrong reasons like; a quick fix to escape an undesirable situation back home or expect to lead a permanent vacation lifestyle.  When these dreams don't materialize and their money runs out, desperation sets in.

Taken from excerpts in my short story, "SANCTUARY FOR THE LUNATIC FRINGE," this blog is set at the Western Hotel, (my second craps dealing job).  It's dedicated to the first person I met who fell into the trap of coming to town with high hopes but without a plan.

                           *

The thrill of being a Las Vegas craps dealer loses its luster when you gross a hundred-seventy dollars a week. So working in a hell hole like Slots-A-Fun makes you want out, at any cost.     

                            *



I ran the last half-block back to my apartment. I wanted to call my friend from dealer school Ciro the Hero, (well before he became Ciro the Zero), and tell him about my first day at the Western Casino.  

.

THE WESTERN WAS THE LOWEST RUNG OF THE JACKIE GAUGHAN LOW-ROLLER EMPIRE AND ONCE BOASTED THE WORLD'S BIGGEST (1,020 SEAT) BINGO HALL.  IT WAS LOCATED AT 899 FREMONT STREET, ON A STRETCH OF DESPAIR THAT TOURISTS SELDOM SAW BECAUSE THIS BUG-ZAPPER-LIKE BEACON ONLY ATTRACTED THE BROKE AND NEARLY BROKE.

    

     I said to Ciro, “The Western is much better than Slots-A-Fun.”

I had escaped my three-month prison sentence there but Ciro was still stuck, going on five months.

     “What’s the tokes?”

     “They had a forty-one dollar day yesterday.”

     “Forty-one!  Are they still hiring?”

     “There’s only one way to find out.”  After a short pause I added, “But they average eighteen...”

     “Not much of a difference.  Are they at least nice to you?”

     “Oh, yeah everyone is great to work with...”

     Ciro said, “Even the bosses?”

     “They’re great. Compared to Mr. O'Boyle, working for Charles Manson would be a plus. But check this out, we stood dead almost all day.  They get so little action there, that they keep track of the cash drop in five dollar increments.”

     “That sucks.”

     “Maybe it perks up at night.  But with all that down time, we socialized nearly the whole shift.”

     “Any nice lookin’ women there?”

     “There’s a few in blackjack, but I dealt with one...”

     “A broad dealin’ craps?”

     “Ciro, it's 1979; get your mind out of the Stone Age...women in craps are the wave of the future.”

     Ciro yawned, "Sounds exciting."

     I said, “Speaking of excitement, on my way in, I bumped in to Spanish Al...”

     “You mean Skitzo-Al...”  

     I said, “Al, congratulated me on the new job.  He deals craps at the Lady Luck and he made it sound just as bad as Slots-A-Fun.  He also said, 'Downtown is like the friggin' wild, wild west.'" 

     “Bullshit! Skitzo-Al is from the South Bronx. Vegas should be a goddamned paradise to him."  

     I said, "Al is perceptive.  And he's from Riverdale not the South Bronx."

     "Whatever.  Anyway, why are you so scared of downtown?  That asshole Willard was murdered on the strip and you're still worried that the cops will interrogate you...”

     I interrupted, “Al told me that there was a shooting at the El Cortez last night...”

     “You want to change the subject, eh. Well that little bastard was right, a drunken old man in a wheelchair tried to squeeze into a craps table and when no one let him in; he pulled a gun.  He got off three rounds; one lodged in the ceiling above the bar, another hit slot machine and the last one hit the far wall. Luckily nobody got hit.”

     “Why didn’t you tell me?”

     “It’s no big deal.  Shit, in January at the 'Shoe,' (Binion's Horseshoe), a pissed off loser threw a brick through their keno parlor's new stained glass window.  Two security guards came outside, held the drunk down and a third guard shot him through the head.”

     “Dead?”

     “Dead!”

     “Weren't there witnesses?”

     “Probably a few. But it was four in the morning.”

     “No way!”

     “It made the papers but Vegas don’t like to tarnish it’s image...it was buried on page twenty-something and forgotten.”

     I said, "Wow."  

     Ciro said, At Sluts-R-Fun, (his pet name for Slots-A-Fun),  we’re all break-ins but now you’ll be around sharpies...”

“Sharpies?”

“Yeah, retreads."

I said, "Heh?"

"Back-stabbers...savvy pricks who have been around.  Guys that get stuck in shit jobs until they find something better. They'll take advantage of raw recruits...like us.”

“Really?”

“It don’t matter.  Just watch your ass or somebody’ll take it or kick it.”

     “Oh?”

     “Anyhoo, I’ll drop by after your shift on Friday.  This way I can scope-out the joint and then we’ll hang-out.”

*  

On Friday, at the end of my shift Ciro came into the Western.  I introduced him to my new coworkers and a bunch of us advanced to the casino bar.  At the end of every shift, the employees were given two free drink chits.  In so doing, upper management hoped the staff would loosen up and gamble. 

The bar was crowded with local businessmen on their way home, so we were forced to stand.

 I called out to the bartender, “Yo Rock, a Budweiser for my friend and a Tom Collins for me.” 

Rocky pretended to look through the all-male clientele and growled, “A Bud and a cunt-drink?”  He scratched his head and squawked as if thinking aloud, “But there ain’t no cunts here.” 

Everyone was laughing so I added, “No, I said two Buds.”

The bar roared again when Rocky twisted his pinkie in his ear and croaked, “Oh, I must have shit in my ear!” 

We were leaving as Ciro said, “I can’t believe you weren’t embarrassed back there.” 

“I was, but after Slots-A-Fun and Mr. O'Boyle, I can handle anything.” 

He punched my shoulder as we walked along Fremont Street and said, “You’re all right.”

Up the road from Las Vegas High School, we entered Choo-Choo's, a fast-food dive.
Ciro said, "There were more guys at the bar than players in your whole casino."
"Yeah it sucks.  The Western is so hard-up that they give out 'fun booklets.'  And there's a coupon for five free nickels.  All day, the scum of the earth come in to collect."
He said, "Those are hobos, like in the movies.  Behind the Union Plaza (casino), there's a hobo Shantytown.  I bet there's ten times the bums there than on the fuckin' Bowery."

Ciro bit into his hard shell taco and it disintegrated.  The table was a crumby, gooey mess. I laughed.

He muttered obscenities and then spat, “Graveyard is killing me. I gotta get out of Slots-A-Fun.  At least you get to stand dead at a decent hour, plus you’re making as much tokes as me and Skitzo-Al put together.”

     I waved my “murder-burger” at him and said, “Trust me, there’s no future at the Western.” 

     When the greasy cheese patty and salads slipped through the bun onto my lap Ciro crowed, “He who laughs last...”

I was scraping ketchup off my slacks as we commiserated our stifled casino careers and vowed to take auditions for better jobs.

*

The next day at the Western, we were standing dead when a pretty blond took an audition.  Debbie Dotson was so personable and perky that despite an empty table, Buzzy our white-haired, senior citizen pit boss volunteered to place bets for her. 

     Up close, I saw that Debbie was unadorned by make-up. I was impressed because her complexion was so pure that it reminded me of a Dresden doll. 

DRESDEN GERMANY  HAS BEEN FAMOUS FOR MAKING DOLL FIGURINES SINCE THE 1700's

I was so enamored by her natural beauty that I didn’t notice her scrawny body or her baggy pants.

     
Debbie’s audition didn’t go well.  She claimed three months experience at the Lady Luck Casino, but was “buried.”  
     Debbie's lame excuse was, "I'm not used to the quarter game(twenty-five cent chips)."  

In reality, she had no concept of game procedure, couldn’t handle the chips and didn’t know anything beyond the simplest payoffs.  Even worse, she couldn’t follow the most basic instruction; she was as dumb as a stump.

The next day, I was shocked that they had hired her. Debbie stood out because she wore an off-white cowgirl shirt.  This custom tailored blouse was skin-tight. And even though there were two breast pockets, her unharnessed erect nipples sharply protruded through both plies of the tight, thin material. Despite being flat-chested, everyone transfixed on Debbie’s chest. 

Hours later, Buzzy the pit boss was gawking at her as the casino manager advised Debbie, "Wear a brassiere in the future. Our dress code also calls for a simple white dress shirt.” 

Instead of a standard "okay," she moaned, “Geez, it’s the Western Casino isn’t it...western shirt, get it...duh.” 

     Debbie further riled him, by suggesting vests for the male dealers and beaded Indian shirts for the females.

     
During one of our prolonged lulls, Debbie told us her life story.  She was twenty-three and had an eight year-old son living with her mother back in Roseberg, Oregon.  Debbie listed the Christmas gifts she sent but confessed that she hadn’t seen her family in a while.

Later, we were playing twenty questions when Debbie baffled us with Jellystone Park, from the Yogi Bear cartoons.  We all agreed it was funny that she “got” us with a pretend place.   But she got offended, insisting it was real. The disagreement ended when Buzzy came by to flirt with her.  
She retold her history including her parental résumé.  This time, Debbie added that she was unattached.  
He said, "Maybe we can continue our conversation over a cozy lunch."
She smiled, "I have to warn you, I eat a lot."
Buzzy craned his neck to check-out her posterior and said, "You don't look like you eat much..."
Debbie said she was four months pregnant.  Then cringed when she realized that it wasn’t a good idea to mention it.  Buzzy took that information and made a hasty retreat to blackjack.

*

                                                        
Towards the end of Debbie's uneventful first shift, a reeking hobo sauntered over to her end of the table.

He stacked five; five-cent pieces on the pass line and through a toothless grin barked, “Gimme da dice.” 

From across the near-empty casino Buzzy said, “It’s like getting a free shill...let him to shoot.” 

The bum couldn’t lose and branched out to a couple of long shots and won again.  Soon, he built up to fifteen dollars in place bets, fifty-cents on all the hardways and had five dollars in the rail.  His original twenty-five cents in nickels remained on the pass line.

The casino manager happened by and asked the boxman, “What’s this piece-a-shit in?” 

Before he could get the first word out of his mouth, Debbie pointed to the nickels and chimed, “He’s in twenty-five cents from the coupon.” 

The casino manager said, “Take everything down, color him up and send him packing.”  Nobody reacted so he yelled, “I told you to get him the fuck out of here.”  After storming away he came back and shouted, “We're now a 75c minimum and no more chump change!”

A tipsy old man heard the tumult, came over and bought-in for thirty dollars.  His eyes were riveted on Debbie’s chest.  After three rolls, it was her break. 

He frantically questioned us, “Is she coming back?  When is she coming back?  Is she coming back here?”  
The old-timer folded his arms and refused to throw the dice until she returned.  When she did, he picked up his chips and moved beside her. 

He had a nice run of luck and started praising Debbie, “I like craps but I usually prefer BJ if you know what I mean.  But when I saw you, I knew I had to come over and give you a shot.”  
Debbie said, "Uh-huh."
The drunk started ranting about her wholesome radiance and finished by saying, “We can have some wonderful times together...”

She said, “I’m flattered but no...”

“You would if I was ten years younger.” 

I laughed to myself and thought; if he were thirty years younger, he’d still be old enough to be her father. 

He won about a hundred dollars and was still gaping at her pointy nipples when he said, “Miss Gorgeous, I’d like to give you a five-dollar tip.” 

“That’ll be very appreciated sir,” Debbie’s said. 

The man held out a red chip and said, “I’ll give this to you if I can put it in your pocket,” (Craps dealer tips are kept in stickman's pocket and later put in a larger tip box).  

Debbie looked at me. 

I shook my head and thought; this is definitely not in the job description. 

She shrugged, “Go for it sir.” 

Deliberately, he inserted his hand into her right breast pocket and said, “You don’t have to call me sir, please, call me Alfie.” 

It was disturbing to watch the movement of his perverted, nicotine-stained fingers as she strained to look away.  After ten long seconds, Debbie cleared her throat and with one last emphatic caress, the lecher withdrew his hand. 

He pivoted to leave but she blurted out, “Wait!” 

     The man riddled with guilt, sheepishly turned and avoided eye contact as Debbie said, “Hey Alfie, I have two pockets.”  
His excited eyes rose. 
      She pantomimed adjusting her bosom and cooed, “Do I look uneven?”

     Alfie crossed behind her and ravenously jammed another chip into her left pocket.  

The process lasted twice as long as he seized the opportunity to more purposefully squeeze and fondle her.  Whether it was team spirit or stupidity, Debbie’s act netted each dealer in the place less than twenty-cents.

Afterwards at the crowded casino bar, I was standing next to Debbie.

She was giggling as she slugged down a scotch and told Buzzy in a less than private voice, “Let’s get a bottle and a six-pack and get outta here.”

A minute later as they left, I saw Buzzy grab her bottom.                               

                             *

At ten that night, Ciro phoned.

“Steve,” he declared.  “I got a new job at the Holiday International. I start Friday, on day shift.” 

“That’s great.  What do they make?” 

“They average twenty-three.  Now I can start living the life I’d become accustomed to, back in Bensonhurst.”

I said, "Are they still hiring?"

Ciro said, "There's only one way to find out."  

                             *                          

The next morning, Debbie showed up ten minutes late for her second day.  Her tardiness had nothing to do with her getting fired. 

She came to our empty table and held out her pink slip, “What does ‘change of personnel’ mean?” 

The boxman said, “That’s what they write when they don’t want to hurt you...” 

Before he could finish she sniffled, “Job performance, FAIR?” 

The boxman said, “They put that down on everyone’s...”

     Debbie stormed off and from a distance called back, “I never did a FAIR job in my life.” 

We all laughed when Buzzy leaned in and said, “You know why she never did a FAIR job?  Because she’s a moron; she should take FAIR as a goddamned compliment.”  Under his breath he added, “Well, at least she’s good at some things...”

Through the grapevine, we found out that Debbie hunted down the casino manager and proposed giving him oral sex any time he wanted, if she could have her job back.  When he refused, she grabbed his crotch.  He pushed her down and threatened to call LVPD. 

                            *                         

Debbie Dotson came into the Western a week later to beg for her job back.  Her hair was a mess, there was a small pimple on her immaculate cheek and her glossy eyes made her look exhausted.  Debbie’s plain white dress shirt looked like it had just been pulled out of a car’s glove compartment and her black slacks were tattered.  In her back pocket, the top of a copper hip flask was peeking out.  However, her single most obvious new development was that she was now “showing.” 

The casino manager said he couldn’t help her with a job.  He saw her puffy tummy and insisted on buying her lunch; she refused and left.

*

I was in my third week at the Western when Al Muñoz came in to take an audition. He passed and I spent a break with him.

He said, "I got fired from the Lady Luck.  I told them I was deaf in one ear.  They suggested I get a hearing aid."  He concluded with, "I'm a new man."

I wanted to say that hopefully I'll be a new man at 6:30 because I had an audition after my shift.  I didn't bring it up, in fear that he'd get there ahead of me.

                              *                            

From the Western, it was a short walk along Fremont Street, then Main Street, to the Holiday International. My heart was beating out of my chest when I approached the craps pit. 

I might have been tortured at Slots-A-Fun but through rapid fire repetition, I did learn a lot on my own.  In my three weeks at the Western, I learned nothing.  Other than making standing dead into an art form. So I was nervous that I would be rusty and blow this excellent opportunity to improve myself. 

Two of the four tables were open.  On the slower game, I saw Ciro and his friend Bobby, (Ciro had recently introduced me to Bobby and his buddy Mike "Mooks" Mamoukian. Mooks will be featured in my next blog).  

     I approached the pit boss and said, "I have an appointment for an audition."

     He found my application, gestured to the busier table and said, “Take out the stick.”

     I was perspired before I started. Somehow, I managed to get through fifteen minutes without embarrassing myself.  When I came around to deal, I got off to a rough start.  I was hoping for guidance or at least some moral support from the old-timer boxman (Ernie).  But he just sat like a statue on his frilly, hemorrhoid pillow throne. 

     When the geezer finally spoke, he pointed at his wrist and said, “Look, my cuff links are pistols.”

The craps game was loud, chaotic and intense.  I worried that I wasn't keeping up a decent pace.  Here was my big chance to work in a "real" casino and Ernie, this senile, brain-dead guy who was supposed to help, was a distraction.

During a ten second breather Ernie yammered, "Did I tell you?  My cuff links are guns and they really shoot bullets..."

The action picked back up. 
     I was wishing I could tell Ernie to shut-up as he said, "Don't worry about these cockroaches."  His statement temporarily relaxed me until he started toying with his cuff links and said, "You know why I can't shoot'em no more?  'Cause I lost all the ammo."               A player in a white dress shirt yelled, “Where’s my hard ten?” 

I froze and looked at Ernie.
The old fart quietly sneered, “Fuck him. That kid’s a dealer.  He sees enough fleas to know not to act like one.”

I looked up for a second and saw Ciro and Bobby, they were laughing at me.  
I smiled until Ernie whined, “Ronnie the slot mechanic got mugged...” He kept talking as I went through my next procession of payoffs while thinking, who’s Ronnie?  When I was done, Ernie was still blithering “...so if you remember just one thing I tell you about downtown kid, stay out of the alleys.”

Between rolls, I was reminded of what Al Muñoz said about the dangers downtown and of Ciro’s sharpies.  Just as I was feeling comfortable, the audition was suddenly over. I was sent to the pit stand.

I was demoralized by the austere look of the pit boss and was convinced that I had failed. 

He read from the audition form without looking up and said, “You did fine.  Can start Saturday at eight on swing shift?” 

I was so thrilled that I stammered, “Y-Yes.”

                              *

Bobby's friend Mooks had just been promoted to craps pit boss on graveyard, at the Holiday International. At five the next morning, he had just ordered dinner when Debbie Dotson stumbled in from a misting rain. Wet and shivering, she headed to the bar.  When Debbie found it was empty, she advanced to the craps pit. 

Debbie's white dress shirt was soaked, shabby, stained and torn.  The seat of her loose, wrinkled black pants was soiled and the bottom of her left pant leg was frayed.

From the distance, Mooks saw Debbie coming and noticed something wasn't right. 
     Despite suffering from malnutrition and sleep deprivation she summoned her bountiful charm and said, "Are you giving craps auditions?"
Mooks' eye gravitated to the dark purple, dime-sized lesion that had formed on her now ashen cheek.  He surveyed the waif's matted-down hair.  Then pity tore at his heart as he spied her bloated belly.
     "Sorry hun."   To camouflage the lump in his throat, he coughed and forced a smile, "Auditions are only given on day shift." Mooks tapped both hands on his stomach, "Besides, you gotta take care of your bundle."  When disgusted Debbie turned away he said, "Can I get you something."
     Debbie's disoriented face lit up, "Yeah some scotch would warm me up."
Mooks picked up his cricket and clicked for a cocktail waitress.
     "Miss," he said as he looked at her bulging abdomen, "I don't know about booze in your condition.  But I'll get you orange juice, a coffee and maybe a sandwich..."
     The craps floor supervisor sidetracked Mooks with a work-order to replace an overhead light bulb and said, "When you finish reading this, sign here and initial here, here and here."

Before Mooks read the second sentence, a chip fill to replenish some of the craps table's bank arrived.  
The floorman tried to hand Mooks the fill's paperwork but said, "I see you're busy.  Just put your John Hancock here and I'll take care of it for you."
     The fill was being set in place as Mooks returned to Debbie and said, "Not for nuthin' doll, but nobody's gonna hire you..."
     When his voice cracked Debbie patted the unborn child in her womb and sobbed, "Nobody?"
     The floorman said, "Sorry to interrupt but it's a good time to show you how to complete the master attendance sheet."
Ten seconds later, Mooks looked up and Debbie was gone.



                              *
     


I was uneasy coming into work the next day.  My managers at the Western had been good to me and I was afraid they’d be sore that I was abandoning them after three weeks.  I saw Al Muñoz ready for his first day as I sought out the casino manager.

When I informed the boss that I was starting a new job on Saturday, he congratulated me and said, “The Western has been a stepping stone for a lot of people. I know you’ll do well.”  He shook my hand and continued, “I hope you’ll stay with us today, tomorrow and Friday.  That’ll give us time to fill your spot.” 

Energized, I used all that standing dead time to chat with the newly bespectacled Al Muñoz.  First, I reminded him that he picked me up on his Vespa scooter and took me to my Slots-A-Fun audition. 

He said, “It looked like you were going to crap your pants.  You didn’t want to go, did you?” 

“Yeah, plus I had already waited a week before I mustered the guts to go at all.”

Al became philosophical, “Most of the people I’ve come across out here are escaping bad lives somewhere else.  Some vacationed here or heard stories and didn’t realize that the whole town is a fantasy.  Yuh know what I mean?”

I nodded.

“But to settle here,” he continued, “you need something tangible.  People see what they want to see and expect to deal right away at Caesar’s.  But if you’re unwilling to pay the price, you become bitter when reality sets-in. Once the bubble is burst, those that haven't burnt their bridges, go home.  The rest seem to stay downtown and survive miserably day by day or paycheck to paycheck.  If you don’t believe me look at the character of our coworkers and the people who live around here.” 

A sloppy drunk interrupted our discussion and bought in for three dollars. He put one on the pass line, called for the dice and cocktail service. 

Indifferently Al said, “Comin’ out,” and sent him the dice.  He looked at me, “I bet half the locals I met downtown have criminal records, are runaways, lowlifes or deadbeats.”  I was about to cut-in when he said, “Vegas gets the same caliber of creeps who volunteer for the French Foreign Legion.” 

I was piecing together his point as I watched the shooter painstakingly examine each die before finally selecting two. 

Al had one eye on the player and the other on me as he concluded, “People don’t know what to expect here. Maybe it’s a romantic notion or desperation to just run out here.”  He sighed, “Either way, Vegas is a sanctuary for the lunatic fringe.”

The rummy was still setting the dice.  He contorted his thumb and index finger backward to grasp the cubes with both twos facing skyward, before finally casting them.  

Al called, “Three craps three, line away.” 
The other dealer took the losing bet. 

“Hey Al,” I said. “Do you remember Debbie Dotson from the Lady Luck?” 

Al said, “Are you with her?” 

He saw me shake my head and said with relief, “‘Dirty’ Debbie is a drunken tramp...she gave five guys the clap over there.  When she isn’t ‘connected,’ she panhandles enough to pickle herself in mint gin or some other cheap ‘rat-gut.’” 

Our player made a new bet and impatiently slapped his hand on the table, “Gimme the ‘bones,’ you guys are killing my roll.”  The shooter got the dice and went into his ritualistic gyrations. 

Al followed the flight of the next toss and called, “Twelve craps twelve, line in, triple the lucky field.” 

When the shooter’s dollar was taken he snarled, “Lucky my ass...you fuckin’ wise-ass...gimme different dice.” 

Al followed the instructions and continued, “When Debbie gave a ‘dose’ to the floorman she was living with, he kicked her out and got her fired.  Last I heard she was living on the street, going home with whoever was buying drinks.” 

                              *                        

The next day, in a light drizzle at dawn, a Silver State Hauling and Refuse truck rumbled up First Street.  The driver crossed Fremont Street as he sang Frankie Valli’s “Rag Doll” along with the radio.  He past the Friendly Club Casino, came to a stop and put the truck in reverse.  He was inching into the rear alley when a high-pitched whistle signaling an emergency stop pierced the early morning stillness.

THE FRIENDLY CLUB (1978-1983) WAS A TINY CASINO LOCATED AT 101 FREMONT STREET.  IT WAS BOUGHT-OUT BY THE GOLDEN NUGGET WHEN THE PROPERTY EXPANDED TO THE CORNER.

“Whoa, Jimmy whoa!” beseeched the backman. 

The backman jumped off the truck and ran behind the dumpster. Mortified, he found Debbie lying, in a pool of her own blood.  Her slacks were pushed down past her knees and a straightened wire hanger with a reddened tip rested on her lap. 

Ten minutes later, two EMS techs slid Debbie into an ambulance.  The driver whisked her away as the other man scribbled on her chart; Jane Doe unconscious: no ID, money, jewelry or any other material possessions.  Wearing black shoes, black pants and a white shirt.  No socks or undergarments were found. 

Left behind, hidden in the shadows was her empty copper hip flask that was standing upright against weeds that had pushed through the cracked pavement. 

                             *

                           

Five weeks later, one block from where paramedics picked Debbie up, a bus destined for Vancouver Canada pulled out of the Greyhound depot onto Main Street. Debbie, without a swollen stomach was among thirteen scattered passengers.  At first, she clutched the small valise provided by Social Services.  Unable to get comfortable, she twisted in the seat and blankly stared out the window, on her way home to Roseberg Oregon. 

In a trance, she gave no recognition to the nearby alley where she almost died.  The bus accelerated past the heart of downtown where the glorious warmth and brightness of the mid-day sun was dulled by the infusion of Fremont Street’s cool glittery neon. Immersed in guilt and denial, she involuntarily withdrew to a fetal position and nodded off.

Since running away when her baby was six weeks old, this would be the first time she saw her son in eight years.  While awake, she tried to concentrate on the baby and struggled throughout the daylong bus ride to separate the delusions of her life from the truth.

Towards the end of her journey, Debbie became more lucid.  In an attempt to picture her now thirty-nine year old mother, she couldn’t discern a face.  Debbie tried to project an image of her child; she had always referred him to as Perry Lee but as her mind cleared, she was shocked to remember that her baby was a girl, named Judy.

The bus crossed into Oregon as Debbie was focusing on a whimpering infant across the aisle. Teary eyed, overcome by sorrow, she comprehended that she’d never become pregnant again.  Unable to compose herself, Debbie retreated to the rest room and looked deeply into the unsteady mirror.  She didn’t recognize herself and splashed water on her face.  In frustration, Debbie plopped on the toilet. 

Lost in a whirlwind of memories, Debbie sat there for ten minutes until stern rap on the door startled her.  When she returned to her seat, a bolt of fear shot through her stomach as she thought; how am I going to manage the alcohol support groups and job training?  

She then started openly crying when she contemplated her new role as “Aunt” Debbie.

                                                             *



Debbie Dotson's tribulations were interwoven with Mike "Mooks" Mamoukian's in "SANCTUARY FOR THE LUNATIC FRINGE."  While they both fit into "Skitzo" Al Muñoz's assessment of moving to Las Vegas without a plan, their stories are acutely different and deserve to be separate.  

The next blog and seventh installment in my "MY 40th ANNIVERSARY IN CASINOS," series, will be called, "MIKE MAMOUKIAN, WHERE ARE YOU?"  The answer to the question only supports Al's theory.

MURDER AT SLOTS-A-FUN...PART-2

It's disturbing to think that people like Willard Lafitte not only exist but their actions have become common.  

Forty years ago, I accepted this behavior because I didn't know any better.  These days, we have more knowledge on how to minimize such bad seeds but despite obvious red flags, way too many ooze through the cracks.

The question is, Who murdered Willard "The Heat" Lafitte?   And was he, (or she), a hero?

In Part-1, I made a realistic list of suspects who might have been justified to squash this despicable cockroach.  But the police implied it was a simple mugging gone wrong.  So lucky you, in Part-2,  rather than thinning out the herd of possible killers, you'll see that were plenty of marginalized people standing in line to do him in.



                                                            *



In early-March, on a beautiful, warm, sunny morning, I was again dreading work.  Inside Slots-A-Fun, I dragged my burnt-out, numb carcass into position for another eight hours of mental agony.  Until I saw a new dealer, Floyd Yockers (41).  At first, I wasn't smart enough to see it coming but  Yockers would soon represent the fresh-start associated with the arrival of spring.  Floyd also had a unique arrangement with Mr. O'Boyle.

Yockers was a clown in a traveling circus.  For each of the last four years, while the circus took the winter off, he dealt craps for a month or two, at Slots-A-Fun.  Far better, I soon learned that Yockers was a boundless reservoir of positivity...which translated to being a thorn in Willard's side.

Floyd was clever enough to use childish self-effacing humor, yet a beacon of maturity versus infantile, rude and obnoxious Willard. Yockers knew how to talk to people and combined his experience with an understanding of craps and the psychology of the human spirit.  But best of all, deep down he didn't give a rat's ass about Slots-A-Fun because he was independent and didn't really need the job.

He won me over immediately, as he chastised Willard, for kicking out a Latino player and telling him to get his Wet-Back Mexican ass back over the border.

Yockers said, "That gentleman spoke perfect English.  How do you know he's from Mexico?"  Before Willard could answer he added, "I thought his accent was from Texas or maybe Louisiana..."

I saw the befuddled look on Willard's face.  He didn't like being challenged by a stranger and stewed as he gathered his wits on why the new fuckin' guy (NFG) chose to stain the good name of the residents of his home state, Louisiana.

Floyd Yockers used plenty of dry wit to goof on Willard.  Most of the time, the "Little Corporal," had no idea he was being lampooned, (Floyd's nickname for Lafitte was a sarcastic reference to Hitler).

Even funnier, we, (the other grunt craps dealers) soon realized how intellectually challenged Willard was and that he could dish it out but couldn't take it.

At six-foot-one, Floyd resembled an ever-smiling, blond Henry Fonda.  He saved his serious facial expression when ridiculing Willard's mistakes, clothes, weight, height or hair.  Far better, Yockers did spontaneous celebrity impersonations.  When his repartee included trashing Willard, it represented the first fun, I experienced at Slots-A-Fun.

Later, to re-establish his authority, Willard busted on me by nit-picking over trivialities.  Floyd was the stickman and when he and I caught eye contact, he winked.

Floyd pointed his finger at the table's bank and said in a Jimmy Stewart voice, "S-s-say there W-w-willard, y-you gotta nickel, in your reds."

The frantic Little Corporal hurriedly examined his five-dollar chips.  On the third stack, he realized that he was being put on...all nickels are red.

Lafitte was steaming but Yockers remained a step ahead of him and intentionally made a mistake.

Willard over-reacted as if it was his hundredth error and exclaimed, "Stop!"

But Floyd not only corrected the mistake but imitated Willard's voice while doing it, "Go back Yockers.  So y'all doan git confused, pick up dem reds.  Now start agin and hit duh odds twice wit whites."

Willard wasn't sharp enough to realize that he was getting mocked.

Until Floyd looked him in the eye and said, "Now, what y'all see dere's CO-rrect."  All the players were smiling and staring at Willard when Yockers added in a W. C. Fields voice, "My boy, what you see here is five, one-dollar chips which equals one five-dollar chip..."

Willard's meager response was, "Shut-up!"

Willard was so full of himself, he thought the players appreciated his counterattack and were laughing with him...but they weren't.

Floyd addressed the audience, pumped his eyebrows and used a Groucho Marx voice, "Gee Willard, what game are you watching?"

Defused, Willard "The Heat" Lafitte sat and sulked for a long time.

Later, Willard summoned Mr. O'Boyle to the game and pointed at Floyd, "This Yockers fella thinks he's perty funny."

Up till this moment, none of us were unaware that Floyd had a history at Slots-A-Fun and that O'Boyle liked him.

O'Boyle said, "Is that so."

Yockers fought off a chuckle, looked down at Lafitte and said in a John Wayne voice, "You know Brod, those who can't deal, sit box.  Isn't that right, pilgrim?"

Willard Lafitte's jaw dropped when O'Boyle slapped Floyd's back and laughed, "This guy kills me."

Willard was still a jerk to the players. But only terrorized the craps dealers when Floyd was off.

By the end of March, the weather warmed up and most Slots-A-Fun dealers spent their breaks outside.  Next door, the Circus Circus Casino had fountains with short, white walls that were perfect to sit on.  It was there I chatted-up Mary (21), a blackjack dealer from Caliente California.  Soon, we were dating.

From Mary I got the female prospective on "Will."   She said he hit on every girl in the casino...and was refused by each one.

She said, "Remember cute little Millie?"

I said, "No."

Mary said, "She was from the Philippines."  I was shaking my head as she continued, "He used to follow her home after work. And show up in front of her apartment before work.  The last straw happened as she was dealing. He rubbed his...well you know...against her backside as she dealt.  Then whispered in her ear that he'd have her fired if she didn't go out with him."

"She tell Mr. Broderick O'Boyle?"

Mary said,  "Hell no!  I told her to.  But she was scared to death, went home and never came back."



                                                              *



My friend JLUPY from craps school, was my roommate.  He lost his job downtown and got hired at Slots-A-Fun, on swing shift.  By working nights, he had it easy because without O'Boyle and Lafitte, it was just a bad job.

On a mutual day off, we were driving north, on Las Vegas Boulevard, in his black, 1972 Buick Electra convertible with torn-up, black vinyl seats.  We stopped in traffic six cars from Slots-A-Fun.  He gingerly inched forward until we saw a car that seemed to be stalled in the left lane.  JLUPY was about to merge into the right lane as the driver got out, began cursing, shook his fist at our place of employment and threw a rock at the giant lollipop-shaped neon sign.  It was Chuck Czyrz and inside the car, I saw his crying wife and his frightened little girls.

JLUPY didn't know Shirts and said, "Another satisfied customer?"



                                                           *



I came back from my days off and Floyd said, "Notice anything different about the craps table?"

"No," I said.

"Yesterday this game lost over $1,000 to one guy.  Look at the greens, (the two stacks of $25 chips in the bank), they're gone and been replaced.  They hadn't been touched in months.  Remember how dusty they were?  Ol' Brod was so pissed, he took the dice off the game and threw them in the street.  Willard was such a ten year old, he begged O'Boyle to let him throw one."

"Did he?"

"He looked at the Little Corporal and told him, 'shut-up.'  Even better, O'Boyle supervised the rest of us to move the table exactly 7/8 of an inch closer to the door.  You should have seen Brod on his hands and knees with a tape measure."

I said, "O'Boyle's superstitions are funny, he once burnt the dice with a cigarette lighter and many other times, he threw pennies under the table."

Yockers laughed, "The pennies are still down there but Brod got a chubby when he found a nickel chip under one of the table's legs."

O'Boyle appeared out of nowhere and said, "What are you two clucking ducks jawing about?"  His glasses were askew as he stared me down and growled, "Edelkranz, don't look at me with those cow eyes, get a roll."



                                                        *



On a break, Mary told me about another blackjack dealer, Franny Foley (29).  This dopey bleach blond was from the East Flatbush section of Brooklyn.  "Will" as he insisted the female dealers call him harassed her so bad, she transferred to graveyard shift.

Mary said, "Franny had a habit of twirling her hair or tending to her split ends on live games.  Will called this a breach of game security and used it to put her on the defensive.  He hit-on her a lot but was always turned down.  Sometimes on his breaks, he'd stand behind her and as she called it, 'rub up against her.'"

I said, "She should have screamed!"

"No," said Mary.  "Franny said she's had experience with 'rubbers' and they are harmless."

I said, "She should be in Sparks."

She said, "What's Sparks?"

I said, "Long story.  Forget it.  You were saying about Franny."

"He would watch her deal and one of those times, she lost three table maximum bets ($50.00), in a row.  On Franny's break, he confronted her.  She was told that she's unlucky and to do something different, like put your panties on inside out.  When she said okay...the creep said no.  I can't trust you. Go in the bathroom, take off your panties and bring them to me.  I'll wait here."

I said, "She told him to go to hell..."

"No," Mary said, "Franny's so ditzy, she said, 'Will is so scary...and I couldn't tell Mr. O'Boyle.  He'd tell me to do it too and I would've been out two pairs.  What else could I do?"

I was shaking my head when Mary surprised me, "If you could go back in time..."

I smiled, "Heh?"

"It's a philosophical question.  You know how Floyd Yockers calls Willard the 'Little Corporal.'  Well, if you could go back in time and saw infant Hitler, for the good of mankind, would you kill him?"



                                                     *



Three weeks ahead of schedule, Floyd Yockers shocked Mr. O'Boyle by quitting to deal at the Nevada Club, downtown.

O'Boyle was aggravated and vented to Byron Burns, "What a complete lack of loyalty from someone who I was very good to."  When Byron shrugged he continued, "That piece of shit also said, 'this was the weakest help he ever worked with here,' and he wasn't talking about the dealers.  Tell me, how did Willard piss-off the nicest, goddamned fuckin' funniest guy around.  Jesus, the man's a real clown."

Byron said, "He didn't say anything specific?"

"No dammit.  I asked him to explain.  Instead he said, 'T-t-t-that's all folks,' like Porky fuckin' Pig and left.  I was madder than hell, 'cause ...I laughed.  I should have strangled the son-of-bitch."

Byron said, "Yockers?"

O'Boyle whined, "Are going soft in the head too?  No Willard.  I should have choked the life out that worm."



                                                       *



One night I told Mary that O'Boyle was grooming me to become his next "yes-man" boxman.

Mary got serious, "I've watched you deal.  You really improved.  You should start taking auditions and get out of there."



                                                      *



The next day, two men around forty came to my side of the table.  These friendly guys were from St. Louis and were joking that they were hiding from their wives.  They both held cash in their hands and paid for individual bets with fives or ones.  Ten minutes later, they were our only players and everything was going smooth.

A winner ten the hard way was correctly called by the stickman.  Both men had a dollar on the pass line and the taller one had a half dollar on the hard ten and the other had twenty-five cents. While I was paying the pass line bets, Willard leaned forward from his stool and pushed the dice off five-five and onto five-four.  He then broke protocol and took the hard way bets off the layout, as if they lost.

"Yo my man," the shooter said, "you accidentally took our hard way bets."

Willard said, "Come easy.  Dey lose."

"Like hell," the shooter tapped the stickman's arm and said, "Tell the man, tell him what's what."

Frozen, the stickman was speechless.  It was his second day and Willard who didn't have the capacity to teach was rough on him from the start.

The shooter's friend smiled, "C'mon sticky, you don't want to sting a couple of brothers.  Tell Mr.  Bossman what you saw."

The stick agonized over his decision and finally spit out, "Come hard.  The ten came hard."

Both men said, "See..."

Lafitte said, "Doan mattah.  He doan know his ass from a hole in duh wall.  It come easy."

The shooter said, "Looky here trailer trash, you better pay us or it'll get ugly."

Willard said, "I ain't a gonna be a rasslin' with y'all.  But um gonna learn y'all nigras sumthin quick..."

A brutal barrage of racially charged profanity ended when the shooter's friend lunged over our game at Lafitte.  Willard reached under the table and brandished a sawed-off baseball bat and swung it full force at his head...and missed.

IN LIEU OF SECURITY GUARDS, SLOTS-A-FUN HAD THEIR OWN GIMMICKS TO DEFEND THEIR PROPERTY. I'M CERTAIN THE DINGUS  WOULD HAVE CAUSED SEVERE HEAD INJURIES. 

The two men were still calling Willard out, as he waved the dingus and pretended to step around the table.  They fled, leaving sixteen dollars in chips, in the rail and on the table.

From the distance, O'Boyle had seen Willard try to split the customer' s head open. He hurried over as the men ran out.

Willard said, "Ten came easy and dose boys tried to jive me with the ol' dosey doe.  Dey know dey full o'shit cause they ran like scared rabbits and lef' about $16.00 behind."

Mr.  O'Boyle nodded, "Sixteen dollars?  Good job.  Lock their money up, (put it in the casino's bank)."

O'Boyle noticed me eavesdropping and sneered, "I hope you didn't hawk those wise-acres over here."

I had enough.  I visited six casinos that night, filled out four applications and scheduled one audition.



                                                                     *



The next morning, JLUPY let me borrow his car, to go on my first audition, at the Hacienda Casino.

THE HACIENDA (1956-1996) WAS A MEXICAN-THEMED CASINO.  LOCATED AT 3950 LAS VEGAS BOULEVARD SOUTH,  (THE SITE OF TODAY'S LUXOR),  IT WAS THE FIRST GAMBLING HOUSE CALIFORNIANS SAW ON THE STRIP AND WAS ACROSS FROM McCARRON AIRPORT'S FREIGHT TERMINAL.

I was excited at the prospect of dealing craps at the Hacienda.  The dealers averaged $45/day in tokes, (tips), I would be exposed to better caliber action, learn more about my craft and upgrade my outlook.

At 9:00AM on April 20th, it was already 85 degrees.  I was scrubbed and polished as I got into JLUPY's hot box.  I had no clue how to operate the convertible roof so for less than a mile drive, I didn't try. My tension combined with the black interior and no air conditioning meant I was drenched in sweat from my fingertips to my toes.

Every inch of my body was cold and wet as I hustled from the Hacienda's parking lot inside.  My heart was racing as I headed into the restroom to splash water on my face.  Refreshed, I marched into the casino resolved to succeed.

The audition went well but the pit boss said, "We're looking for someone with more experience."

I was devastated and said, "Oh."

He saw how crushed I was and said, "You work for Brod O'Boyle over there?"

I wasn't sure how to answer and bleated, "He's very, very nice."

"Yeah I know exactly how nice that old buzzard is."  The pit boss snapped his fingers and said, "I know.  Have you tried the Western?"

He telephoned this tiny bingo parlor with the same amount of tables as Slots-A-Fun.  Income-wise,  I guessed it would be a lateral move but to get out of O'Boyle and Lafitte's Svengali grip, I was stoked. After a short personal conversation with his friend, the pit boss arranged an audition for me.  An hour later, I passed and was hired to start the next day.

I called Mary with the good news.

She said, "When you get in today, tell O'Boyle right away it's your last shift.  If not, it'll eat at you.  You've gone so far, this is no time to chicken-out."



                                                            *



At ten minutes to noon, Mary and I ran across Las Vegas Boulevard.  We noticed four cop cars parked in front of Slots-A-Fun.  I saw O'Boyle but he talking to a man in a suit, (a detective).  I was jumpy because I had been rehearsing my resignation speech but it looked like I'd have to wait.

Another blackjack dealer told Mary that Willard was stabbed to death.

The two embraced as the girl sobbed, "The police think it was a random robbery."  She composed herself and whispered to Mary, "Franny Foley was a no-call, no-show this morning."

I was digesting the news when butterflies attacked my innards as I imagined O'Boyle biting my head off when I quit.

It was time to start work and Mary said, "Do you think it's possible that Franny..."

I cut her off, "No she's too soft."

Mary said, "I'll call her on my first break."

"Besides, there's a gazillion people who want Willard dead," I said.



                                                           *



Nobody missed Willard.  The first thirty minutes on duty felt like it was his day off.   Between dice rolls,  I became entranced as I practiced my exit statement.   That's when I noticed Mary next to me.

She had a scared look on her face and whispererd, "I called Franny.  No answer.  I'm going to give it one more try.  And, don't forget to do what you have to do."

On my break I found Mr. O'Boyle.

He seemed busy with a slot technician.

I looked over my shoulder and saw Mary gesturing me forward as she mouthed, "Go on."

O'Boyle was saying, "Yeah, the cops called me back down here as soon as I got home.  I had to ID the body.  There was blood splatter all over the white walls.  Hell, I seen a lot of shit in my day but this was different..."

When I cleared my throat, he stopped in mid-sentence and snapped, "What now Edelberg?"

I never asked him for anything.  I was so annoyed that it was easier for me to proceed.

Still, I stared at the floor and squeaked, "I'm giving you notice.  I'm resigning.  I got hired at the Western, downtown.  Today's my last..."

"Jesus fuckin' Christ," he bellowed.  "Another traitor thinks the grass is greener.  What ever happened to loyalty?  Is everyone dying to get out of here?"  His pause made me think that he realized "dying," in lieu of Willard was a poor choice of words.  Instead he plowed on, "Resign?  That's bullshit!  You're a quitter and there ain't nothing worse..."

He was still blithering as I wanted to dig a hole and jump in.

When his jack-hammering jaw stopped, I meekly said, "I would have liked to give more notice..."

He interrupted, "I don't want your fuckin' notice. I can't even look at you and I sure as hell won't trust you with my money.  You wanted to 'black cat' me and you waited till I needed you the most before deserting me.  Just get the fuck out of my sight."

In the awkward moment before I turned away he said, "Wait.  Lookit, between you and Willard, I'm really shorthanded.  How about, you start off right now as the new boxman at say, $57.50/day."

He was trying to entice me with less than he paid Chuck Czyrz when he had no shot even if he offered me more.

O'Boyle tried another tact to lure me in, "You're leaving a job on the strip to deal downtown?"

I was thinking, a toilet is a toilet but their casino doesn't have you swimming in it.

O'Boyle was waved over by the bartender to verify a beer delivery and sign the invoice.

He said, "Give me a sec."

I was remembering in February how O'Boyle reamed-out the snack bar's counterman for wasting napkins or some such nonsense when he reappeared with his arm around Yung Yune's shoulder.

I think he was trying to hurt my feelings but I was internally jumping for joy when he said, "I got this fuckin' Chinaman right here."  He pounded the skinny, old-timer's back and roared, "Ain't that right...Buddy."

He probably never took time to learn his valuable utility man's name.

O'Boyle continued, "Edelman, I know you don't give two shits about me.  So I made another arrangement. Get the hell out of here, I don't need you after all."

I escaped the steamy abyss of Slots-A-Fun.  The next morning, I was dealing at the Western and I was the coolest new hire they ever had.



                                                          *



The next day, there was a small item, on page eight in the newspaper.  It called Willard's death a random robbery gone wrong.  I looked for an obituary in the hope of gathering more information but I never saw one.  For over a year, I saved the Mint Casino's $3.95 buffet receipt when I took Mary out that fateful night.  But I didn't need to account for my whereabouts nor did anyone else we knew at Slot-A-Fun.

MURDER AT SLOTS-A-FUN...PART-1

Near Atlantic City in the late 1980's, I bumped into a former coworker named Eddie Murphy from my first Las Vegas craps dealing job.  We shared many bizarre memories.  When he got to certain elements of the article below, I told him, "I don't tell that story any more because it's so far-fetched I that stopped believing it."

Today's entry contains excerpts from my short story, "THE HEAT IS ON."

In keeping with my goal to shorten this latest generation of blogs, I think it's appropriate that a murder mystery should keep my readership in suspense for two weeks. Therefore, presented for your approval, is the first of a two-part whodunit.



                                                      *



We all hate to see coworkers get fired but some deserve it.  Far worse, you wouldn't wish anyone serious bodily harm and definitely, never death.  

The Slots-A-Fun Casino was my first craps dealing job, (Las Vegas, January 10, 1979 to April 20, 1979).  Maybe some casinos were as awful, but there was nowhere worse.

Slots-A-Fun didn't provide a meal, the physical working conditions were rough, the pay was poor and this flea-bitten sawdust dive had an incredibly hostile work environment.  So much so that the single craps table needed a revolving door to handle the high volume of employee turnover.

New dealers at other casinos might have their own horror stories, but the layered toxicity at Slots-A-Fun was so deep...that it led to murder.



                                                     *



On April 20th, four Las Vegas police cruisers were haphazardly parked on the sidewalk, in front of Slots-A-Fun.  Mary, (the blackjack dealer I was dating) and I, paid this unusual circumstance no mind and went in.

I noticed our craps game was going without a boxman because my scheduled immediate supervisor Willard "The Heat" Lafitte was nowhere to be seen.

The casino manager (biggest on-property boss), Mr. Broderick O'Boyle (56) was being interviewed by a preppy, note-taking plain-clothes cop, (detective).  I include "mister" because in my nearly forty years in casinos, O'Boyle remains the only supervisor who insisted on being addressed as mister.

Some supervisors have a mean streak in them but Mr. O'Boyle was rotten to the core.  He looked like Roger Ebert's evil twin and it was obvious that it made him feel better to make his underlings unhappy.  Far worse, like monomaniacal Captain Ahab chasing Moby Dick, the always pissed-off  O'Boyle dedicated himself to the implausible notion of not only beating every gambler that set foot in this tiny, hole-in-the-wall, bust-out joint, but having these losers ALL leave penniless.                       

SLOTS-A-FUN IS STILL UP AND RUNNING.  IN MY DAY, IT HAD ONE CRAPS TABLE, TEN BLACKJACK GAMES AND A 100 SLOT MACHINES. IT'S LOCATED NEXT TO CIRCUS CIRCUS AND ACROSS FROM WHERE THE PRESTIGIOUS RIVIERA CASINO USED TO BE.

Mr. O'Boyle's fanatical mission was ridiculous but it gave him cause to openly scream obscenities and politically incorrect epithets at the staff.  He also preferred inexperienced patrons because if he thought someone had an edge, (a skilled player), he'd intimidate them, curse them or even chase them out.

In casinos, this mentality is called "heat" or sweating the money.  However unlike any other "house men" I worked for, O'Boyle owned a quarter point in the club.  So he wasn't agonizing over unknown stockholders money, he was sweating his own.

To boost the bottom line, O'Boyle left the supervisory staff under manned.  He backed up his money-grubbing mindset by being the relief floor supervisor in craps and blackjack while overseeing the payment of slot jackpots.  He even restocked the cigarette machine and was responsible for accounting for its cash box.  Plus, few people realized that this dump had no security guards.  If someone needed to be evicted, Mr. O'Boyle's intense profanity would've made a longshoreman blush.  If that didn't work, despite his paunchy physique and thick coke-bottle glasses, this former Marine would get physical, (nobody ever saw him lose).  He even had a network of spies. So when he was gone for the day, on his day off or vacation, the staff could never relax.

Several times each shift, O'Boyle exploded in anger at the inexperienced craps dealers because our errors or the table losing, drew his focus away from his multitude of other tasks.  But through all that high-caliber negativity, Mr. Broderick O'Boyle's presence was a mere fraction of why Slots-A-Fun was such an awful place.

                                                                             

                                                      *



On that day in April, Mr. O'Boyle had finished chatting with the youthful detective. Our game was running without a supervisor except when blackjack floorman, Byron Burns, (a wannabe clone of O'Boyle), came by to drop money in the cash box.

I said, "Byron, what's with the cops?  And where's Willard?"

Burns sneered, "Jack-off, mind your business."

Minutes later, Mr. O'Boyle returned and spoke loud enough to Byron that I could hear.

He said, "Willard was murdered after work yesterday, in the Circus Circus garage.  He was walking up the stairs and was probably getting robbed.  Knowing that imbecile, I bet he handed his wallet to the cocksucker and laughed because it was empty...and got stabbed in the neck for being a prick."

Byron said, "Yeah but Willard had a lot of enemies."

O'Boyle said, "Yup.  I just told young Sherlock Holmes that I'm surprised an ignorant, hateful bastard like that lasted thirty-years on God's green earth without someone putting a bullet through his useless head.  And by the way Burnsey, that dick said, 'they can't rule out that it might've been staged to look like a robbery.'  So, get your alibi ready, 'cause they asked me for names and addresses of all the employees, going back six months."



                                                     *



I remember my first day back in January.  Mr. O'Boyle's entire orientation was: don't hawk players, don't "black cat" me, and never clue anyone in.  I had no idea what any of that meant.

Once I started, the craps layout was leopard-spotted because every time my fingertips touched the felt, little perspiration circles dotted my work space.  It didn't help that scary O'Boyle spent a lot of time watching me as my whole body became ensconced in sweat.

My immediate supervisor (boxman) Chuck "Shirts" Czyrz was human.  He recognized a newbie's first exposure to casino life and that I was overwhelmed by nervousness.  But rather than torture me, he was friendly and patient.

Chuck (26), called himself Shirts because his "eye-chart" last name sounded like, shirts.  In the rare moments of tranquility, Shirts spoke of growing up in Wausau Wisconsin, his wife, two daughters, (two and four-years old) and their upcoming vacation to Disneyland.

Shirts had a calming-effect on me and I appreciated his on-the-job tutelage.  But I saw he was already graying and that he was always tense.  Later, I noticed he had a constant tic in his left cheek and that eye would flutter when O'Boyle spoke to him.

The other three craps dealers were coincidentally from Louisiana.  Lamont and Lester were black guys from New Orleans and the soon-to-be murder victim, Willard Lafitte was a redneck from rural Slidell.

I didn't like Lafitte immediately.  He assumed the role of an unofficial supervisor and ratted out the shortcomings of Chuck Czyrz and the craps crew, to Mr. O'Boyle.

He also made racially insensitive remarks that instigated Lamont and Lester.  He repeatedly called them lazy-ass, big city boys and referred to them as "you people" as well as calling them both, "Leroy."

Shirts intervened a few times but Willard told him, "Shut yuh stupid yap, you lunk-headed Polack."

Shirts had complained to O'Boyle about Willard and never got satisfaction.

In fact, I once witnessed O'Boyle scream, "You moronic Polack. I don't know why I let you work here.  Hell, you couldn't deal worth a shit and a blind chimp could sit box better than you!"

Shirts' boxman salary was $68/day, ($340.00/week).  Give-or-take, dealers made about half, $3.00/hour plus an average of $10.00/day in tips, ($170.00 gross/week).  In my first week, I had no idea but Lafitte coveted Shirts' job.

On my tumultuous first day, I couldn't function. I kept dropping the chips, I dealt too slow, forgot my procedures and had to be reminded of the simplest payoffs.  Poor Shirts shielded my ineptitude from O'Boyle and Lafitte while taking the brunt of their wrath.  Towards the end of the day, my guilt was stronger than my nervousness until Shirts' wife and two daughters came to pick him up.  What a happy sight to see Shirts smiling and all four of them kissing and hugging.  His family situation made me think, who wouldn't want that.

He picked a girl up in each arm and announced, "Lets go to Circus Circus and see if I can win you a couple of Pink Panthers."

On my fourth day, while arguing with Willard, Lamont quit in the middle of the shift.  On the way out, he muttered in a foreign language.

Willard said, "Y'all's voodoo hoo-doo ain't gonna work on me."

Lamont yelled back something in French or Creole and ended it with, "Fuckin' bigot."

VOODOO IS A RELIGION DERIVED IN AFRICA AND CHIEFLY PRACTICED IN HAITI.  COMMON FOLKLORE CONTENDS THAT ITS BASED ON  HIGHLY IMPROBABLE SUPPOSITION WITH FOLLOWERS CASTING EVIL SPELLS AND COMMUNICATING WITH THE DEAD. 

Two hours after Lamont left, towards the end of that shift, I was still buried, (making tons of mistakes).  But Shirts remained supportive.

Shirts and I were having a pleasant conversation when O'Boyle burst on the scene, "Did you Edelfarb pay some yahoo who was two bucks high on his odds?"  Shirts took the heat for my three-dollar carelessness as I saw a grin of satisfaction on Lafitte's face.  O'Boyle lashed out, "How about I dock your sorry ass for every dime you let your plebes overpay these chumps."

A minute after O'Boyle left, Shirts reminded me that I forgot to take a losing $1.00 field bet.  Two rolls later, I forgot again.  He corrected me as I saw a single bead of sweat, resembling a teardrop, trickle down his forehead.

The third time, Shirts leaped out of his seat and screamed, "Take the field, take the fuckin' field!"

Across the table, Willard was snickering and didn't hide his sickening smile.  I looked at Shirts. He was sweating profusely, his breathing was choppy and his complexion had gone ashen as his pitiful expression was locked, in a vacant stare.

Willard was relieved off the stick and came around to his base position.  He passed behind unsuspecting Chuck Czyrz and playfully flicked his ear. Shirts croaked a disturbing noise of painful shock.  He turned towards me as his eyes rolled up into head.  He continued past me on the swivel chair, lost his balance and simultaneously vomited. He fell behind me, went into convulsions and writhed in his own putrid mess.

Our budget casino didn't have an infirmity.  It seemed like an eternity but in less than a minute, Shirts calmed down. Byron Burns and a customer helped him to his feet and to a nearby bench outside.  O'Boyle without looking at Chuck, disappeared into a storage closet.  He returned dragging over a heavy burlap bag labeled: ZIP-ZORB and as if feeding chickens, spread the kitty-litter-like substance where Shirts had gotten sick.

Five minutes later, Shirts unsteadily returned and said, "I'm so sorry Mr. O'Boyle."

O'Boyle said, "You got your car today?  You okay to drive."

"I want to finish my shift.  Let me wash up first.  Give me five minutes."

It must have killed O'Boyle but he seemed sincere, "Either way, I'm putting you in a cab and sending you home."

Chuck swooned for a second, caught his balance and said, "Yeah but..."

O'Boyle cut him off, "No!  Take care of yourself.  I'll pay you for the whole shift..."

Chuck felt ashamed, "No please.  I'm okay.  Mr. O'Boyle, please..."

Byron rushed over, "I flagged down a taxi."

O'Boyle gave Byron a ten dollar bill, "Give this to the cabbie.  And Chuck listen close.  Go home.  Get a good nights rest and I'll call at eight tomorrow morning."  Then with a big sarcastic sigh he added, "Somehow, I'll manage without you."

Seconds after the taxi drove away, Willard Lafitte was anointed as the interim boxman.

O'Boyle finished vacuuming-up the ineffective ZIP-ZORB and said to the crew, "We're down a man, so unless you guys need to hit the head, there will no breaks for the last two hours."

Another dealer, (Eddie Murphy, his second day), complained about the stench as soon as O'Boyle left.

Willard in all his glory crowed, "Smells like roses tah me."



                                                       *



The next day, chubby Willard smugly showed up in a tattered, way too small suit.  His balding head sported a new, frizzy, blown-out bird's nest hairdo that replaced his stringy, piano wire comb-over.

God save us.  Willard was now in charge.

Lafitte was a much better dealer than me but he had a four-month head start, which didn't prevent him from making tons of mistakes.  Therefore his leadership style stressed belittling over educating. More importantly, he was generally dopey and may not have been fully literate.

Mr. O'Boyle came by with some final instructions for Willard's debut in command.

He finished with, "And if there's big trouble, you know where the 'dingus' is."

Lester waited until O'Boyle was gone, "Where's Shirts?"

Willard said, "Well boy, dey dun fied dat incompetent's ass.  I do declare, he's prob'ly already in Sparks..."

I said, "Sparks?"

"Shit!  Y'all doan know nuthin'.  Sparks is duh loony bin.  Now, I's duh new big boss man."

Byron overheard and said, "Willard your such an ass-hole.  Chuck wasn't fired and he's home resting."

Lester threw his dealer apron on the table, "Sheee-it, I ain't working for this cracker.  I quit!"

Willard shouted out, "Leroy, it's a sad day when a nigra doan 'preciate how good dey got it."

Lester charged back, "You called me fuckin' Leroy for he last time, you honky-ass mother-fucker. Come out here.  Um gonna fuck you up!"

Willard leaned under the craps table as if he dropped something and said, "No come in here."

Streetwise Lester knew what he was reaching for and shook his head, "Fuck you!  Fuck y'all."

Lafitte snapped, "Beat it!"

Lester took a few steps away before turning back, "You wait sucka, Um gonna mess your white ass up."

Our crew was missing a man for ten minutes.  Until Mr. O'Boyle brought over Yung Yune.  Yune was an older, frail Korean wearing a gray, slot attendant smock. He started on the stick.

The first roll was a nine and in terrible English he announced, "Ni centa fi ni."

"Wow," I mumbled and thought, he knows what he's doing.

Yune struggled to retrieve the dice.

The next roll was a six and he said, "Sis centa fi sis."  And the roll after that he said, "Seven centa fie seven."

For more than an hour, Yune was never corrected and seemed to be the permanent stickman.  In that time, Willard must've been campaigning for the world's most ignorant man as he openly insulted Yune and Asians in general, a veteran in a wheelchair and a bag lady.

The crazy situation got stranger when O'Boyle hired an applicant on the spot and put him to work. What Lafitte did to the new dealer (Howie Parnell) who replaced Yune, who replaced Lester, was criminal.

Parnell was a Wasp around my age (23).  He was shaking like a leaf and as strange as it sounded, O'Boyle put me in charge to watch over him.  But Howie and I hit it off.

At a safe moment when Willard was on break Howie groused about the stickman position being outside (the building).  So while the heater above blew warm air into the stickman's face, his back was exposed to the January chill.

I said, "Wait till around four o'clock.  The glare off the 'Riv' is so bad that you'll have to shade your eyes to deal."

THE RIVIERA (1955-2015) WAS ONE OF THE MAIN STRIP CASINOS DURING THE GOLDEN YEARS OF OLD VEGAS.  IN 1979, ITS REMODELED GLASS FACADE FACED WEST AND REFLECTED THE SETTING SUN ACROSS THE STREET AND INTO THE SLOTS-A-FUN CRAPS DEALERS EYES.

In a quieter tone Howie complained about our Simon Legree and coined his new nickname, "'Lafitte the Heat', makes this bullshit a lot harder than it should be.  That Bayou Bastard needs his neck broken."

The term, Lafitte the Heat solidified our budding friendship as two middle-aged women walked by.

Willard had just returned when Parnell called out and invited the ladies to play.  I guess he wasn't indoctrinated with O'Boyle's "no hawking players" rule.

They bought-in for five-dollars each.  Howie who could barely deal, made a couple of money management suggestions.  Soon Willard summoned O'Boyle.  The brainiacs had a brief private conference.  Willard sat back down as O'Boyle told Parnell to abandon his base, (the game continued as seated Lafitte, skittered payoffs across to the players).

Behind me Mr. O'Boyle said to Parnell, "You teach these two biddies how to play?"  Howie shuddered and silently shrugged as O'Boyle's ire rose, "You know the difference between a goddamned $1.50 getting paid even money on the corner six and eight...and a place bet getting $1.75?"

Howie had no idea he was talking about the percentage and said, "Yeah.  But it's just twenty-cents."

From an inch away, O'Boyle blasted,"You're fired. You fuckin' wise-guy. You're fired!"

Frowning Howie leaned backward as if O'Boyle's hot, decayed meat-flavored bad breath was singeing his eyebrows.

Apparently, Parnell wasn't told about the never "clue-in" anybody rule either.  I never saw my "new" five-hour friend again.

It was clear that Willard "jack-potted" Howie but that wasn't enough, he punished me too.



                                                            *



The next day, Lafitte the Heat implemented his punishment. I suddenly wasn't allowed to take red, (five-dollar chips), out of the bankroll.  If I needed more, I had to ask him, to give it to me. This was  childish pay-back.  I shouldn't have been insulted but was.

Our game was nearly empty when a short, sloppy obese guy came to my end of the table and pulled an expensive looking gold money clip from his sweat sock. He no pockets because despite it being 45 degrees, he was wearing satin, emerald green gym shorts with silver and black trim and a solid black tank top.

He dropped down a twenty.  Willard pulled out a stack of twenty white, one-dollar chips.

I handed it off and said, "Good luck."

In a harsh New York accent the man growled, "I want fives, (reds)."

I looked down at Willard as he said, "Play 'em up Bub, we'll change y'all up when ya win."

The player nodded and set the twenty singles on the pass line.  The bet won. Willard cupped his hand over my working stack of red and pushed out another stack of whites from the bank.  I was in no position to contradict my "superior" so I paid the bet with another twenty singles.

The player snapped, "Hey!  You said when I won, you'd have the dealer change me up."

The situation intensified as Lafitte ignored him and ordered, "Get a roll."

Everyone on the crew hesitated.

Willard glared at player, "How much goes?"

The fat man defiantly pointed at his two stacks of whites, "Forty goes!"

Several rolls later, the bet won again he said,  "Yo boxman.  I'm sorry if I came on too strong, could you now color me up?"

"Color-up?  Yessir. Y'all ready tah leave?"

"No.  I want to keep playing."

Willard pushed me two more stacks of white and said, "I'll color you up when you leave.  We can't hold up the game."

"Hold up the game?  There's three people here and everyone's playing six bits, (75c, the table minimum)."

I paid his two stacks of white with two more as the action came to a halt.  The argument escalated into a bitter obscenity filled exchange.

Between a flurry of F-Bombs the man said, "You can't do this."

A large group of spectators were attracted to the verbal combat as Lafitte announced, "The hell I can't.  Who's runnin' dissy here game anyway?  You?  I doan think so."

The player said, "Okay dickhead, I'll shoot it all."

Willard declared, "Get a roll!"

On the first shot, a die clanked off the wall of eighty, one-dollar chips and knocked over a stack.  It  caromed off the egg carton-like rubber spikes that the rimmed the table before settling.

THE ENDS OF CRAPS TABLES ARE EQUIPPED RUBBER BUMPERS.  THEIR PRIMARY PURPOSE IS GAME PROTECTION.  BY ENCOURAGING ALL SHOOTERS TO HIT THE RUBBER BACK WALL, CASINOS ARE ASSURED OF A RANDOM ROLL...THUS DISCOURAGING POTENTIAL CHEATERS.

The stickman saw the six-one combination and almost inaudibly stammered, "W-w-winner seven."

I looked down at Willard.  His left hand was clamped firmly on the reds.

The shooter, from the other outside of the table cried, "Stop horsing around.  Give him nickels for crissakes!"

In a casual manner, Willard "The Heat" Lafitte pushed out two stacks of white from the bank, capped it with ten more and said, "Pay 'em."

I didn't understand and was shivering as I delivered fifty dollars to pay the eighty.

The man was so agitated that he knocked over the fifty and barked, "What's this bullshit!"

A masterpiece of profanity fit for the National Gallery was painted.

The jousting simmered down enough for the man say, "God fucking damn it, forget all the whites, I bet eighty and you're paying me fifty?"

Lafitte was so cocky, "House max is fifty, suh, I dun called it out."

The player shrieked, "You didn't call out shit.  Where's the fuckin' table maximum sign?"  Willard coyly stared him down and smiled as the man continued, "If I lost, you'd have have taken the whole eighty, right?"

Willard was bursting with self satisfaction as he picked at a back tooth with his pinkie and apathetically said, "Mebee."

WILLARD WAS MR. O'BOYLE'S MINI-ME. MAYBE A WITNESS OF THAT FRACAS WAS INSPIRED TO CREATE THE ROLE FOR VERNE JAY TROYER (1969-2018) WHO PORTRAYED DR. EVIL'S PROTEGE, IN THE AUSTIN POWERS FILM SERIES.

The player shouted, "Where's the goddamned Casino Control Commission?"

Willard drawled, "Dey's in Cahson City.  Y'all kin git dee uhdress, out the da phone book."

"You don't know who your talking to.  I'll sue!"

Lafitte knew he had the upper hand, "Now y'alls a lawyer.  Ain't dat grand. Well I eat lawyers fuh suppah and shit 'em out in duh mornin'."

The next round of tirades was reduced to insulting each others mothers.  But the man's barbs were weakening.

Disgusted, the player succumbed to the double-talk and said, "Okay scumbag, I'm leaving.  Color me out."

Willard rose halfway out of his seat and seemed to be grabbing something from under the table as he said, "No."

This time, the cussing didn't last long.  The defeated man...without pockets...was forced to roll the bottom of his shirt up, to form a pouch.  Many of the onlookers pointed and laughed as he stuffed 130, one-dollar chips in and like a pregnant woman exposing her belly, waddled to the cashier.

Minutes after redeeming his winnings for cash, the man came by our quiet table.  The dude lashed-out at Willard but the big boss-man pretended to be busy.  Most of the bystanders there had missed the show and assumed he was just  typical disgruntled lunatic loser.

But the player definitely caught Lafitte's attention when he said, "You better be looking over your shoulder when you leave..."

O'Boyle arrived after all the drama was over.  He listened to his toady's story and congratulated his star student on a job well done.

Lafitte changed the subject, "If dey let that numb-nuts Chuck Czyrz out duh funny farm?  Dat'll mean dem doctahs are more cuckoo den him."

Mr.  O'Boyle ignored the chatter and said to me, "I hope you absorbed all that Edelsteen, (he always called me different names that started with E-D-E-L).  Because when you sit box for me, that's how I'll want my money guarded."

A surge of bile erupted into my mouth.

Mr. O'Boyle switched back to Willard, "And, you didn't even need the dingus."

Lafitte said, "Da truth be told. I dun fahgot about it till it was too late.  But I had it all duh way.  B'sides Brod, I cudda whooped dat boy..."

O'Boyle said, "Who you calling Brod?"

Willard's eyes sunk as he whimpered, "Sorry Mr. O'Boyle.  Won't ever happen again..."

Mr.  Boyle added, "Don't be so sure of yourself.  I didn't even see that weasel and I'll still put my money on him in a fair fight.



                                                      *



In mid-March, I passed the halfway point at my first craps dealing job.  But the joy of slowly breaking-in and honing my craft was greatly diminished by Willard's rise in status, as O'Boyle's lieutenant.


                                            #     #     #        




Here's some hints of what to expect in next week's, "MURDER AT SLOTS-A-FUN...PART-2."  

New characters arrived that changed the landscape, at Las Vegas' worst craps dealing job. 

I finally associate the word; fun, with the Slots-A-Fun Casino. 

An update on Chuck "Shirts" Czyrz's condition.

More individuals and groups that Willard"The Heat" Lafitte disrespected or hated are added to the  pool of suspects in his murder.

"SKITZO" AL

Schizophrenia even for professionals, is often misunderstood or misdiagnosed.  For laymen, especially the less sophisticated, these guesses create real and unnecessary problems 

This article contains excerpts from my July 15, 2013 blog, "THE MANY SIDES OF SKITZO AL."

The New York School of Gambling had a random conglomeration of students. I gravitated to easy-going, Las Vegas bound guys around my age. Such as: Ciro the Hero, (way before he became a Ciro the Zero), BB, John Heaverlo and JLUPY.

Another student who sometimes hung with us was thirty-two year old Alberto Muñoz.  But within the context of the school, Al was a man without a country.  He had an independent nature and made no effort to fit in with any group.  At times he was so likable and other times, people were put off by his aloofness and mood swings.

Al's accent was strictly from the Bronx.  He was of Puerto Rican descent but both his parents were born in Yonkers.  The morning craps class already had three other Als, so most people called him "Spanish" Al.

Al was also short, so some people called him "Little" Al.  But because he wore a distinctive well-trimmed beard and mustache, the wannabe wiseguys called him Toulouse.  Al was a graduate of Lehman College and was more worldly than most us.  So he was able to understand the Toulouse reference and mature enough to not give his taunters any satisfaction.

HENRI de TOULOUSE LAUTREC, (1864-1901), WAS A POST-IMPRESSIONIST PAINTER.  HE SUFFERED FROM NUMEROUS AILMENTS INCLUDING ONE THAT PREVENTED HIS LEGS FROM GROWING PROPERLY.

The underlying problem with Al was an inconsistent personality. One moment he’d be funny, articulate or caring about someone and seconds later, he’d be cold and ignorant to someone else. There were even times that I witnessed Al helping someone and simultaneously being a jerk to another with the same problem…then in the blink of an eye, he’d neglect the person he was helping and bend over backwards to the person he was being rude to.

Maybe it was Al's power play?  To the untrained eye, most of us thought he suffered from a Napoleonic complex.

FIVE FOOT SIX NAPOLEON BONAPARTE, (1769-1821), WAS EMPEROR OF FRANCE.  THE INFORMAL PSYCHOLOGICAL TERM "NAPOLEONIC COMPLEX" SUGGESTS THAT SOME SHORT MEN OVER-COMPENSATE FOR BEING VERTICALLY CHALLENGED WITH AGGRESSIVE OR DOMINEERING SOCIAL BEHAVIOR.

Due to the severity of these attitude peaks and valleys, Al's most enduring nickname was, "Skitzo" Al.  Today, someone in Al's shoes might be misdiagnosed by idiots like us, as being bi-polar?

Just before one of our 10:00AM, forty-minute breaks, Al was telling BB, JLUPY and me about the discotheques in the Bronx.  He wanted us to come up. I thought it would be fun. After all, I already had the official disco uniform in my closet; an off-white, polyester three-piece suit, a selection of qiana shirts by Huckapoo and platform shoes.

DESPITE A BLEAK SCRIPT AND BEING TERRIBLY DATED, THE 1977, TWO-STAR MOVIE, "SATURDAY NIGHT FEVER," HAS LEFT AN IMPACT ON SOCIETY AND POP-CULTURE.

I was seriously considering taking the trip as BB cracked, “I don’t want to go. Even the police are afraid to leave the station house up there.”

Al said, “I’m not sending you to the South Bronx, I live in Riverdale.”

JLUPY said, “I live in Connecticut, would I be able to crash at your place.”

Al didn’t even acknowledge him.

While we were talking, Willi, a sexy blackjack student from the Dominican Republic walked by. Al went into a full-blown flirtation with her in Spanish. Al rattled off the same names of the discos he mentioned to us. Somewhere along the line, he asked her out for that Friday. In English with a heavy accent, she enthusiastically agreed.

After she left I said, "How did you win her over so fast?"

"It loses something in the translation but, I asked her what her real name was.  When she said Awilda, I said I liked it.  She was flattered when I said Awilda is more girlie...and that she's all woman."

JLUPY said, “I thought you couldn’t speak Spanish?”

Dead silence. Al wouldn’t even look at him. JLUPY got pissed off. He got in Al’s face and repeated the question.

Al as if nothing strange happened smiled, “I pick my spots. As you can see, it comes in handy for picking up Latina chicks.”

JLUPY was confused and insulted...and slithered away.

Al was still encouraging us to come when Awilda breezed by holding a slip of paper and said in English, "Here's my number."

Al concentrated on me and BB. She didn't appreciated being shunted aside.  But he wasn’t even phased when the tempestuous beauty exploded into a rant.  In frustration she switched from Spanish to English.  He still didn't acknowledge her, so she punctuated her displeasure with a loud, “Fuck you!”

For me, witnessing this level of ignorance made me think, Al was out of his mind.  I guess he thought he was being cool because as she stormed off, he pretended not to notice.

My clique usually went to the coffee shop near Eighth Avenue on our breaks.

John Heaverlo and Ciro had already left so I asked Al, “You wanna get something to eat with us?”

BB interjected, “Include me out, I’ll be at the Ireland’s Eye, drinking my breakfast.”

Al said, “No, I’m gonna play hearts. Do you play?”

I said, “No.”

He said, “C’mon and watch.  Do something different, it’ll be fun.”

In a tight space rimmed with vending machines, the open-ended break area had two round tables. The closer table had a furious card game going with four guys from the jet-set clique. In a loud, hyper whisper, Al described the rules and the finer points of hearts. I was fascinated by the action and impressed by Al's disregard for the player's shushing and harsh barbs.

I think because of our age difference, Al never developed into friend material. But because of the articulate, nurturing side of his personality, his mentoring made me feel like I had an older brother.

This was especially true at my first hearts game.

Al said,  “Don’t sit-in with these vultures until you know what’s, what. They’ll reel you in for a penny a point.  And if they think you're a sucker, they'll jump it up to dime...don't be fooled, even chump change adds up."

A player growled, "Shut up Toulouse!" Al kept talking.

A few months later, I moved to Las Vegas, (January 1979). Ciro got there two months earlier so I looked him up. He was living downtown with BB, in a cheap, rundown two-bedroom apartment. JLUPY was already free-loading on their sofa so I was offered the living room floor, (all to myself), until I got situated.

When I arrived, it was the filthiest dump I ever saw. I dreaded sleeping on their nauseating trash strewn floor. But it became a moot point because that same day, BB was rushed to the hospital with acute alcohol poisoning. The situation was so dire that his mom and sister were flying out because BB might die.

JLUPY was upgraded to BB’s bed and I got the couch. It was good timing because John Heaverlo drove in from Poughkeepsie (NY) the next day and took my spot in the floor's squalor.

All casinos had fifty-cent drinks. I could see how someone with a liquor dependency like BB could get caught in Vegas’ web of vice. I understand this because my first five days in town are a drunken kaleidoscope of broken images and partial memories.

During a lucid moment Ciro took me aside, “Dimi, (his nickname for me), you can stay here forever…no charge. But for your own good, don’t you think it’s time to go to work.”

He was right. I had gotten wet feet from watching live craps games and felt that I could never make it as a dealer. But Ciro’s little chat straightened me out. I was determined to go to the audition that the New York School of Gambling arranged, at the Slots-A-Fun Casino.

The next morning, it was bright, sunny and 70°. I was standing in a white dress shirt and black slacks at the bus stop, shivering from nerves. Across the street, a billboard advertising a heating and refrigeration school caught my eye. Their two slogans were; YOUR CORE OF $UCCE$$ and TAKE CHARGE OF YOUR FUTURE.

I was admiring the sign and how the word “charge” had two lightning bolts running through it when I heard Ciro’s voice in my head saying, “It’s time to shit or get off the pot.” Suddenly, my daydream was shattered by an annoying, squeaky, beep, beep. It was someone on a Vespa scooter. The mysterious driver pulled to the curb and took off his goggles.  It was a clean-shaven Al Muñoz.

VESPA SCOOTERS BECAME AN INEXPENSIVE MODE OF TRANSPORTATION IN POST-WAR ITALY.  THE MOTOR'S BEE-LIKE BUZZ WAS THE INSPIRATION FOR CALLING THE BIKE THE ITALIAN WORD FOR WASP..

I told Al my situation and he congratulated me for taking the plunge.

He added, “I’m dealing craps at the Lady Luck. It sucks but I’m ready to apply for a better job. I live in a shack on Ogden. If you can avoid it, you don’t want to live downtown.”

I pointed beyond Las Vegas High School and said, "I'm staying on South Tenth with Ciro."

He said, “It’s just as bad there…like the wild friggin’ west.  So don't stray from Fremont Street and never go through alleys, especially at night” Al surprised me by adding, “Forget all that negativity, first, let’s get you working. Screw the bus. Hop on. I’ll take you up there before you change your mind or shit yourself.”

Al and I wouldn't cross paths for four months. By that time, I had left Slots-A-Fun and got hired at a slightly better job, the Western Casino. Al came in to take an audition and passed. Later, during my break, he told me he was fired from the Lady Luck.

I told him, “One of our craps dealers, Debbie Dotson used to work there.”

When I added that the Western fired her after one shift Al shook his head, “Debbie, Debbie, Debbie. She couldn’t get out of Oregon fast enough. But she had no plan...”

He became philosophical about life in Las Vegas. During his ensuing sermon about the transients, petty criminals, runaways, lowlifes and the deadbeats that he has met, I was distracted about Al's appearance. I knew his facial hair was missing but I couldn’t figure out the difference.

Al was right. Misguided people visit Vegas and perceive that dealers lead luxurious lives, at the top casinos.  Far worse, some move to town and think they too can live a rich, vacation lifestyle every day.

I saw it immediately when BB nearly drank himself to death. And the town might have chewed me up and spit me out too, if Ciro didn’t give me my reality check.

Before the Western Casino processed Al, he said, “Remember this, Vegas is like the French Foreign Legion. Most people uproot themselves here out of a romantic fantasy that it’s shangra-fuckin’-la. A lot of the other morons are just desperate. So always watch yourself and be weary of the *Debbie Dotsons of the world...because Vegas is a sanctuary for the lunatic fringe.

*Debbie Dotson was a main character in my short story, "SANCTUARY FOR THE LUNATIC FRINGE."

Al started at the Western the next day. He got off to a great start with my coworkers and never gave-off that "Skitzo" vibe.  Still, I was having trouble putting my finger on the difference in him, so I gave up and asked.

Al answered in a conversational tone and calm pace, “Getting fired from the Lady Luck changed my life!”

He took off his glasses with great exaggeration and cleaned off the lenses.

I said, “That’s it!  You’re wearing glasses!”

He smiled, “But I don’t need glasses.”

I was perplexed.

He said, “Listen my brother. They fired me.  They thought I was a prick because on second base, I could hear the boxman’s instructions. But on third base, he were speaking into my deaf ear.”

“You’re deaf in one ear?”

Al said, “Yeah. You knew that...everyone at school knew.”

I said, “Trust me, nobody knew.”

“Anyway," Al shrugged.  “So when I get the ax, I tell the dude about my ear. He suddenly becomes human and clues me in that Beltone has an office around the corner. And if they hook me up with a hearing aid, he’ll give me my job back. I tell him, I was born this way.  There’s nothing that can be done. He said, 'you should still go. Things change…you never know.'”

Al said, “These non-prescription glasses are the latest technology. They have a tiny microphone in the frame and wires carry the sounds from the bad side, to my good ear. I’m a new man!” As excited as he was to show me, his quieter, slower pace never faltered as he showed me a photo of his girlfriend.

Two days later, I left the Western for a better job, (the Holiday International Casino). I never saw Al again. But down through the years, I found out that he was a pit boss in Puerto Rico...and I'm guessing, he's not driving a Vespa through the streets of San Juan.

From this experience, I promised myself I would never rag on anyone because of a physical handicap or a mental defect.  I know I did a good job but the idealism I sought isn't always perfect.