I was a man with
a plan, a man with a future, a man with the world at his feet. I was
a dice dealer at the Dunes Hotel in Las Vegas! Man, if my friends could
see me now. The Dunes towered over everything in sight like a technicolor
lighthouse, and tourists and celebrities alike flocked to the place
night and day. It was a far cry from the Pioneer Club or the Mint or
the unemployment office, three of my favorite haunts since I'd hit town
two years ago.
The money was great,
too. I was making more in one night than I did in a whole week back
in Texas. The nice thing about the players at the Dunes was that most
of them knew about tipping. You didn't have to practically beg like
a seal for a zook, like you did at the Mint. These players knew what
life was all about, and how the wheels turned. They either gave you
something when they won, or they didn't, and you didn't argue with them
about it. One player, who owned a fish market in New York, even had
his formula worked out to a science. He gave you exactly one percent
of what he won, no ifs, ands, or buts. If he won $5,000, you got one
percent of that. Fifty dollars. If he won $50,000, you got five hundred.
The only thing he asked —- no, demanded -— was that you know
exactly how he played. You never asked, "Is that a come bet or
a place bet?" You'd better know what it was. And the other thing
was that you never touched his checks. Go out to straighten his bet
and you'd come back with a broken finger.
Some of the players
didn't want you talking to them; others wanted to talk all night. Some
players wanted you to give them the dice on a certain number; others
didn't give a damn one way or the other. Some players had their favorite
dealers and wouldn't play on any other table. There was this one dealer
named Vinnie who was so popular with the players that he practically
walked around with a bodyguard.
Vinnie knew every
George in the joint on a first-name basis. They literally flocked to
his table, like sheep going to the slaughterhouse. "Where's Vinnie?"
they'd cry if they didn't see him. "What time does Vinnie come
on?" And the guy was good, I'll say that. The New York junkets
would fly into McCarran, where there would be a bus waiting to take
them to the Dunes. Well, Vinnie would hire a limousine and have his
personal players chauffeured to the hotel. Working with him was heaven
on earth, and I'd give a year of my life to be on the same crew with
him right now.
Another dealer,
I won't mention his name because he's still in the business, would write
every good player's name down in a little book he carried around with
him. Name, address, credit line. Later on, he got a job as a host in
another hotel, just because of all the names in his book. And damned
if he didn't wind up as an executive vice-president. Well, you had to
hand it to him. Most of us, me included, were just basking in the moment,
not ever thinking about tomorrow.
One thing you never
asked a player was what line of work he was in. It was okay to ask him
where he was from, or how long he would be in town, but you never asked
him what his occupation was. Most of these big players were doing something
that would get you or me 20 to life, but they seemed to get away with
it year after year. How else could they piss away $100,000 in a weekend,
and then just laugh about it?
At the Mint, when
someone held up a finger it usually meant he wanted another beer. At
the Dunes, a finger in the air meant the player wanted $1,000. In some
instances, a finger in the air meant $10,000. You just had to know your
players.
(To be continued)
