THE BELLA UNION OPENLY courted high rollers. House limit on faro, roulette, and twenty-one was five hundred dollars. Other games, such as Spanish monte and chuck-a-luck, were routinely played with no limit. Three poker tables, operated by house dealers, were table-stakes games.
There was an underlying purpose to the betting policy. Earl reasoned that high rollers preferred the company of other high rollers. So he created an atmosphere where they could congregate and pursue their favorite games. For the average bettor, it was an opportunity to rub shoulders with the gambling elite. The high rollers became, in effect, an attraction for the house.
On another level, Earl’s decision was even more calculated. He purposely set out to lure the high rollers away from Denver’s established gaming parlors. While his goal was not publicized, it was hardly a secret to the other owners. Yet, even though many of them raised their betting limits, they were a step behind from the outset. The Bella Union’s policy of honest games—and the $10,000 reward—was a first for Denver. No one could duplicate the offer without appearing to be a sleazy imitator.
Still, taking business from the other dives was a risky proposition. Other owners, suffering a loss of play from high rollers, would like nothing better than for the Bella Union to go busted. A run of bad luck or one crooked game could conceivably break the house. As a result, Earl was constantly on guard against an outside setup. Specifically, he was alert to a high roller possibly financed by another house, who was working in collusion with a turncoat dealer. A single game, properly rigged, could put him out of business.
The Bella Union’s bank, on any given night, contained upward of fifty thousand dollars. Should the house be tapped out, Earl would have no choice but to close the doors. No reputable gambling impresario would continue to operate unless he could cover all bets and, if necessary, pay off on the spot. Having once closed the doors, Earl was well aware that he would never again reopen. No one in Denver would bankroll him the second time around. Nor would they shed any tears over his downfall.
Earl’s concern turned to reality on a Friday night. Halfway into the evening, a well-dressed man took a seat at one of the faro tables. He was soft-spoken, urbane, and quite obviously an experienced gambler. He bought an initial five thousand in chips and began betting the house limit from the start. Though he lost occasionally, he exhibited an uncanny sense for predicting the turn of the cards. By midnight, he was something more than twenty thousand ahead.
Faro, by its nature, was widely considered immune to cheating. An old and highly structured game, it had originated a century before in France. The name was derived from the king of hearts, which bore the image of an Egyptian pharaoh on the back of the card. All betting was against the house, known in Western parlance as “bucking the tiger.” After being shuffled and cut, a full deck of cards was placed in a small wooden box, positioned directly before the dealer. Cards were then drawn in pairs, faceup, from a narrow slot in the box.
A cloth layout on the table depicted every card from deuce through ace. Before the turn of each pair drawn, players placed bets on the card of their choice. The first card out of the box was a losing bet, and the second was a winner. If there were no wagers on either card, then all bets were canceled out. Since no wagers were allowed on the top and bottom cards in the box, there were twenty-five betting turns in a deck. The dealer then shuffled and began a new game.
The dealer collected losing bets and paid off winners on each turn. As the pairs were drawn, an abacuslike casekeeper was used to keep track of the cards already out. By watching the casekeeper, players were able to calculate the odds on remaining cards as the game progressed. On either card drawn in a turn, the players could bet win or lose on the layout. To wager on a losing card, they “coppered” their bet by placing a copper token on their chips. A daring player or a confident high roller would bet both win and lose at the same turn. The practice gave rise to the saying “get a hunch, bet a bunch.”
Like any working professional, Earl was only too aware that faro could be rigged. All it required was a clever dealer, with the skill and audacity to manipulate a deck of cards. The most common method was to use “strippers,” a deck with certain cards trimmed slightly along the edges or on the ends. A dealer with sensitive fingers could then “read” the cards before slipping them from the box. By dealing “seconds”—holding back the top card and dealing the one below—he could determine the outcome of bets on the layout. To rob the house, of course, he needed a confederate on the other side of the table.
Shortly after midnight, Earl began wondering if he’d been gaffed. The affable high roller was winning consistently, still betting five hundred a turn. From a discreet distance, Earl observed the game, looking for any irregularity. He saw nothing to indicate either marked cards or crooked dealing. A talk with the floor lookout merely confirmed his own judgment. Nothing appeared out of order.
Finally, Earl exercised a prerogative of the house. He put a new dealer at the table and ordered a fresh deck of cards. A groan went up from the crowd of onlookers, but no one complained too strenuously. Even the well-groomed high roller agreed that the house was within its rights. His luck seemed unaffected by either the new dealer or the fresh cards. He won the first turn out of the box.
As play resumed, Earl had the old deck brought to his office. He examined the cards closely, looking for shaved edges or needle pricks, which was another method of marking a deck. The cards were unaltered, and he decided there was no need to talk with the dealer. The game was on the up and up, and the high roller was apparently enjoying a hot streak. Luck was a capricious thing, as Earl well knew, and even as it served some men, it turned on others. Tonight might well be the night he went busted.
A pleasant surprise awaited him when he returned to the game room. Where the high roller had been winning three out of four turns, he was now losing by the same ratio. Earl had no idea whether fresh cards and a different dealer had reversed the game. But it was clear, as gamblers were fond of noting, that “the worm had turned.”
In the space of an hour, the high roller lost back something more than ten thousand dollars. No fool, he realized his luck had gone sour. He called it a night. Collecting his chips, he moved across the room to the cashier’s window. The final count put him almost ten thousand ahead for the evening. After stuffing his pockets with money, he turned toward the door.
Earl was waiting just inside the entranceway. He smiled, extending his hand. “I’m Earl Brannock, the owner.”
“Mr. Brannock.” The man nodded, accepting his handshake. “I’m George Devol.”
“Devol?” Earl sounded surprised. “George Devol, the riverboat gambler?”
Devol laughed. “Formerly a riverboat gambler, Mr. Brannock. I fear the railroads are fast writing an end to a very pleasant era.”
“Well, I nonetheless admire your style of play, Mr. Devol. Your reputation hasn’t been harmed any here tonight.”
“Nor yours,” Devol said. “You run a very professional operation, Mr. Brannock.”
“Perhaps you’ll give me a chance to recoup. I’ve heard it said that you play a shrewd game of poker.”
“Unfortunately, I’m only passing through. I leave on the morning stage.”
“Too bad,” Earl said genuinely. “I would have enjoyed playing against a man of your caliber.”
“Perhaps another time,” Devol replied. “Just now, I’m off to test the waters in San Francisco.”
“I’ve always had a yen to see the Barbary Coast myself.”
“Indeed? Well, if ever you journey west, be sure to ask for me. I intend to stay awhile.”
“I’ll do it,” Earl said cordially. “Until then, I wish you luck, Mr. Devol.”
Earl made a show of walking him to the door. Then, after returning to the gaming room, he began spreading the word. By morning, every gambler in Denver would hear the story. George Devol, the fabled riverboat high roller, had selected the Bella Union for his night in town. And bucked the tiger for a cool $10,000.
Apart from the prestige, Earl saw it in a practical light. He knew the mentality of gamblers, and the story would enhance the idea of winning—or losing—at the Bella Union. He figured it was the best ten thousand he’d ever spent.
The upstairs suite was a private world. There Monte and Earl dropped the facade they put on during business hours. The time spent there was personal time, their favorite time. When they were alone, together.
Late that night, after closing, Earl strolled from the parlor through the bedroom. He was in shirt sleeves and carrying a large snifter of brandy. He halted in the doorway of the bathroom, which was dominated by a huge porcelain tub. One eye cocked askew, he grinned. “You look like the Queen of Sheba.”
Monte was lazed back in the tub. A nightly ritual, she had buckets of hot water brought from downstairs and fixed herself a frothy bubble bath. Then, luxuriating in the steamy water, she revitalized herself for the moment they went to bed. She looked up at him now with a catlike smile. “What kept you, lover?”
“Brainwork,” he said with mock seriousness. “I’ve been stewing on an idea.”
“Oh,” she inquired. “Anything worth telling?”
“Well, Devol showing up tonight put me to thinking. Maybe it’s time we broadened our horizons . . . expanded.”
“Expanded what?”
“The operation,” he said with a wave of the snifter. “What’s to stop us from branching out, going big-time? A Bella Union in Central City and another in Black Hawk.”
“Omigawd!” she yelped. “You’re really not serious, are you?”
“Why the hell not? We could wind up the gambling czars of Colorado.”
“Or dead broke,” she scoffed. “Too much ambition can be a bad thing, lover. We’re not out of the woods here . . . not yet.”
“Maybe so,” Earl conceded. “But we’ve got ourselves a damn nice piece of the action. I’m just saying it’s time to look to the future.”
“What’s your hurry? The future won’t run off and leave you.”
“Very funny,” Earl said dryly. “You ought to be a comedian.”
“I could definitely show you something that would tickle your funny bone.”
“And what might that be?”
Monte laughed and tossed her head. “Why don’t you join me in the tub and find out?”
Earl took a long swig of brandy. He studied her a moment, as though weighing the invitation. Then, with a matter-of-fact shrug, he set the snifter on a nearby commode. He smiled and slowly began undressing.
“Don’t mind if I do.”