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“I have often wondered what keeps people fighting even when faced with insurmountable odds. Well, here’s the conclusion I came to: It’s not really the kill, but the thrill of the chase. For both card counters and surveillance, it’s a cat-and-mouse game and a challenge to the human spirit.”
DV Cellini,
The Card Counter’s Guide to Casino Surveillance
Across the pit, I saw D.A. was winning. Not a lot, but his stacks of chips were high enough to visibly see an increase from his buy-in. Over the past few months, our two-man team had built a solid foundation as a profitable endeavor. The big difference between a true professional and a gambler who can count cards is that the pro treats it like a job; like a corporation. A task was at hand and we had company policies. Over the previous few months we’d developed a team manual that evolved with each playing session. We found wrinkles to iron out and opportunities to fine-tune our attacks. All of it was well organized in a confidential black-bound team manual.
Minutes earlier I’d crossed my arms as both of the two tables I was counting were heating up. One had a running count of 13 but the shoe had just started and it would take a few hands before I could determine whether it was appropriate to call in D.A. From the several sessions we’d played since the beginning, we finally concluded that the true count would need to reach a minimum of 3 with at least three decks remaining in order to call the other in. We termed it our “3 with 3 rule.” After all, with a .5% advantage per each 1 in the true count, and considering the built-in house edge, we weren’t even playing a winning game until a true count of 2. And if we were called into a game at a true count of 2, it could easily reverse direction with the dealing of a few cards, ultimately leaving the big player in a situation where he’d have to immediately walk away from the table he’d just joined. Along the same lines, being called into a game with a fantastic true count only to see the cut card come out seconds later because the shoe was ending, well, that was equally compromising. So the 3 with 3 rule was conceived.
The other table I was counting had a running count of 11. I felt a rush swell up inside as a sudden barrage of low cards continued to be spread across the table. It was a perfect situation with a table light on players. A married couple in their mid-60s from Massachusetts, as I could tell from their thick Boston accent, collaborated on their own version of basic strategy that left them playing at a severe disadvantage. The smoke from their cigarettes lingered in a cloud over the table as they convinced themselves to make one bad decision after the next.
I couldn’t blame them. I’d done the same thing for years, rationalizing that a player should stand with his A,7 when the dealer’s upcard was a 10, or how taking even money on blackjacks was justified using the “bird-in-the-hand” theory. The irony there is that if these people truly believed in the bird-in-the-hand concept, they wouldn’t have set foot in the casino to begin with. The married couple occasionally commiserated with a lone gentleman in his 30s, Italian, wearing gold chains and a New York Yankees baseball cap, with an accent equally as punishing as the couple from Massachusetts, even though it came from about 200 miles south of Boston. This sort of connection was frequently seen. Foxwoods lay in between the two cities and hopefuls from both metropolises converged in a sort of gambling nexus. The three players continued hitting on their small cards and the count quickly shot up to 18 with about four decks to go.
Not knowing if D.A. was nearby, I trusted that he’d seen the folded arms and was within seconds of sitting down if I triggered him to do so. Eighteen over four. I raised my hand to my face as if to appear to rub my eyes and simultaneously moved into position behind one of the several open chairs at the table. Plenty of open seating options were available so protecting a chair for D.A. was unnecessary but I still needed to pass the count. He moved in.
“Are you sitting here?”
“No, sorry,” I said. “Too much smoke for me.”
As I walked away I knew D.A. was buying in for $1,250, the standard 25-unit buy-in that we’d established in our manual. It was appropriate for our now $50 unit, which we’d been able to advance to given our increasing bankroll. It was just enough to not have to buy back in after a few quick losses, but not so much as to raise any red flags.
Minutes later I could see his towers of green and black chips from across the room. He was probably up a few hundred dollars. We’d suffered a losing session on our previous call-in about 20 minutes earlier, so a win of any amount was like a slumping baseball player grinding out a base hit. This call-in had been near the time limit for our maximum 90-minutes-per-casino session, but the count had warranted it.
I caught D.A.’s eye and began rubbing my hands together as if I were washing them with the dank smoky casino air. It was a signal. Meet in the bathroom. Casino bathrooms are the only places in casinos, aside from the hotel rooms themselves, where the eye in the sky can’t watch you. It’s done for obvious privacy reasons, but for us it meant that the nearest bathroom was a safe haven to touch base on our next move.
In the car ride down from Boston we’d discussed previous trips to Connecticut and the strategy between going to both Foxwoods and Mohegan Sun. If we timed things well we could play a session at one, take a break at the right time for a casino shift change, play another session, then head to the other casino for an additional shift or two. We’d learned the shifts at each casino and kept a log that would eventually include more than 50 different casino shift schedules. Most were standard: noon to 8 p.m., 8 p.m. to 4 a.m., and, for the dealers and pit personnel, the dreaded graveyard shift from 4 a.m. to noon. The shift change lasted about 15 minutes and it was a perfect opportunity to reconnect for a comped buffet or to strategize on possible adjustments to our plan of attack. The breaks also gave us a chance to recalculate our existing bankroll and any necessary changes to our betting unit. D.A. had seen my signal and as the dealer began to shuffle he slid his stacks forward in hopes of coloring up. But he hadn’t slid them quickly enough.
“Just a minute sir,” the dealer asked patiently. “You’ll have to wait for me to finish shuffling first.”
I started to walk in the direction of the bathroom when I noticed a sharply dressed man, silver coif atop his head, approach D.A. from behind and reach out his finger to tap on his shoulder. We had both heard stories of how it went down. Being asked not to play was one scenario and being barred completely was another. The idea that back-room mob-style intimidation tactics still existed was widely debated within the professional blackjack community.
I re-routed my path to the bathroom to get within earshot.
“Excuse me, sir. I’m David Shaw, the casino shift manager. I’d like to have a word with you.”