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“The casinos will continue to sharpen their detection tactics and the players will continue to devise techniques to slip the noose.”
Ian Andersen, Burning the Tables in Las Vegas
It was early Saturday morning and we dragged ourselves out of bed for our scheduled workout. It was usually the most difficult workout of the week, because we were always coming off just a few hours of sleep. This time it was punishment for the mistakes we’d made the night before. We timed it so that room service would arrive with breakfast just minutes after we returned. In typical fashion, D.A. ordered cereal and fruit, while I chose my usual Eggs Benedict. The nourishment was just what we needed to get back on track.
“Aside from the mistakes we made, it seemed like the two-man play at the same table worked pretty well,” I offered. I didn’t want D.A. to think I was implying we should implement a less-than-optimal new strategy into our repertoire, but I was curious as to whether or not he thought the same.
“I know, I was thinking the same thing. Besides the betting, it seemed easier to play off of each other, from interacting with the dealer and pit to even getting you to pass me the count after that waitress distracted me. I wonder if there’s a way to incorporate that into our game.”
I got the impression that he was testing the waters as well. We had our roles on the team and D.A. was the statistician. I decided to approach it pragmatically.
“So, how inefficient is it if we were to play that way?” I asked.
“You mean, exactly like last night?”
“Well, no, not exactly. But let’s say that the proper bet should be five-hundred dollars each. If I bet seven hundred and you bet three hundred, what’s the math on that like?”
“I’m not sure, but it’s worth a look.”
I flipped over a blank Session Tracking Sheet to use as scratch paper.
“Okay, let’s figure this out,” I said. “There are four possible situations:
“We could each lose our hands, in which case our total loss would be a thousand dollars.
“We could both win our hands, in which case our total win would be one thousand.
“The bigger hand could win seven hundred, with the smaller hand losing three hundred, for a net win of four hundred.
“Or the smaller hand could win three hundred, with the bigger hand losing seven hundred, for a net loss of four hundred.
“On the flip side, if we both bet five-hundred dollars, then:
“We could each lose our hands, still resulting in a total loss of one thousand.
“We could each win our hands, still resulting in a total win of one thousand.
“Or one could win and one could lose, creating a break-even situation.
“By using this technique, in theory, over time we should see a similar result, so long as we get the correct total amount out on the table? Is that right?”
D.A. thought about it for a few moments and then added, “I think it might be. So essentially, fifty percent of the time, the outcome would be the same if we bet the target amount and twenty-five percent of the time, we’d actually win more, while the other twenty-five percent of the time, we’d win less. But if we played hundreds or thousands of hands, theoretically, that would be true.”
“What about blackjacks, surrendering, and insurance? Would that have any effect?” Before D.A. could answer I was able to answer my own question. “Actually, it wouldn’t. Maybe short-term, yes, but long-term, it’d be the same. For every blackjack won on the small bet, over time, a blackjack would be won on the larger bet.”
“But the swings could be pretty big,” D.A. cautioned.
“I agree. There’s the potential for a lot more volatility here, but keep in mind, this would be just one of four strategies we could use so we’d be exposed to an increase in volatility only when we used this particular tactic.”
“That’s true,” D.A. said as the idea was starting to sink in.
“Also, I was thinking we could fine-tune exactly when and how we use each strategy.”
“How so?”
“Well, rather than being boxed into a specific rotation, where we first have to back-count and call-in, then wong, then signal, and so on, we could be more flexible. We could move in and out of tactics as each situation dictates. You said yourself last week that there were times when we were doing call-ins that you felt like it would’ve been just as effective to wong yourself in, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, well imagine we were at a table and you were signaling me the bets and decisions to make.”
“Okay.”
“But then mid-shoe we start doing this balanced betting thing here, where what matters is our total wager on the table, not what’s on each bet.”
“Right, but how would you know the count? If I were signaling you, it’d be because I called you into the game. The count would be irrelevant to you, since your only concern was doing what I signaled you to do.”
D.A. had a good point.
“Well, if there was a signal of some sort to indicate a strategy change, the count could easily be passed by code word. We’ve passed the count hundreds of times before so we know how easy it is, and either one of us, for any reason at all, whether we sense heat or see an opportunity, could change up the strategy. In any given session, we might move in and out of one, two, three, or all four of the tactics, maybe even multiple times. It gives us complete control and flexibility to read the situation. But the best part of it all …”
Before I could continue, D.A. finished my thought for me: “The best part of it all is that even the greatest surveillance team in the world would have trouble detecting it. They’d suspect us of doing call-ins, but then we might switch to signaling. Or if we signaled for a bit then we might switch to balanced betting. If they watched us go in and out of three or four different strategies over a couple of hours, their heads would be spinning,” D.A. said.
I paused to take it all in. “There’s no way they could follow what was happening. I’m pretty certain we just added years to our playing lives. Not to mention, we may be on the verge of taking card counting to a new place. I mean, truly making our mark on the game. This multi-faceted approach is unlike anything I’ve ever heard of.”
“I know,” D.A. added, “I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how every book we’ve read has offered an idea of perfecting one strategy, whether it was big-team call-ins or solo practitioners, but now it’d be like we’re combining them all.”
“Exactly. We can take all the best ideas out there, package them into a system that’s flexible, and add our own twist with the balanced betting. It would be extremely difficult to detect.”
Later on we would come to understand that our balanced-betting approach had the added benefit of reduced volatility, just the same as one player playing two spots at the table. In his book, Risk and Reward: The Science of Casino Blackjack, N. Richard Werthamer explores the concept in mathematical detail. The change in playing style required a slight reduction in our betting. As had been the case with other aspects of our game, our knowledge would evolve and we would continue to fine-tune our technique. The general concept made sense, especially within the context of the many tactics we could use.
“So where do we start?” D.A. asked.
“Maybe we should stick to our core style this weekend, talk more about these ideas, then fine-tune them in practices over the next few weeks. What do you think?”
“I like it.”
The wild start to the trip was followed by two more intense days of blackjack at the seven casinos remaining on our list. We swapped out the Venetian from our original schedule given what had happened on Friday. On Saturday and Sunday we managed sessions at MGM, Mandalay Bay, Mirage, Wynn, Las Vegas Hilton, Palazzo, and, of course, our home base, Bellagio.
Wynn had become one of our favorite casinos. During our early trips to Vegas we jokingly judged our hotels based on the impressiveness of their buffets. Growing up, the word buffet conjured images of strip malls and fast food, but the buffets at the finer hotels included options from sushi, crab legs, and lobster tails, to prime rib carving stations and desserts in every flavor. But it was more than the sumptuous buffet and elaborate décor of the casino floor that caught my eye on this occasion.
D.A. had signaled me into his table, the same table I’d called him into earlier. My role as the gorilla big player was clearly understood. It was never too early to simulate intoxication and we both had our loud/obnoxious/distracted GBP routines down to a science. I threw a stack of $100 bills on the felt and Imani, the new dealer, asked, “You want all of it in chips?”
“Hell yeah I do, Imani. I didn’t come to Vegas to play low stakes shit, hoping for a comp at the noodle bar.”
I gave her a slight wink but could tell she wasn’t finding my act very charming. That was sort of the point. All that mattered was that casino personnel viewed me as anything but an advantage player. Out of the corner of my eye I focused on D.A.’s signaling and had no problem placing the proper bets.
I turned my attention to the floorperson. As she made her way over, I read her name tag.
“Wow, look at those eyes. You must get compliments all the time, Brooke.”
“Having fun?” She smiled, glancing up and appearing confident, but I could tell that the compliment made her uncomfortable. That was the read I needed. I became relentless. Cellini suggests that card counters try the trick of eating garlic and then talking to the pit to keep them away. Floor people are human and no one likes the smell of bad breath. But his point wasn’t about bad breath. It was about finding ways to keep your enemy back and I’d found Brooke’s weakness. Flattery.
Her only goal, it appeared, was to stay as far away from our table as possible to avoid having to respond to my fabricated advances. Through the tinted glass domes protruding from the ceiling, surveillance most certainly still had its eye on our table, but the floorperson was capable of initiating a call to surveillance to more closely monitor someone’s play. The lack of heat here, unlike last night, had nothing to do with surveillance. Brooke was confident, for sure, and she could handle herself and the players at her tables. But she had a genuine shyness when it came to her attractiveness. She did have great eyes. They were a deep blue and the contrast with her long black hair was alluring. Nevertheless, she was my mark.
“You’re smitten,” Imani teased.
“I am smitten. And I am single. Is Brooke?” I said loudly enough that Brooke could hear.
“She’s single and she’s a great artist, too.”
“An artist? I’ve always liked artists.”
It was true. I could see a certain quality in artists. Maybe it was their ability to lose themselves so deeply in their work. The soul of an artist has many layers and I was fascinated by it.
The session had extended to our 90-minute cap, but between the banter that forced Brooke to avoid our table and the $13,000 I’d lost, I was positive that heat hadn’t been an issue. Moreover, I appeared to have lost even more than that, because we had perfected the art of rat-holing.
Rat-holing is a technique of hiding chips to make it look like you’re either losing more or winning less than you really are. In fact, sometimes our small wins were actually recorded as losses. Since we were rated players, the floorperson tracked our results. Our goal was to alter the appearance that we were consistent winners. So our policy manual called for us to squirrel away two units per playing session. Toward the end of each shoe, we’d place our palm on top of the tallest stack of chips, creating a suction. Shortly thereafter, when the shoe ended and it was acceptable to have our cell phones out, we’d reach for our phones and drop a chip in our pocket. It was subtle, but it worked, and it helped to reduce our recorded wins. The risk was that surveillance might see the move and peg us as counters. After all, most novices don’t surreptitiously slip chips into their pockets. Arnold Snyder does a good job of explaining the subject of “going south” with chips in his book Blackbelt in Blackjack. He suggests that pros pick up a book or video on magic and the art of palming coins. Rat-holing worked well for us and helped to camouflage our abilities.
All the same, I could see D.A.’s frustration over the loss we’d incurred. Based on the bets I was placing and the deviations from basic strategy, I knew that the true count had exceeded +7, putting my bets at $900 each. Despite our rough introduction, I’m sure Imani took little satisfaction in my losses. My level of action meant that I was a high-limit player and me winning was her best chance for tips. Dealers today don’t get to keep their own tokes. The house splits them with the other dealers on that shift. But a winning high-limit player potentially meant more money to split.
Early in our careers Mike had trained us not to tip. Tipping cut into profits. But by not tipping, especially at high-limit tables, we exhibited a common characteristic of card counters. So we added a tipping policy to our team manual that outlined what percentage of our betting unit could be given per session. Also, we had a rule that we tipped only after a win and we bet the tip for the dealer, so if the hand won, their tip would double. Valets, cocktail waitresses, cab drivers, and restaurant servers all got a set amount or percentage. We never tipped excessively, but we learned to tip efficiently.
I’d played along as the gorilla, even contributing some self-deprecation to the conversation. But my goal had been clear all along and that was to win money. It was a job and I was there to work, just like at the low-limit table we used to play in Connecticut. The act was just that, an act. On the outside, I feigned apathy at the magnitude of the losses, but inside I was as frustrated as D.A. I continued to focus my act on finding a way to meet Brooke outside of work, but she’d gone on break, so I toned things down a bit. Toward the end of a declining-count shoe, D.A. signaled that it was time to leave.
“Well Imani, it’s been a pleasure.” I stood up from the cushioned chair without enough chips left to color up.
Before Imani could respond, I felt a tap on my shoulder.
In the past two weeks I’d been backed off at Foxwoods and I’d been chased out of the Venetian. We’d lost $13,000 and I was in no mood to sprint for the exits again. I turned around reluctantly expecting to be 86’d yet again.
Sure enough, a short woman in a pressed suit, mid-40s, with blonde curly hair and a southern drawl extended her hand.
“Mr. Tilton?”
“Yes.”
“Brooke called me down and I wanted to introduce myself. I’m Victoria, an executive host here at Wynn. I didn’t want you to get away without giving you my business card. It wouldn’t be polite of me.”
Stunned and still a little amped from the idea that I was about to get bounced, I managed a reply, “Um, okay?”
“Well, Mr. Tilton, you don’t currently have a host here at Wynn, do you?
“No, not yet.”
“I’ll give you my card and you can call me if you need anything. Where are you staying?”
I didn’t like the idea of revealing my information. She was nice as could be, but it was only Saturday and we’d likely be back to Wynn. If surveillance caught on, a phone call to Bellagio could be bad news.
“The Four Seasons.”
“Well the next time you’re in Vegas we’d love to have you stay with us.”
“Thank you.”
“Is there anything I can do for you while you’re here today?”
“Well, actually, I’m feeling pretty hungry and I just lost thirteen grand. How about that buffet of yours? I hear it’s pretty good.”
“It’s the best. How many people?”
I saw D.A. discreetly awaiting my answer.
“Two. I’m meeting up with a colleague soon.”
“Two it is, Mr. Tilton. Let me get you a slip for two to the buffet and this is a VIP line pass so you don’t have to wait.”
“Thanks Victoria.”
“Oh, and here’s another business card that I suggest you check out. Have a wonderful time here at Wynn, Mr. Tilton.”
I put everything in my pocket, smiled, and said goodbye to Imani, then walked down the hall toward the back elevator to the parking garage. It was too early to eat and D.A. and I had planned to meet at the car to touch base. We could use the comp later. As the elevator doors slowly closed behind me I took the items out of my pocket.
One was a buffet slip and one was Victoria’s business card, but the last card that Victoria gave me took me by surprise. It was Brooke’s. I flipped it over and read the handwriting on the back.
If you ever want to chat …
—Brooke
The remainder of the weekend was fairly typical. We drew an inconsequential amount of heat at the MGM for our last session on Saturday night. MGM was where I’d killed it on New Year’s Eve the year before, cashing out a net profit of a little better than $12,000.
This weekend, however, we’d implemented our nearly fool-proof three-option playing strategy to perfection. Nevertheless the session had nearly run over schedule due to a hot shoe that began just toward the end. We’d been steadily winning and with my history there, I was thinking there might be a little more attention paid to me. But we exited unscathed, with a sizeable $11,400 profit that partly made up for the devastating $13,000 loss at the Wynn. We could see that our $150 unit would inherently come with greater session-to-session profits and losses, but our mission was still laser-focused. We adhered to the approach that Stanford Wong espoused in Professional Blackjack, “A satisfying way to define the battle is by use of a target number of hours played, rather than a target number of dollars won. To play the target number of hours is to win the battle.”
Our focus was on playing as many hours and as many hands as we possibly could. We knew we’d win some sessions and lose others, but that our long-term results would be profitable. It was about getting in hands, not whether we won or lost in the short-term. And it wasn’t about whether or not I should call Brooke, which I was tempted to do. I decided to wait until I was back in Boston before dropping her a line. I knew I’d be back to Vegas soon anyway.
On Sunday we continued our string of sessions, interrupted only by a return to the Wynn for the lunch buffet and then back to Bellagio before heading to the airport. Earlier in the day, D.A. had asked his Bellagio host to give us an extra night, which allowed us to use the suite until it was time to head to the airport.
We had a little more than an hour remaining before it would be time to return the rental car and check in at McCarran. We dreaded the impending red-eye home, and just wanted to bask in the splendor of an exhilarating weekend, even if just for a few more minutes.
“Nathaniel, let’s go.”
“Where?”
“Just come with me.”
I followed him from the room to the bank of elevators. When we reached the bottom floor, D.A. walked with a purpose until we found ourselves in the middle of Davidoff, the premier store for cigar smokers.
“I’ll take these two,” D.A. said to the cashier. “
That’ll be twenty-two seventy-eight.”
Fanning out a small stack of cash, D.A. pulled a 20 and a 5 and placed them on the counter.
“Keep the change.”
I followed D.A. outside, around the walkway to Las Vegas Boulevard. It was getting dark and the water show was about to start.
“How much did we win this weekend?” he asked me.
“I’m not sure. I think around seven Gs, which is good ’cause I have some bills to pay when we get back to Boston.”
“Yep, and it was a good win despite dropping thirteen at Wynn.”
“No doubt, but what the hell is going on?”
“How about a victory cigar just like in Oceans Eleven?”
It was one of those movies that we frequently quoted. Something about the adventure we were on felt movie-esque, something like a Rounders meets Oceans 11, with a blackjack focus.
“I know it’s kinda corny, but c’mon, this is a pretty good run we’re on right now and it’s only going to get better with our strategy improvements. We should take a second to enjoy it a little.”
I wasn’t much of a cigar smoker, but D.A. was right. It was time to take a moment to reflect on the ride and celebrate. For the first time in a long time, I was able to appreciate the journey I was on.