______________
“Splitting does two things for us: it allows us to take a profitable situation and double our bet with two hands, and it allows us to take one bad hand and split it into two improved hands with better chances.”
Avery Cardoza, Essential Blackjack Wisdom
It was the unlikeliest of destinations, an intersection of poverty and despair. But the rules were favorable and we were looking for a change. Detroit was a Rust Belt city well into its own social and economic depression. The downtown area was dilapidated and dangerous, but there were three reasons why we chose the MotorCity for our next trip:
Greektown Casino.
MotorCity Casino.
MGM Grand Detroit.
There was also Caesars over the United States/Canadian border in Windsor, but I’d played there before and had no desire to return. With the exception of MGM, these were casinos where we could risk wearing out our welcome. The likelihood of a return visit was slim and we figured the pit and surveillance teams at the sawdust joints, Greektown and MotorCity, were probably subpar. Unfortunately, because we had no prior play at these places, we were forced to check into a downtown motel that was hardly worth the $69 room rate that Kyung, who was back with us on this trip as both a player and investor, had found online. We dropped off our bags and headed to work.
Our first stop was Greektown, which was just a few blocks away. It didn’t exactly stand out amid the Detroit skyline. Instead, its entrance was on a side street amongst a series of old warehouses. With low ceilings, low light, and low-income patrons, the dank and smoky casino was among the dirtiest we’d ever seen. But the rules were good and few others were playing the limits we were, so we had free rein to apply our system in full.
A winning run by D.A. offset most of Kyung’s losses. I’d ended the session flat. I dug myself a hole early on, when the dealer turned over three consecutive blackjacks during a hot shoe, but I managed to claw my way back to even over the course of the three-hour grind. There’d been no heat. Greektown was privately owned by the Sault St. Marie Tribe of Chippewa Indians, which meant that a back-off wouldn’t matter much to us if it happened.
For our next session, we headed to the MGM, which had opened its doors less than a year earlier. The casino seemed out of place in Detroit. It was among the nicest facilities we’d played in and the high-limit room was welcoming and comfortable. We played for an hour when I got the tap. It could’ve happened to any one of us, but my shoes had been good and I’d been betting bigger than D.A. or Kyung.
The timing of it was bad. The shoe was over-weighted early with low cards and the running count shot up to an unusual 23 after only a deck and a half had been dealt. The true count was just over 5 and I had two hands of $800 on the table. The dealer dealt:
3,3
A,9
The dealer’s upcard was a 5. The running count was now 24. I split my 3s, catching a 6 on the first, for a 9. I doubled that and caught a 4. The running count was 26. On the second 3, I was dealt an 8 and again doubled and caught a 2. The running count was 27. Between my two original bets, my split, and my two double downs, I had $4,000 in play. The true count was just over 6 now, which was enough to warrant a deviation from basic strategy and double down on my A,9.
I slid another $800 onto the felt beside my initial bet.
“You want to double that?” the dealer, Juan, asked.
“Yes, I do.”
“Uh, but you already have twenty. Most people just stand.”
No other players were at the table and the dealer was trying to be helpful, but I didn’t care to hear it. I knew the tap I’d received a second earlier was that of a host, not a suit. She held a clipboard in her hands and her nametag read Holly, Casino Marketing. I took a sip of my drink, which was just enough time for the floorperson to catch sight of what was happening.
Suddenly, I had $4,800 of action, a host over my shoulder, a dealer debating me on the virtues of a double down, and a floorperson with a suspicious eye. A year earlier, my heart would’ve been racing, but these were the situations that I lived for. I was able to remain calm and in the moment, embracing the rush. Not the rush of the gamble, but the rush of knowing that the odds were in my favor.
“Okay, then. Let me ask Holly … Holly, do you think I should double this?”
“Well, I think the book says to stand, not double,” she offered.
“I think you’re right, Holly. But that doesn’t answer my question. What do you think I should do?”
I could tell that the dealer was getting anxious for me to make a decision. The floorperson was muttering something in the ear of the dealer and, regardless of what Holly was about to say, I had no intention of pulling back my double down.
“I think you should double. That was your first instinct … go with it!”
“Double it is, Juan. Holly says so!”
Juan reluctantly dealt my card, a queen. Hard 20. Now it was his turn to draw.
7—“Twelve”
2—“Fourteen”
2—“Sixteen”
5—“Dealer has twenty-one”
In one round I had lost $4,800. Holly looked at me with pity, Juan had a smug look on his face, and the floorperson seemed a bit relieved. Had I not doubled down on the A,9, the dealer would’ve drawn the queen and then the 7 to bust. Everyone knew it. What they didn’t know was that I’d made the correct play and, over time, that play would yield a higher expected return than standing. I’d played the hand correctly and lost. While the win would’ve been nice, I’d become fairly numb to the swings. Tough beats were a part of the game.
Meanwhile, I had something important going on and it wasn’t the loss, it wasn’t Holly, and it certainly wasn’t Juan or the floorperson. The running count was now at 29 with four and a quarter decks to go. My true count was nearly 7. I’d just lost $4,000, but it wasn’t time to take my foot off the gas. Normally, I wouldn’t have been chipping up at the rate I was. Solo play warranted use of our Andersen-inspired “Ultimate Gambit” of cover bets, but we’d all agreed that we would play closer to optimum blackjack in Detroit, even if it meant getting barred. What I was mildly concerned about was a potential “wipeout”—the loss of my session’s dedicated bankroll, which was a predetermined 50 units, or $10,000. At that point, no matter how good the count was, I was to leave the table or else risk a “super wipeout” of 100 units.
Holly was respectful of my play and she waited patiently for the shoe to end, or for my bankroll to deplete, whichever came first. The running count slowly began to dissipate as a series of ten-value cards and aces were dealt. A middle-aged man and his wife attempted to join the table, but it was my job to keep the good cards to myself, so I kindly asked them to wait until the shoe’s end before jumping in, citing superstition. They understood that and cordially complied.
I was faced with a barrage of index decisions. A positive count, though it was gradually declining, meant more doubling and splitting. It also meant more blackjacks for Juan and me. With about two decks remaining, the count finally went negative so it was the right time to use Holly as my excuse to stop.
“I think that’s about enough for me, Juan,” I said as I slid the stacks of black and purple chips forward.
“Color coming in,” he shouted over his shoulder.
“Eight thousand, six hundred,” he continued as the floorperson arrived.
“Eight thousand, six hundred,” the floorperson concurred.
I bought into the game for a total of $5,000, so I was walking away with a decent $3,600 profit, which was great considering the early hole in which I’d once again found myself.
I turned my attention to the host.
“Thanks for waiting, Holly.”
“Sure thing. You had a nice run there. Are you hungry? Our best restaurant has great fresh Maine lobsters. Do you like lobster?”
“Of course I do, Holly. I’m originally from Maine. But I’m here with my two friends over there.”
“No problem. Just head over whenever you want. It will be taken care of. Are you staying here with us?”
“No, unfortunately, we’re at a hotel downtown.”
“Well pack your bags. You’re staying with us now. I’ll have a two-bedroom ready for you in minutes.”