TWO
The Million-to-One Shot
On its best day, Bob Stupak’s Million Dollar Historic Gambling Museum & Casino was a gaudy little slot joint built on the site of an auto dealership.
For its owner, the homely operation represented the sort of legitimacy that had eluded Chester Stupak most of his life. Although it was true, as his son liked to brag, that everyone on the South Side of Pittsburgh adored smiling Chester Stupak, the dapper man’s lengthy arrest record precluded him from making the transition from lovable Pennsylvania outlaw to legitimate Nevada casino man. The state’s unofficial gaming-license grace period, during which former bookmakers, bootleggers, and leg-breakers could be approved, had ended years earlier. Although once-notorious men such as Moe Dalitz, Benny Binion, and Israel “Icepick Willie” Alderman found refuge in Nevada’s state-regulated industry, Chester Stupak would never be able to join them. If he were ever to walk into a Stupak casino in Las Vegas, it would have to be owned by his son.
Using the bankroll he built in Australia and collected from Chester Stupak and his friends—a total of $120,000 cash and another $180,000 in personal assets—Bob Stupak moved to Las Vegas in 1971. Unlike his father, he would do it right: face the licensing scrutiny and obtain the state’s official approval. It wouldn’t be easy. The politics of gaming is a most intricate system that far transcends the regulatory process and state statutes. It wasn’t a simple matter of filling out the right forms; Stupak had to meet the right people, hire the proper attorney, weave his way through a hundred potential pitfalls, and project a business-like manner that was far from his own partying persona.
After arriving in Las Vegas, Stupak had trouble settling on a residence that fit his ambition. He was used to full maid service in Australia’s best hotel suites, but he had to nurse his bankroll if he was going to survive in southern Nevada. He stayed a few days in a downtown apartment, then attempted to land a cut-rate deal from Marv Silbman at Caesars Palace.
“I’m not coming to gamble,” Stupak assured the wily casino man. “I just need a place to stay until I get settled.”
Silbman made him an offer too good to refuse: $10 a day at the sweetest resort on the Strip. Full service for a sawbuck.
Stupak couldn’t believe his luck.
But Silbman knew human nature too well. In no time, Stupak was down at the tables blowing his bankroll at breakneck speed. After a few days, Stupak pried himself away from the crap tables long enough to relocate to the Bali Hai Motel, where the temptations were considerably reduced.
For the first few weeks, Stupak couldn’t get out of his own way. He bought a shiny new Cadillac for $9,000 and had it delivered to Caesars, but before he drove it a mile a valet attendant accidentally smashed into it with a guest’s vehicle. The car was totaled.
He continued to throw his money around, but got sloppy one night while hanging out with a local party girl. He wound up getting robbed at gunpoint of $13,000. The money was quickly recovered by police, only to be released to the defendant by a slippery local judge. For Stupak, the loss was an expensive wakeup call. He wasn’t in Pittsburgh any more.
Stupak had some money and street savvy, but he was a long way from Vegas respectability. He needed to learn the local playing field, and quickly, if he was going to succeed. Rather than joining the Chamber of Commerce, he devised a plan to become acquainted with the real Las Vegas. He took out a classified advertisement in the local newspapers:
Investments Wanted. Australian businessman with six to seven figures to invest looking for business opportunities.
Stupak was inundated with inquiries from every grifter and wiseguy in the city, as well as a few legitimate entrepreneurs. Within months of taking out his advertisement, he heard about local musician Paul Lowden’s desire to put together a group of investors to purchase the struggling Hacienda on the south end of the Strip. Stupak contacted Lowden and immediately agreed to invest in the project. It was, he thought, an ideal way to gain entry into the Las Vegas of his dreams. But as the deal drew nearer, Lowden grew more distant. Instead of making good on his deal with Stupak, Lowden found another investor in Allen Glick, whose Argent Corp. would go on to own not only the Hacienda but the Stardust, Fremont, and Marina as well, before government investigators uncovered a massive casino skimming operation connected to the Chicago mob and other Midwestern organized crime groups. Lowden, whose company today owns the Santa Fe Hotel and Casino in Las Vegas, was never implicated in the case.
Although the Hacienda deal fell through, Stupak benefited greatly from the experience by meeting former Nevada Governor Grant Sawyer, an attorney associated with the sale and, through Sawyer, respected Las Vegas attorney Ralph Denton. Denton would remain Stupak’s attorney for the next 25 years.
He continued to build his contacts.
While negotiating for the purchase of Nishon’s Cocktail Lounge and Supper Club, owned by Nish Kerkorian, Stupak became acquainted with attorney Harry Reid. Reid represented Kerkorian, older brother of Kirk Kerkorian, and was able to smooth introductions to Clark County Sheriff Ralph Lamb, one of the most powerful elected officials in the state and chairman of the board that issued southern Nevada’s liquor and gaming licenses. Stupak wisely maintained friendly relationships with Reid, who went on to become Nevada’s senior U.S. Senator, and Lamb, who was sheriff until 1979 and remains one of the most recognizable men in the community.
At the restaurant, which Stupak renamed Chateau Vegas, the new owner attempted to solve the many mysteries of restaurant ownership, while simultaneously playing Nish Kerkorian at gin, trying to beat the old owner out of the $220,000 note he held on the club.
“Neither one of us was a particularly good gin player,” Stupak recalled. “On a scale of one to ten, Nish was about a two. I was about a three, but that was enough of an edge for me.”
Creating a place with atmosphere, one that assured Stupak of being cast in just the right light, wasn’t easy. But the Chateau Vegas filled the bill.
With its shadowy ambience and casino clientele, the restaurant on Convention Center Drive not far from the Strip was popular with a late-night crowd that included some of the city’s most notorious characters. The idea of owning a popular restaurant was one thing; turning a profit in one was something else. It was a lesson Stupak learned quickly.
“It took me about two months to find out that was a mistake,” he said later. “The place always seemed to be full and my accountant kept telling me how much I was losing. I knew it would only be a matter of time before I sold it.”
Everyone in Las Vegas knew the real action was on the Strip, and Stupak itched to invest there. But without a local mentor or friendly savings and loan to guide him, he found himself playing in the equivalent of a high-stakes dice game. With the Teamsters Central States Pension Fund lending millions to its favorite entrepreneurs, Las Vegas was rapidly expanding. Stupak believed the action was destined to expand north of Sahara Avenue.
Then came what he perceived to be his big break. Using his own bankroll and money borrowed from Chester and his Pittsburgh pals, Bob Stupak purchased a 1.5-acre parcel on the site of the old Todkill/Bill Hayden Lincoln Mercury dealership for $218,000.
While a long way from the heart of the Strip or the center of Glitter Gulch, the joint’s location at 2000 Las Vegas Boulevard made some sense. Thanks to poor planning by city road surveyors, that spot on the boulevard was something of a crossroads. Several busy arterials—Main Street, Las Vegas Boulevard, and St. Louis Avenue—converged in a tangle of asphalt chaos at Bob Stupak’s front door. He might have lacked the college education of the city’s best known young operators and the political juice and big-time financing of its established bosses, but by purchasing the land he figured he’d pulled off a genuine coup right under their noses.
His few Las Vegas contacts immediately chided him.
“Hey, when I came here to live, I wanted a joint,” Stupak recalled years later. “I wanted to find a place on the Strip. I rode up and down and there was a for sale sign right here. So I bought the property. I’d been here about six months. And I thought I was on the Strip. So I told some guys I bought 2000 Las Vegas Boulevard. And they said to me, ‘You stupid schmuck. You’re not on the Strip! The Strip starts at Sahara Avenue.’
“I said, ‘I don’t see no signs saying the Strip stops here!’ “When I opened up, the Stardust was at the heart of the Strip. I was a lot closer to the Stardust than the Hacienda, or even the Tropicana or Marina.”
But he failed to appreciate the fact that the Strip defied common geographical explanation. Las Vegas Boulevard might stretch across the city, but the Strip’s boundaries were clearly, if unofficially, defined and Sahara Avenue was its northernmost border. It was a stretch of road controlled by a small group of hardened casino men, some of whom had connections in the American underworld. They protected their territory and percentage of the industry as if it were sacred turf, as if their lives depended on it. Bob Stupak was in miles over his head.
To those unfamiliar with Nevada’s regulatory process, Stupak’s late 1973 licensing investigation might have been a source of wonderment. When he visited Pittsburgh, chief investigating agent Gary Reese found plenty of illegal gambling in Bob Stupak’s life. But establishing the source of Stupak’s bankroll would prove a challenge.
Reese was an accomplished investigator, but even a blind man could have found Chester Stupak’s lovably notorious dice operation. Coming from the only state in America where gambling was legal, Reese recoiled at the sight of wide-open wagering. Could the local police actually not know about Chester’s Place?
Of course not. Reese later recalled the lukewarm greeting his agents received from local authorities. In part because of their status as something other than traditional law enforcement, in part because they were walking into a way of operating that was far different than Nevada’s regulatory system, they kept a low profile and pretended not to be flabbergasted by the Pittsburgh style of gambling.
“It didn’t resemble one of our casinos,” Reese said. “But it was wide open. But how can you punish a son for the activities of his father?”
Bob Stupak, meanwhile, called his father and told him to prepare for visitors from Nevada.
“They went to the game,” Bob Stupak recalled. “They had no trouble getting into the club. He was nice to them because of me. They hung around and the whole bit.
“When they left they went right to the police station and put the police on the spot. I don’t blame them for going to investigate, but they didn’t have to go to the police. My dad’s crap game wasn’t exactly a secret on the South Side.”
Then there were Stupak’s Australia years to consider. Stupak’s licensing investigation came at the same time Nevada gaming agents were preparing to travel to Australia to investigate Bally Corporation, whose slot machine expansion had come under scrutiny by that country’s law enforcement. The exhaustive investigation eventually would lead to the forced retirement of a key Bally official who had maintained longtime relationships with organized crime figures. Stupak was on the back burner, and Reese later recalled the agents spending only a few days investigating the Australian coupon business and what readily appeared to be a poorly designed accounting system.
Although the Control Board might have been concerned with Stupak’s tax and accounting problems, it had little difficulty recommending approval of his gaming license.
Bob Stupak was approved to operate the Million Dollar Historic Gambling Museum on November, 15, 1973, and received his license the following February. That month he insured the museum at 2000 Las Vegas Boulevard through the Fireman’s Fund American Corporation for $200,000 and added policies for $80,000 in personal property, $5,000 in office equipment, and $100,000 in cash. It was little enough coverage for a place that would boast of having $1 million on display.
The casino’s signs began a Stupak tradition. In a city known throughout the world for its overstated billboards and gaudy signage, the tiny Million Dollar Historic Gambling Museum immediately took its place among the most brazen.Before the joint had opened its doors, the proprietor had workers paint an enormous sign the length of the building, featuring a buxom bikini-clad babe straddling the M and tossing cash at passersby.
BOB STUPAK’S WORLD FAMOUS
MILLION DOLLAR HISTORIC GAMBLING MUSEUM
WORLD’S BIGGEST JACKPOT
Another billboard read:
SEE WHAT A $100,000.00 BILL LOOKS LIKE
“The name was about 10 feet longer than the casino,” Stupak would recall years later.
The Million Dollar Historic Gambling Museum might have lacked a prime location, big advertising budget, and even a handful of hotel rooms, but it did not lack for overstatement.
In a city jammed with hyperbolic sales pitches, Stupak borrowed from everyone. He appeared to admire Horseshoe patriarch Benny Binion most. Binion’s customers stood in line to get their picture taken in front of $1 million under glass, so Stupak designed a “wall of cash.” He also installed a special altar for players daring enough to try his big slot machine, which was touted as offering the “World’s Richest Jackpot.” The big payoff: $250,000.
“There’s no place in the world where anyone can put a dollar in a slot machine, pull the handle, and have the chance of winning a quarter of a million dollars,” he said, falling into the long tradition of Las Vegas operators whose gift for numbers was surpassed only by their gift of gab.
Photographs of legendary Las Vegans, including Bugsy Siegel, peered at tourists from the walls that were not covered in cash. Stupak also offered suckers a gratis gander at a rare $100,000 bill, or at least a reasonable facsimile. (Alas, Stupak later admitted the bill was a fake.) Stupak’s clip joint touted the world’s only two-reel slot machine, and another that paid off in automobiles. The club’s “Shower of Money” machine would allow players the opportunity to scoop up as much as $1,000.
The wall of money, an estimated 60,000 $1 bills, was pure Horseshoe.
“We’ve made arrangements for visitors to have free photographs taken in front of the money,” Stupak said. “The pictures certainly will make an excellent souvenir for the folks back home.”
He claimed his small club would have $1 million on display, something sure to draw gawking Midwesterners to the north side of Sahara Avenue and Las Vegas Boulevard, an area of the city no one ever called the Strip. He claimed his club would become no less than “the finest repository of gaming history in the world” and separate tourists from a few dollars along the way.
Although as gaudy as anything on the Strip, it was a humble operation with only 15 slot machines, a few antique green felt tables, casino chips, and wall-to-wall gimmicks. The Million Dollar Historic Gambling Museum opened on March 31, 1974, as a dolled-up slot joint, but it immediately fell victim to its mediocre location. His total overhead: $397 a day.
And it was a good thing. The museum’s parking lot was much fuller when it was a car lot.
Not that Stupak didn’t try.
Once he realized his $250,000 jackpot had failed to capture the imagination of wayward visitors, he decided to up the ante. If $250,000 on a dollar machine wouldn’t work, surely a $50,000 jackpot on a nickel machine would do the trick. Although such lucrative payoffs would become common two decades later, not even the biggest casino bosses offered such impressive jackpots in 1974. The upstart Stupak began touting his magical Million-to-One machine.
“We believe that this slot machine will be in use 24 hours a day,” he boasted. “Where else can the average guy get a chance to end his financial worries for only a nickel?”
It was a good question. Not even Stupak knew how he would pay off a couple of lucky winners—most of his savings was dumped into renovating the building—but that minor detail wasn’t as important as improving his bottom line and attracting a few customers through the door.
The curious came to gawk at the faux $100,000 bill and try their luck at the behemoth slot machine, but more tourists were interested in the nearby massage parlor, the topless bar to the north, and the string of prostitute-infested motels that still grace the strand of Las Vegas Boulevard between Sahara Avenue and Fremont Street.
With his slot joint struggling, Stupak kept hustling. He set his sights on the Sinabar Lounge on Ogden Avenue, a grimy operation that was zoned for table games. If he moved quickly, Stupak might be able to expand his low-rent empire with the Sinabar.
As always, Stupak’s best game was self-promotion. In an era when some Las Vegas casino operators were afraid to be quoted by the press, Stupak courted the media and managed to get a guest spot on the popular television show of the era, “To Tell The Truth.” Only Peggy Cass guessed that the baby-faced young man in the powder-blue leisure suit was the upstart owner of the Million Dollar Historic Gambling Museum.
To generate a little publicity, Stupak posed for a promotional photograph lighting his cigar with a dollar bill. The picture wound up being published by the National Enquirer. The tabloid, normally filled with sensational celebrity stories and wild predictions from starry-eyed clairvoyants, featured the photo above a caption: “Bob Stupak has money to burn.”
They might have blown their predictions of the outcome of the presidential race, movie-star marital breakups, or UFO sightings, but the Enquirer prognosticators were right on the money where Stupak was concerned.
At 7:40 p.m. on May 21, 1974, tourists on the sidewalk across from the Million Dollar Historic Gambling Museum noticed smoke rising from the back of the building. Witnesses would give conflicting statements regarding what happened next. Some saw smoke also begin to pour forth from the front of the building.
Within minutes, black smoke had billowed high into the balmy evening. Suddenly, everyone in Las Vegas was noticing Bob Stupak’s first casino.
Nine units from the Las Vegas Fire Department converged on the scene. A hook-and-ladder truck unfolded and firefighters blasted the blaze from above as well as from ground level. Police blocked traffic along Las Vegas Boulevard and Sahara, and automobiles backed up for miles. In minutes more than 1,000 people stood outside to watch Stupak’s dream disintegrate.
Stupak appeared hysterical at the scene. His big chance at Vegas stardom was going up in smoke with hundreds of people watching. There were tears in his eyes.
Reporters immediately sought him out.
“How did you get the money you invested in the Museum?” one asked, alluding to the rumor that Stupak had been bankrolled by his dice-dealer father and his friends.
“I busted my ass to get it,” he said.
As if to inadvertently illustrate how poor business was going, the joint’s assistant manager, Dave Strawser, told a reporter that no customers and only five employees were in the place when the fire broke out. Strawser was quick to offer his opinion that the fire had started in the museum’s attic air-conditioning unit.
The blaze was ruled suspicious even before the last flame was snuffed.
Damage estimates ranged from $500,000 to $2 million. Smoke and water damage ruined the first floor. The second floor, where the fire had broken out, was gutted.
The fire destroyed the bogus $100,000 bill. Firefighters concentrated on keeping the flames from burning up the genuine bucks. They rescued large sections of the greenback wallpaper and piled the plastic-encased cash on the hood of a car. Stupak cried over the soggy wallpaper, the lost revenue, and the lost potential. The historical museum was itself history, and Bob Stupak had some tough questions to answer.
The next morning, Stupak, who had worked so hard to attract the media, woke to this Las Vegas Sun banner headline:
STRIP CASINO MUSEUM
DESTROYED BY BLAZE
The Las Vegas Review-Journal was more cynical:
ARSON PROBE BEGUN
IN CASINO BLAZE HERE
Las Vegas Fire Chief Jerry Miller said his department had tried to get Stupak to install fire walls in the place to avoid the sort of rapid spread that occurred, but the casino owner had balked. Within a week, Miller’s crew of investigators had failed to determine the precise cause of the blaze.
“A lot of unaccountable things have been given to us by witnesses,” Miller said. “One individual said he saw the fire start simultaneously in the front and in the rear of the building and another said there was a person in the attic area 15 minutes before the fire started.
“I’ve never had a fire as crazy as this one in all my life. The owner said he had no insurance on the building the night of the fire, but we checked and found that he was fully insured.”
The chief’s confusion was understandable. First, authorities had allowed Stupak to open despite a long list of fire-code violations. Inspectors recommended fire walls be installed in key areas and ordered the removal of extension cords and shoddy wiring leading to slot machines. The recommendation was not followed by the Las Vegas City Commission, and Stupak was allowed to operate while he made a good-faith effort to correct the problems. Second, the best witnesses couldn’t agree on the source of the smoke. Third, although it’s true Stupak was insured, the policies barely covered his financial investment at the tiny casino.
What few workers remained were kept busy attempting to separate the $1 bills from plastic wallpaper. Although the salvage job drew inquiring press photographers, Stupak was unable to take advantage of the moment. He had nothing left to promote.
The summer of 1974 was as scorched as the museum, and Stupak struggled to remain in the game. In September, he filed insurance claims for $200,000 in losses on the building, $76,700 for equipment, and another $20,000 for cash and office furnishings. It seemed little enough, but the insurance company wasn’t buying.
By Thanksgiving, he had decided to resurrect the Million Dollar Historic Gambling Museum & Casino, but he also was busy cleaning up the care-worn Sinabar Lounge after purchasing it from John A. “Slim” Ewing.” The location near Fremont Street’s Glitter Gulch was no worse than the Las Vegas Boulevard site, but with arson rumors circulating, Stupak found few friends on the Nevada Gaming Commission.
“Your track record is not too great,” Commissioner Clair Haycock told Stupak.
Although he was already licensed, his rumored problems in Australia briefly became the focus of the commission’s attention.
“He had a partnership situation there that caused questions with taxes,” Control Board Chairman Phil Hannifan explained.
Commissioner Peter Echeverria added, “You were cooperative in our investigation and based on that I will go along. But if anything happens, you are in trouble.”
It would not be the last time those words would echo through a gaming hearing involving Bob Stupak.
The atmosphere at the Sinabar was shadowy. It became a favorite hangout for downtown dealers and wiseguy gamblers. Although he had his mind set on returning to Las Vegas Boulevard, Stupak was at home in the cozy lounge with its slots and four table games. The Sinabar would be Stupak’s laboratory. It was there he began to experiment with blackjack variations that would pay big dividends in years to come.
“I had three ‘21’ tables, one crap table, half a dozen slot machines, and a bar,” Stupak recalled later. “It was directly across the street from the California Hotel.
“It was a difficult time because it was a very small casino, and it was very hard to generate business. One time I got a bright idea—I used to get a lot of dealers that worked at the Fremont Hotel. At 6 o’clock they used to come into this small place and have a few drinks before going home. I wanted to generate some business. So I decided to deal both cards face up—regular blackjack, no rule changes—just both cards face up. I put a sign in the break room of the Fremont Hotel announcing that we are going to be showing both cards from 6 to 6:30. At 6:01, all three games were filled with Fremont dealers. So I instantly brought business in. It went for a half hour and when the clock rang, the dealers started dealing normally; everybody got up and cashed in their chips. I went from three full games to none. I wound up losing about six hundred dollars on bets ranging from two to ten dollars.
“But my philosophy was, since they played and got up when the alarm clock went off, we’ll just keep playing. I tried it again the next day with basically the same results. And that was the end of that experiment. It was over. I just forgot about it.”
Stupak was again learning his lesson in the power of possessing the right location, since the Sinabar, like the Million-Dollar Museum, sat in a mediocre spot. It also suffered from another malady—the lack of a kitchen. Dealers wanted to eat as well as drink when they got off work, but Stupak’s lounge had no room to expand. So, he did the next best thing. He ordered out.
Stupak collected menus from neighboring restaurants and provided his customers with arguably the most eclectic variety of entrees available in the city. The fact he had to dispatch an employee to retrieve the meals was not mentioned to his satisfied customers, who must have wondered about the Sinabar’s magical chef.
“When somebody wanted something to eat, he’d run next door,” a friend recalled. “He’d get Chinese food from a Chinese place. There were always rumors that Bob was carrying in the food.”
In July, Stupak found what he believed was a much improved spot for his gambling museum at 735 Las Vegas Boulevard South on the site of an Orange Julius stand. It was still a few blocks north of the previous location, but at least he would be back on the playing field—even if he was requesting only six slot machines in the whole place. This time, officials weren’t about to let him open without full approval of fire-safety and building inspectors.
But Stupak had more pressing problems. Fireman’s Fund rejected his $297,000 claim, and he rejected the company’s $158,000 settlement offer. Having reached an impasse, the insurance company in March 1975 attempted to resolve the dispute in federal court through an umpire. The mediation was to take place later that year.
“There was a big hurrah in town over whether Bob had actually torched the place,” Stupak’s longtime friend, Klondike casino owner John Woodrum, said. “The fire department ruled it arson. The insurance company didn’t want to pay. But Bob got smart and hired the attorney Ralph Denton. It was quite a hassle. There were all kinds of rumors floating around town, but you never knew what was real and unreal.”
In June, the tempo of the game changed. The insurance company filed a lawsuit in U.S. District Court alleging Stupak set fire to his casino, then grossly overstated his losses. He was being openly accused of arson.
“The company believes … prior to such fire, the defendant willfully and with intent to injure, prejudice, and damage the company entered into a conspiracy with other persons to defraud the company,” the suit alleged.
Stupak responded with a counterclaim seeking in excess of $1.5 million in damages. He attacked not only the insurance company, but also City Attorney Carl Lovell and Assistant City Attorney Peter Burleigh, both of whom represented the interests of Las Vegas as well as Fireman’s Fund. The suit alleged that the attorneys, “acted in concert … to stall and delay the ordinary and good-faith settlement of his claim, and that they acted intentionally and in bad faith for the sole purpose of depriving Stupak of the benefits of the policies of insurance issued by the company.”
The potential conflict was clear:
The insurance company retained the attorneys knowing they “were City Attorney for the City of Las Vegas and Assistant City Attorney for Las Vegas and were legal advisors and consultants, therefore, to the fire department and, particularly, the individual investigators of the fire department and were likewise attorneys for the building department of Las Vegas and were, therefore, in a position to influence, and did influence, determinations and decisions of such fire department and building department.”
By Stupak’s estimation, the alleged “outrageous bad faith” was worth $500,000 for economic detriment, $500,000 punitive damages, and $500,000 for severe emotional distress and special damages. Lovell and Burleigh denied any conflict, but the body blows had been struck.
In the end, Stupak prevailed: the case was resolved outside the courtroom. Stupak failed to cash in on his $1.5 million request, but his $300,000 claim finally was paid. Still, the rumors of arson at the Million Dollar Historic Gambling Museum & Casino would circulate for the next two decades.
Hustling coupon books in Pennsylvania and Australia was child’s play compared to turning a dollar as a casino operator in Las Vegas. The market was deeply deceptive. While it appeared to outsiders that experienced gambling bosses such as Benny Binion of Binion’s Horseshoe Club simply threw open the doors and ushered willing suckers inside their casinos, the game was far more complex.
If his early efforts at operating casinos were failures, Stupak’s Dine Out Las Vegas coupon program proved a resounding success. With hundreds of restaurants and bars vying for tourist and local dollars, business owners were more than willing to allow Stupak to add their names to his list of clients.
“He’d go around to various places and convince people that he was going to bring them a lot of business if they’d let him put a two-for-one coupon in the book,” John Woodrum said. “He sold a lot of them. In those days, I think he got about seventeen or eighteen bucks for each book.”
To counteract his lack of credibility in the wake of the casino fire, Stupak hired local television personality Gus Giuffre. Giuffre was among the city’s most popular celebrities. His was one of the most likable faces on television and voices on radio. He hosted matinée movies and cut commercials for local businesses. In hiring the television personality, Stupak borrowed Giuffre’s name and face recognition, and more importantly, his credibility with locals.
“Gus was like a father to a lot of people,” Woodrum said. “He was a sweet and gentle guy, just a wonderful guy. Everyone loved him. Bob used him as a front for the Dine Out Club. Gus would go on TV and sell his Dine Out thing. Gus was a tremendous asset to Bob.”
Bob Stupak purchased the lease on a Fremont Street hole-in-the-wall called the Glitter Gulch from Ray Snichter for $100,000 with an option to buy the property from owners Jackie Gaughan and Mel Exber for $800,000. At the time the home of topless bar, the joint was renamed Bob Stupak’s Glitter Gulch. When it reopened, the tawdry slot arcade was designed for rubes only. It was distinguished by Stupak’s Vegas Vicky, a flashing sign shaped like a cowgirl meant to complement the Pioneer Club’s famous Vegas Vic across the street. When Stupak sold the Glitter Gulch years later to Herb Pastor, he sold Vegas Vicky separately, and at a profit, to the Young Electric Sign Company.
Stupak wasn’t going to get rich with a slot parlor, but he was smart enough to appreciate the value of the land beneath the building on Fremont Street. In two years, he sold the place for $2.2 million, an enormous markup for such a thin slice of land. The deal helped bankroll his future Las Vegas investments.
“At the time I bought it, it was the highest-priced square footage in Nevada,” Stupak said years later. “I moved it up from there.”
By August 1975, Stupak had sold the old Sinabar, which he had renamed the Vault, and sought to have the burned-out hulk of his first casino rezoned as a used-car lot.
But it would take every beat of Bob Stupak’s hustler’s heart to prevent his big Vegas dream from landing in the city’s vast neon graveyard.