SIX
The Huckster in Hell
In early October 1990, with the Stratosphere tower project only weeks from breaking ground, Stupak was hit with back-to-back complaints filed by the state Gaming Control Board. The first detailed alleged advertising transgressions by Stupak’s Vacation Club, Inc., which touted its dirt-cheap trips to Vegas World in such widely read national publications as Playboy, the Los Angeles Times, and USA Today.
The second complaint held an equal potential to devastate Stupak. It outlined 29 private loans to Stupak by early Stratosphere investors that had gone unreported to state gaming regulators.
Although he faced a possible $2.9 million in fines for the unreported loans (ultimately the loan issue was decided in Stupak’s favor), the advertising complaint figured to be the more embarrassing. The complaint’s language may have been legalistic, but its message was clear: Stupak was labeled a con artist, one of the biggest in the history of the city.
In fact, several state agencies had received complaints from Vegas World customers who had taken advantage of the cheap vacation offers, but the Nevada Gaming Control Board and Gaming Commission were capable of putting Stupak out of business for good.
The Control Board had been receiving written complaints for years from participants in the vacation program. Although the numbers comprised a minute fraction of the vast crowds that took advantage of the packages, the complaints attracted the interest of consumer-affairs organizations and state attorneys general from across the country.
“These weren’t just one-sentence letters,” Chairman Bill Bible said. “They were rather lengthy and gave detailed explanations about what they didn’t receive.”
Stupak was charged under state gaming regulations with operating Vegas World in an unsuitable manner and undermining the public’s confidence in the gaming industry with his advertising program.
Although the allegation might have sounded trivial in a state with a long history of scandal attached to its largest industry, Stupak faced the distinct possibility of losing his license. Despite keeping high-powered attorneys Frank Schreck and Jeff Silver, both former gaming regulators, on retainer, Stupak couldn’t count on getting any breaks from the Control Board.
The reason was simple: Although his style of business had attracted international headlines throughout his career, it also at times had embarrassed the state’s casino watchdogs.
Now it was all returning to haunt him.
The ads were not purely false, but they were deceptive. They promised that patrons would receive “$400 in dollar machine action good on dollar slot machines located throughout the casino.”
Offers of $400 in slot “action” and $400 more in table “action” easily confused customers, who believed they would receive the equivalent of cash. Instead, “action” was limited to special slot machines and special chips at the tables.
The special slots were tightened so that they rarely paid off. Modifying the 12 gimmick machines without informing the Gaming Control Board itself was a violation of state regulation.
Then there were the “valuable free gifts” and their advertised value: from $189 to $1,500. Vacationers usually received costume jewelry or similar telemarketing premiums worth a fraction of the advertised price.
The Gaming Control Board recommended a $300,000 fine, and Stupak would not be able to pay it in vacation slot tokens. If approved by a vote of the Gaming Commission, the fine would be one of the highest in state history.
Critics of the vacation package also complained that Vegas World’s entertainment policy and room quality were subpar for the price—even when participants saw the shows and received a two-night stay for as little as $22.82 after all the deal’s angles were exploited.
“You know, I’ve got a live band, it’s a big budget up there for those guys,” Stupak said later. “I could do the same thing for 10 percent of the money. You know, I could have a Frank Sinatra impersonator and play the tapes. We try to make people happy.
“Where, for $22.82, do you get a room for three days and two nights, or if you come on the weekend a room for four days and three nights? Where do you get the gift, the souvenirs, the shows, the dining, the drinks, the champagne, the pictures, and all the other perks? Where do you get that for $22? Anywhere in this town? … You know, I know that this is the best fucking deal in town. Bar none. Nobody can get that for $22.
“… Is the room worth $7 a day? When everything else is free? … That’s not the best deal in town? Where else can you get—for $22.82, where else can you get more? Tell me, because I want to go and get it, because I want to put it in my ad, for $22.82, don’t come to Vegas World, go there!”
Stupak was proud of his direct-mail marketing skills, so much so that he boasted of his ability to attract customers from any point on the map.
“I send out 750,000 pieces in the mail each week. Hundreds of millions of pieces every year,” he told a reporter. “I don’t send out that much mail not knowing what the hell I’m doing.”
Nearly 250,000 people visited Vegas World in 1990 alone, according to Stupak’s count, and most by way of the vacation program. Obviously, the advertisements worked, but perhaps they worked too well.
After a series of negotiations in which he agreed to drastically alter his advertisements, in March 1991 Stupak agreed to pay a $125,000 fine and dramatically recraft his vacation packages. In return, gaming authorities dropped the allegations against him. For years to come he could say that he committed no offense greater than that of hyperbole.
But the trouble was only starting. Aside from the Vegas VIP Vacation, a probe of Stupak’s early tower financing began to attract scrutiny from outside the state, especially from the aggressive Missouri Attorney General’s office. Stupak’s hell-bent salesmanship was catching up with him.
In front of the press, he didn’t break a sweat.
“I felt I could learn something from Saddam Hussein. An early surrender was the best solution,” he said. “Who gets the most business gets the most complaints. One Sears store gets more complaints in one week than we have ever received.
“Every complaint has been resolved. Fifty-nine out of one million customers isn’t too bad …
“The ads were changed a long time ago. I’ve tried very hard to resolve this matter. I just wanted it settled.”
Only the gullible believed Stupak when he insisted that he had sworn off politics for good after his loss to Ron Lurie in the 1989 mayor’s race. For if there was anything the Las Vegas public should have learned by 1991, it was never to underestimate the street-corner sagacity of Bob Stupak. He studied politics the way handicappers size up horse flesh. Issues were secondary to the emotions with which voters responded to candidates. After all, his mayoral marketing test had almost resulted in his becoming mayor.
But what in the world was Stupak thinking when he entered his elder daughter, Nicole, in the race for City Council in Ward One in the spring of 1991? Was it another of his private bets? Was he using his daughter as a pawn in a local political game?
“It was basically my own decision,” Nicole told a reporter in her lilting Aussie accent. “I asked him prior to going into it. He is supporting me, introducing me to people.”
But in spring 1991, even non-skeptics would have found it hard to believe that the well-heeled Ms. Stupak even knew the boundaries of Council Ward One, which encompassed both the poorest and wealthiest neighborhoods in the city. In fact, up to the moment of her announcement, it had been rumored that her father was planning to take another run for the public office.
Nicole Stupak, who had spent much of her young life in Australia and had attended college in Switzerland, could not have known what she was getting into. She studied hotel management at UNLV and managed the food and beverage department at Vegas World. Her official home address, 1301 S. Sixth Street, also was Bob Stupak’s home address.
“It’s time to elect a new generation of leaders to the City Council,” she told reporters. “Thirty percent of the people in my ward are under thirty-five years of age. I’m going to deal with people in my age group to see what they need.”
Her opponent could not have felt less threatened by the soft-spoken 22 year old. Retired NFL fullback Frank Hawkins was expected to win the primary by a huge margin. Hawkins was a success story in the making with a seemingly limitless political future in Nevada. At 31, he was a black entrepreneur who owned a service station and minimarket, his own bar, and a construction company. He lived in a handsome home formerly owned by blues legend B.B. King on the edge of one of the most established neighborhoods in Las Vegas.
Hawkins was raised in the heart of Ward One’s poorest neighborhood in the city’s predominantly black West Side, had worked in city government, and appeared to be as committed to politics as he had been to football. In college he set rushing records at the University of Nevada in Reno (and earned a criminal justice degree). He later played fullback for the Los Angeles Raiders. He also had plenty of high-powered allies, including popular Las Vegas Sun columnist and executive editor Mike O’Callaghan, a two-term Nevada governor and easily one of the most popular politicians in the state’s history, and Mirage Resorts Chairman Steve Wynn, whose interest in politics was only exceeded by his desire to make his casino-resorts the most successful in America.
Hawkins appeared destined to inherit the Ward One seat on his way to higher office.
Some pundits likened the primary to a display of Beauty and the Beast. The trouble was the Beast was well-versed on the issues and Beauty didn’t appear to possess a clue about the city she intended to represent. Hawkins was one of the rising stars in the political community, while Nicole, whose campaign literature and yard signs splashed only her first name to reduce the connection to her father, spent most of her campaign time at carefully planned luncheons and afternoon teas in her ward’s better neighborhoods.
By the primary election in early May, Nicole Stupak’s campaign workers were busy reminding residents not to oversleep on Election Day—by handing out gifts of clock radios. If her campaign was independent of her father, which no one believed, it certainly was mimicking his style.
And it worked. Hawkins, the heavy favorite, failed to win a majority in the primary and settled for 36.1 percent of the vote. Nicole Stupak placed second with 31 percent.
None of the headlines hurt business at Vegas World. Within days Bob Stupak sent a letter to women in Ward One offering a two-carat diamond and sapphire pendant just for stopping by Vegas World. It never was made clear whether it generated any votes, but it certainly beat the turkeys Stupak once handed out to voters during his mayoral run.
She celebrated her surprise showing with a party that attracted thousands to her father’s Sixth Street home. The celebration was as lavish as the parties marking some hotel grand openings. It came complete with food and drinks, as well a fiddler on the roof and an appearance by Zsa Zsa Gabor.
For his part, Hawkins tried not to act surprised by his opponent’s second-place finish.
“Nicole had done a ton of yard signs without doing any walking, without doing any TV, without doing any campaign forums,” Hawkins told a reporter. Despite Bob Stupak’s reputation for guile, Hawkins was certain that the general election “won’t be as dirty as the mayor’s race because I won’t let it be. But anytime you have Bob Stupak involved there will be fireworks.”
Little did Hawkins know how soon those words would return to haunt him.
Business was slow at the Frank Hawkins Celebrity Sports Lounge. It was late. The owner and his sidekick were talking politics and drinking beer when the woman walked in. Her name was Nancy and she needed help with some pressing business concerns.
She was in the escort-service racket and had her sights set on the lucrative Las Vegas market. The Las Vegas Yellow Pages are jammed with advertisements for this trade, a thinly veiled front for prostitution. Nancy needed someone to help guide her business-license application through the proper administrative channels. Nancy’s young friend, Shawna, needed help, too.
Shawna was an exotic dancer in California who considered Las Vegas the big time. And she would be willing to audition. Surely Hawkins had enough contacts to help Nancy and Shawna get started. Could he spare an evening with the ladies?
With days to go before the general election, the three met at an apartment not far from Hawkins’ bar. Nancy did most of the talking. The dancer, Shawna Thorpe, did most of the smiling.
Introductions were made and the late-night meeting commenced. Thorpe was a 19-year-old blonde from Oxnard. She needed help circumventing local regulations that prohibit women under 21 from dancing nude where alcohol is served.
Acting as her agent, as well as a prospective escort-service operator, Nancy was attempting to purchase a little influence. After all, it was obvious that Hawkins was the big favorite to win the City Council election. As such, he would be able to help Nancy’s outcall service and gently usher Thorpe’s work card through the process. He might even be able to get her a job dancing at one of the big topless clubs in town.
Meanwhile, Thorpe stripped to a G-string.
Hawkins suggested that the teenager try to find work at one of the alcohol-free strip joints, but neither woman appeared interested. They bantered about obtaining the proper counterfeit identification as the conversation dragged.
“So Frank,” Nancy said, “if I got her the proper IDs, whatever, sheriff’s card … ”
“I’ll get her the job,” Hawkins finished.
“You would get her the job at the Palomino. Totally nude. Whatever?”
“Will they find out how old I am?” Thorpe asked.
“It depends if the ID is good,” Hawkins said.
Nancy arranged for the delivery of a $2,000 cash contribution. During that meeting, Nancy continued to ask about Hawkins’ willingness to assist in her escort service. Hawkins acknowledged he had a strong relationship with the sheriff, but declined to commit to acting as her advocate within the police department.
At the sight of the money, Hawkins finally got suspicious. After receiving the contribution, the whole set-up began to bother him. He called the FBI.
By then, of course, it was too late. Nancy Bugea, a former undercover narcotics detective-turned-private investigator, had done her job well. She had secretly recorded the conversations. And Hawkins, the ex-jock with mile-high political aspirations, had made her job easy.
Days later, a copy of the tape was delivered to Las Vegas Review-Journal Editor Sherman R. Frederick.
The courier: Bob Stupak.
“I gave you the information because I felt I was compelled to,” Stupak said. “I don’t want to get too corny, but I felt that people needed to know.”
He denied direct involvement in the sting and Bugea declined to name her client.
“I did not agree to run women,” Hawkins said, watching his bright political future begin to crumble. “They asked me if I could help her find fake ID and I said no. I never thought they would be that desperate.”
For her part, Nicole appeared sincerely in the dark. But even she suspected her father.
“I had no idea whatsoever about this,” she told a reporter. “We’ve had so many phone calls regarding rumors about Mr. Hawkins that are now being brought to light, things like escort services. I guess my father just took it a step further.”
If Hawkins was going to salvage his campaign, he needed to act quickly. It was time for Nicole Stupak to be tested, if ever so slightly. She had to show that she was more than a straw candidate for her father, and a debate was the only way to accomplish that. Days before the election, the two candidates agreed to meet for one hour on an AM radio station.
Throughout the campaign, Nicole had avoided meeting Hawkins in a public forum. But what could one hour hurt?
Trouble was, Nicole Stupak wasn’t overly familiar with Ward One. Hawkins quizzed her on her knowledge of the area and the issues. Hawkins was used to pressure; Ms. Stupak was not. At one point, she had difficulty defining organized labor. The young woman was clearly intimidated.
In keeping with local custom, the city’s two daily newspapers split on the Hawkins taping issue. The Las Vegas Sun expressed outrage at the underhanded tactics used to entrap the bright young candidate, Frank Hawkins. The Review-Journal, shunned by Hawkins and his campaign manager, Dan Hart, for publishing excerpts of the secret tapes, viewed the incident as a character issue. Hart would later work for Stupak, but he wasn’t about to betray Hawkins.
During the campaign, Hart took a liking to Stupak and appreciated his sense of humor. First, Nicole’s father sent him a case of aspirin for the headache Stupak had given him. Then he sent an oxygen tank to show he thought that Hawkins was on his last legs as a candidate. Prior to Election Day, Hart received a funeral wreath. The last gift, a set of Gucci luggage to help usher Hart out of town, was not sent. The reason would become obvious by Election Day. Hawkins figured to win handily.
As if Stupak’s political meddling were upsetting the heavens, a summer storm bringing 80-mile-per-hour winds roared through Las Vegas late in the spring 1991 campaign season, toppling Vegas World’s gaudy electronic sign and forcing the evacuation of 130 guests whose rooms ran the risk of being demolished by gigantic messages: Bob Stupak’s Vegas World, Gambling at its Best, and The Sky’s the Limit. The sign was never replaced.
Meanwhile, much of the city suspected Bob Stupak was behind the secret taping, and evidence surfaced when investigative reporter Cathy Hanson made the link in a series of newscasts. Tapping into a source capable of tracking telephone numbers, Hanson revealed that a cellular phone used by Bugea had been leased by Stupak.
Stupak’s sting ended up backfiring with voters, who were sickened by the sordid affair. They might have been dismayed by Hawkins’ behavior, but they had to consider the source of the trouble. Hawkins whipped Nicole Stupak by a nearly 2-to-1 margin, 5,988 to 3,238.
After his daughter’s turbulent attempt to gain a seat on the City Council, Bob Stupak retreated from the political front line. The words of Ben Siegel to his lacky were ringing true once more, and Stupak finally appeared to hear the call.
“I’ll never run for office again,” he said. “I have no interest in that whatsoever.”
The City Council campaign wasn’t the only race that season. Stupak’s longtime ally, Steve Miller, was challenging Jan Laverty Jones for the mayor’s seat vacated by Ron Lurie. Miller had written columns for Stupak’s Bullet tabloid and had been an extremely outspoken voice as a councilman, and now he was looking to become the image-setter for the city. Jones, meanwhile, was an attractive Stanford graduate who had gained name and face recognition through a series of television advertisements for her family’s automobile dealerships and grocery store chains. Jones first met Stupak during the early stages of the race against Miller.
She received a message requesting her presence at a meeting with the Vegas World owner and immediately became suspicious. What devilry was Stupak up to? At last she agreed to meet him for lunch, but only on the condition that she bring a friend as a witness. At the end of the meal, Stupak offered Jones $11,000 as a campaign contribution.
“If you win,” Stupak said, “come back and I’ll give you more.”
Thus began an odd but enduring friendship between the street-wise high school dropout and the lady with contacts throughout Las Vegas society.
“It was vintage Bob,” Jones recalled years later. “He was hedging his bets. Bob can be a pain, but his word is gold. A lot of people in this town like to think their word is gold and it is—until you piss them off. But Bob’s word is his bond. Once he’s given it, I’ve never seen him break his word.”
Jones defeated Miller handily and watched from the mayor’s chair as Stupak fought to see his tower idea materialize.
After balking at the thought of taking on official business partners in his sure-fire winner and encountering early trouble from gaming regulators after failing to report a few personal loans, Stupak decided to raise money to build his tower the best way he knew how. Thus, the Stratosphere Club was born.
A letter to prospective investors was typically confident: “Vegas World is destined to become the very hub of Las Vegas. The Stratosphere Tower has a rendezvous with greatness. It will be the tallest tower in America and by far the grandest jewel in the Las Vegas skyline.”
But jewels aren’t cheap.
The Stratosphere Club come-on was vintage Stupak: Aggressive but sincere, hyperbolic without telling an outright lie.
In another letter, he wrote to his repeat Vegas World customers, who were targeted for Stratosphere Club membership:
“This is your chance to join the most exciting and unique venture in the history of Las Vegas.
“Your charter membership in the Stratosphere Club ensures you a special status at Vegas World. You’ll be treated royally each and every visit.
“The world has never seen an offer like this. Only Vegas World gives you five free vacations and $2,500 cash to do with as you wish.
“Since this offer will never be made to the general public, it is important to act now. Membership in the Stratosphere Tower is extremely limited and is only being made to our previous valued guests. This offer must be accepted by October 16, 1991.”
Stupak’s “exclusive” once-in-a-lifetime offer to join the Stratosphere Club was mailed to tens of thousands of former guests. For $1,950, charter club members would receive five free vacations at Vegas World, $500 cash with each visit, unlimited free drinks, free show tickets, free entry to slot tournaments, preferred restaurant seating, four free keno plays per visit, their names etched in granite at the base of the tower, and a home casino kit including playing cards, a crap layout, and Stupak’s book on gambling.
To make his case, Stupak used an impressive chart that clearly illustrated Vegas World visitor volume from 1979 to 1990. Vegas World attracted approximately 30,000 visitors in the last half of 1979, the year it opened, and about 550,000 in 1990. Stupak defied his critics by claiming that his controversial vacation programs brought millions of visitors to Las Vegas: everyone benefitted from Stupak’s sales tactics, but he took all the heat.
Stupak’s tactics worked at several levels. The value-driven player was sure to be impressed by the long-range savings. The greedy visitor would go for the promise of $500 in cash. Those craving inclusion and recognition would be thrilled to be members of an exclusive club, even if the club had a potential membership the size of the population of Omaha.
Another Stupak letter exploited the personal touch:
“History is about to happen … and you deserve to be a part of it. Construction of the Stratosphere Tower is underway right now at Vegas World.
“This dream could never have become reality if not for our loyal customers such as yourself. It was you who made the dream possible by coming to Vegas World. My success stems from your patronage, as does my enthusiasm for bigger things. Without you this dream could not come true.
“Call me sentimental if you will, but the offer I am about to make you is the best ‘Thank You’ I can think of for your valued past patronage. The special Charter Membership you are going to learn about is being offered only to customers who have helped me make Vegas World what it is today … friends who share my top-of-the-world vision of what this resort will be tomorrow.
“Charter Membership in the Stratosphere Club gives you special perks and privileges that you can start enjoying right now … and continue to use up to the 21st century! (Actually, many are lifetime benefits.) But I’m getting ahead of the story. There’s so much to tell and I’m just bursting inside to tell you about our grand vision and destiny of building the tallest tower in America … ”
Even Stupak’s caveat emptor gushed with confidence.
“I know this offer sounds too good to be true. Isn’t that what you thought when you first heard about our super-bargain vacations? But this is even more mind-bending and you have to be wondering how all this can possibly work. Well, it’s possible for two reasons. Gambling and Human Nature. You see, I know from experience that just about everyone will spend and/or gamble some percentage of the cash they receive when they check in. After all, it’s fun. And a certain percentage will play all of their check-in cash and dig deep for more. These people, coupled with the percentage who are high rollers (who traditionally pay the bills for ‘the rest of us’), make this incredible offer possible. Remember one thing. In the casino business, the percentages are always with the house. If they weren’t, there wouldn’t be a Las Vegas. That’s the nature of the gambling business. It has always happened this way and always will.”
In an industry that at the time refused to acknowledge any societal problems associated with gambling, Stupak’s honesty was refreshing. The pitch promised special access to the project’s 400-seat revolving restaurant, split-level cocktail bar, and outside observation decks, as well as VIP status in the Stratosphere Club Lounge. The elevators would be fast, but the action would be faster for club members.
Stratosphere Club orders were accepted via phone 24 hours a day. Some of the packages offered were for as little as $1,985. Others ranged upward of $7,000. All promised plenty of rooms, spending cash, and value.
“The Stratosphere packages were just a way to generate money to build the tower,” Stupak consultant David Sklansky said. But the offer almost made it sound as if those who purchased the package were somehow investing in the building itself. It mentioned nothing of the deal Stupak was crafting to generate up to $85 million from a public stock offering that would fund the tower project. Or the fact that, although they would be members of the exclusive Stratosphere Club, they wouldn’t actually have a piece of the project in the traditional stockholder’s sense.
To add to the credibility of the Stratosphere offer, Stupak included a letter of endorsement from his old nemesis, former Mayor Ron Lurie:
“As Mayor of Las Vegas, I had the great pleasure of presiding over the City Council when Bob Stupak presented his 1,012-foot Stratosphere Tower project. We unanimously approved this visionary and world-class tourist attraction and I am proud to say that it has the overwhelming support of the city.
“This super tower promises to become the very symbol of Las Vegas itself. As America’s tallest tower, it is destined to stand proudly among the great towers of the world.
“My special thanks to Bob Stupak and Vegas World for bringing literally hundreds of thousands of new visitors to Las Vegas. Since the ’70s, the great growth and success of Vegas World has been truly remarkable. It has grown into one of our city’s largest and most spectacular megaresorts … with no end in sight.”
Problem was, Lurie didn’t write the letter. Or sign it.
Stupak’s people did.
When he learned of the forgery, Lurie just shrugged. He liked the tower idea and might have been persuaded to publicly endorse its construction, but he didn’t write any letter. Instead of threatening a lawsuit, he told reporters to consider the source. But the letter was too much to forgive, even for those accustomed to Stupak’s style.
“I told him he could use anything I said about the tower at a public meeting,” Lurie told a reporter. “But I didn’t feel like it was right to sign a letter like that.”
In his zeal to see his dream come true, Stupak had failed to fully appreciate the scrutiny he was facing from the Gaming Control Board. Perhaps he believed that, since only previous Vegas World vacation package buyers were being solicited for the Stratosphere Club membership, customer complaints wouldn’t surface. He was wrong.
An independent analysis by the Las Vegas Advisor of one of several manifestations of the Stratosphere Club offer confirmed the suspicions of investors and consumer advocates. It was a compelling come-on, but it was not a wise investment.
For a $6,250 front-end investment, participants received 70 nights at Vegas World over 10 years, $10,000 in table action chips over the same time, VIP treatment, and preferred seating at the Stratosphere’s showroom. Affording a generous 50 percent approximate value for the gaming chips and $35 a night for the rooms, and assigning an estimated $1,400 value for the other benefits, the total return amounted to $8,600 over a decade.
That’s more than the $6,250 investment, to be sure, but still less than simply placing the same amount of cash in a bank account earning 4 percent interest ($9,250). Using history as an indicator of return potential, the same $6,250 invested in the stock market over 10 years would be worth in excess of $18,000.
Who could say where Stupak would be in a decade?
Other Stratosphere Club direct-mail offers were less risky. They offered a positive return on investment in two years. These $1,950 packages included five three-night stays at Vegas World, $1,000 in table action, and other perquisites. The conservative value was $2,500 on the $1,950 investment. With a 14 percent return guaranteed, it was far superior to the other package and proved attractive to investors.
It also generated its share of complaints from consumers who paid less attention to the solid arithmetic involved and more to the personality making the pitch. Even when offering a superior deal, Stupak couldn’t shake his image as the consummate Las Vegas snake-oil salesman. And for good reason.
“I’m selling them immortality,” Stupak argued. “The only thing that’s different about this is that I’ve included them in the excitement of the tower.
“The tower being built has nothing to do with their benefits. The tower is a sizzle, a nice little sizzle, something to talk about that gets us press from time to time, but with or without the tower, does it really make a difference? The tower stuff is a very small part of the package.”
Very small, indeed. So small, in fact, that the offer set off alarms at the state Gaming Control Board and the Missouri Attorney General’s office, which again was receiving complaints from Stupak’s customers.
By the time the deadline for joining the Stratosphere Club rolled around, Stupak had taken out foundation and concrete permits for the tower. The two dates had less in common than club investors might have believed.
__________________
Two weeks before the groundbreaking of the Stratosphere Tower, Stupak began paying the price for his overstatement. State Gaming Control Board investigators again were up to their eyebrows in complaints from customers and inquiries from out-of-state regulators.
Some of the customer complaints involved vacationers who were promised placement at Vegas World, but instead wound up at Stupak’s Thunderbird Motel up the street. Vegas World’s rooms were nowhere near the plushest in the city, but they were adequate—and decidedly nicer than the accommodations at the Thunderbird. Trouble was, the packages were so successful that on the weekends hundreds of customers were walked to the spartan Thunderbird north of Vegas World on Las Vegas Boulevard. Although provisions for rooming at the motel were contained in the fine print, the dissatisfied customers were vocal. And Stupak wasn’t about to catch a break from irritated state regulators.
“No one is forced to stay at the Thunderbird,” Stupak said defensively during the second Vegas VIP Vacation investigation. “They can change their dates, they can have a refund, or they can stay at the Thunderbird. Anyone who plans far enough ahead will stay at Vegas World.
“The main reason people like the Thunderbird is because it’s not a high-rise, you know, for people who are worried about safety.”
Other customers complained that an artist’s rendering of Vegas World made it appear to stand at the heart of the Strip instead of in the netherworld north of Sahara Avenue.
“What’s more desirable if you’re staying in Las Vegas?” Stupak asked an interviewer in 1992. “Staying at the Excalibur or staying here? … Right now we’re two miles away from the Mirage. But next year, we won’t be two miles away from the Mirage. The Mirage will be two miles away from us. That’s the way it’s gonna be. We’re gonna be the center point. Anytime anybody calls up and wants to know where a hotel’s at, they’re gonna ask where it is in relation to Vegas World.”
Stupak wouldn’t even agree with the authorities’ customer complaint figures.
“The fact is that we bring $100 million a year into the Las Vegas economy,” Stupak said. “And over a 10-year period of running the deals we’ve had 59 complaints. Over 10 years. Not hundreds like they say in the papers.
“None of [the package solicitations] go to the general public. If we’re out in the mass market, we’re fair game. But we only sell [them] to our own customers, in-house people, regulars. See? Now, what are the benefits of the club package? First of all, no long lines. You waltz right up to the front of it. Second, the VIP lounge—$350,000 it cost me. When they come in, they go there, then we come and tell them their room is ready. It’s a big plus. They get a pin, membership card, line passes, preferred seating, it’s making the little guy feel important. And that’s what they’re paying for. Now how do you put a value on that? These are things that are important to people. Another thing. All those benefits are transferable. You got a friend? You call up and say, ‘Look, I’m sending so-and-so in for three days. They come in, they get all the benefits that you got. Except the cash.”
If the rumors of pending investigations by the state Gaming Control Board and attorneys general from other states weighed heavily on Stupak’s mind, he didn’t show it November 5, 1991, when he went before the press sporting a new look to announce the project of his life: the 1,012-foot Vegas World Stratosphere Tower. Nattily attired in a gray business suit and expensive haircut, Stupak tried to appear confident in his project, as well as his ability to charm a 500-pound African lioness. The first part was easy. The second took some doing.
“I think it’s just outrageous. It’s wild. It’s typical Las Vegas,” Stupak said between glares by the jungle cat. The animal was present not only to impress timid reporters, but to announce an African lion habitat on the grounds of the tower project. Not only would the new Vegas World feature a 1,012-foot observation tower, but the truly courageous would be able to take a chairlift that would pass just above the 60,000-square-foot faux jungle with 40 very real animals. The first drunken tourist to take a spill out of the lift surely would make headlines across America. Stupak attributed the idea to one of his favorite movies, Mighty Joe Young, in which an urban nightclub featured a lion’s den and giant gorilla show.
“I saw the movie when I was a kid and it always inspired me,” Stupak said.
The national media received Stupak’s grand announcement with a sizable amount of skepticism. Declared Newsweek: “It’ll be taller than the Mirage’s volcano and have a better view than the high rollers’ suites at Caesars Palace. But the Stratosphere Tower of Bob Stupak’s Vegas World casino could also be tackier than anything else in town: The $100 million, 1,012-foot needle will feature an indoor African lion park, four wedding chapels, a revolving restaurant, a glass-bottomed observation deck and a rocket-like thrill ride.”
Newsweek failed to note that, in Las Vegas and especially at Vegas World, tackiness was not a vice. It was a virtue.
As was Stupak’s decision to halt early construction by his in-house contractor, Leeman Corporation. Leeman relinquished its role as general contractor on November 5, 1991, and Perini Construction, one of the largest builders in America, took over the job the following February. Thanks to questionable job-site hiring practices, in which observers noticed transients being used as cement workers, the tower already had a slightly misshapen leg. Structural experts insisted the defect would have no effect on the tower’s ability to support its load, and Perini officials had the expertise in general construction to keep the project climbing toward the 1,000-foot mark and beyond.
While Las Vegas casino titans Steve Wynn and Anthony Marnell had gained national reputations as designers and builders, Stupak saw his modest talents at Leeman Construction in the proper light.
“I learned in a hurry. The company worked good back then,” he said of his early days at Vegas World. “It didn’t work so good with the tower. No, the tower wasn’t too good.”
In another setting, Stupak was more philosophical about the importance of his over-the-top sales pitches and the price he sometimes paid for them.
“Any time that negative stuff happened, it gave me more drive and desire to say, ‘I’ll show ‘em,’” he told an interviewer. “Every time somebody said something or wrote something bad about me, I’d buy a Rolls-Royce. It got to the point where I had six of them, but it didn’t stop the bad publicity.
“People talk about my promotions, but they helped me build Vegas World from 100 rooms to 1,000, from $15 million gross in 1979 to more than $100 million each of the last six years it was open. And I did it all from cash flow. I didn’t borrow a dime.
“I had the first million-dollar jackpot. I had crapless craps. I had a $2,000 betting limit when Caesars Palace was at $1,000, the Flamingo at $500. The only place higher was the Horseshoe, and they had me outgunned. I wasn’t going to fight with Benny Binion.
“The only thing we did wrong with the Missouri thing was to miss a registered letter,” Stupak argued. “You know, states and various locales from time to time write to us about the program. Ten years ago we got a lot of those letters. When we first started doing this, a lot of people were checking us to see that there really was a hotel, that we really existed. You know, Better Business Bureaus, state governments, what have you.
“The Missouri thing was just a letter asking questions, you understand? It wasn’t complaint generated. It was a guy, there’s a guy there in Missouri who does nothing but read ads in papers. So he sent a letter asking for backup information, he sent it registered, and we didn’t pick up the letter for some reason. So they got angry, thought we were stiffing them. But we got it straightened out.”
It wasn’t quite so simple.
In late March 1992, the Missouri Attorney General’s office issued a lengthy complaint against Stupak and his vacation pitch.
“The attorney general has reason to believe that Vegas World hotel and casino has used deception, fraud or misrepresentation in connection with the sale or advertisement … of merchandise,” the complaint read. Stupak’s “almost-free” vacation was costing him plenty.
With help from his confidant and Vegas World Chief Operating Officer Andy Blumen, who tap danced in the March 1992 hearing at the Missouri Attorney General’s, Stupak simply agreed to take his mass mailings and overstated come-ons elsewhere.
Having temporarily weathered yet another regulatory assault on his normal business practices, Stupak watched as his big idea began to hit its stride. But the number of people who believed he ever would get the damn thing built wouldn’t have filled his Galaxy Showroom.