When my girlfriend Vivian and I arrive at McCarran International Airport at 8:30 on a Friday evening in September 1997, I ring Big Daddy’s cell phone, as instructed. He tells me he’s glad I’ve arrived and asks me to call him back after I’ve checked into Caesars Palace, one of the first super-luxe themed casinos on the Las Vegas Strip and one of the few older properties to keep up with the increasingly hip and modern Vegas. The excesses of the Roman Empire are celebrated at this world-famous resort, where every man, no matter how plain his title back home, can be an emperor. Lurid blue lights illuminate the front of the hotel, whose building-sized marquee and ornamental fountains have appeared in dozens of movies and television shows as visual shorthand for Vegas grandiosity.
It’s the second week of the college football season. Since our fateful golf date, Big Daddy and I have had one terse conversation during which I agreed to his generous terms. I was fully briefed on my responsibilities. Then, using my real name over a series of increasingly credible phone calls, sweet-talked the casino management into believing I’m a whale, a big-betting sucker worthy of the finest amenities—despite the fact that the biggest wager I previously placed at a Las Vegas sportsbook was $220 to win $200 on a football game.
Now the real fun begins.
Every employee at Caesars wears a uniform that is supposed to suggest ancient Rome, however tenuously. Even the parking valets, who take our rental car and summon a bellman for our luggage, are dressed up as some sort of characters, though I’m not sure as what exactly. (Well-kept slaves?) So many incandescent lights glow near the front entrance, a horseshoe of glass doors on top of a wedding cake of stairs, that the air is measurably warmer near the doors than on the expansive stone driveway. At the front desk, a great slab of white marble, the nice lady checking my reservation tells me that thanks to my management-approved status, I could have availed myself of the Invited Guest Lounge, where patrons hand over their credit cards and driver’s licenses while attendants bearing canapés speak in hushed tones and fetch cool drinks.
I call Rick Matthews from our room—a “superior” model, with a Jacuzzi, a circular bed, and a mirror on the ceiling. It’s not the Rain Man suite, but the abundance of gold-plated faucets and marble flooring suggests that the casino wants the room’s occupants to feel like patricians of Caesar’s empire or, at the very least, facsimiles of Tom Cruise. The bathroom amenities are arranged on platforms held up by miniature Doric columns, and the pay-movie channels, I discover, don’t require payment. They’re all activated.
Viv and I have been together for more than a year. We’ve been to Vegas a dozen times before. We’ve never stayed in a place like this.
Big Daddy tells me to meet him out front in thirty minutes. “I’ll be driving a black four-door Mercedes,” he says in his lazy drawl.
Half an hour later, after escorting Viv to her bubble bath, I’m waiting alone under the porte cochere, watching the limousines and taxis disgorging passengers. Rick pulls up and waves when he spots me in my white Shadow Creek golf cap. Only the loftiest of high rollers get invited to play at this ultra-exclusive North Las Vegas private course, where people like Michael Jordan and Phil Mickelson keep lockers. Journalist credentials allowed me to sneak through the filter that’s supposed to keep out people whose net worth is below $10 million. (And I bought a hat to commemorate the occasion.) Now, I’m thinking, the Shadow Creek memento will broadcast to the world—particularly the management at Caesars Palace—that I’m a terribly desirable casino customer. After all, I’ve played at Shadow Creek.
On the passenger seat of Rick’s car is a legal document that acknowledges my participation in the Brain Trust betting syndicate and a list of the games I’m supposed to play. It’s a plain white sheet of paper, with black type, frank and unadorned. Big Daddy says, “Howya doin’, pards? They treatin’ you all right?” as I climb inside.
Before I can answer, he says, “Let’s make a visit and go get you some money.”
We drive downtown to the Union Plaza. As we pass successive casinos along the Strip—Mirage, Treasure Island, Frontier, Riviera—their lights winking like flirtatious girls, Rick eviscerates the city of Las Vegas. “I’m so disappointed by what’s happened to this town,” he admits, shaking his head. “They all smile at the suckers, pretending that everyone has got a decent shot at winning. But, Mike, you’re gonna find out: If you show any speed whatsoever they’ll bar you in a second. Bunch of frauds, these people are,” he mutters.
I look over the list of the Brain Trust’s picks. A few are popular televised national matchups, such as Wisconsin vs. Illinois. But most are obscure regional games, which, I fear, will set off alarm bells with the bookies. Akron vs. Toledo, Western Carolina vs. Ball State, Ivy League contests. Even I know only wiseguys play these games.
Rick parks outside the Plaza and leaves me in the car. I read and sign the legal document, which basically says I’m holding a lot of the Brain Trust’s money. Then I rewrite the shopping list of football games in my own messy scrawl.
He returns a few minutes later with a leather bag containing $400,000 in bundled hundred-dollar bills. I hold the satchel between my legs. It feels as though there’s a bowling ball inside. I’d have to write one major story a month for close to eight years to accumulate what’s in the bag.
Back at the Palace’s front entrance, Rick and I transfer the money into two shoe bags—golf shoe bags. FootJoys. “Go win some bets!” Big Daddy says.
“Yes, sir,” I reply and bolt into the casino.
Realizing I’ve forgotten my Shadow Creek hat, I dash back to the curb. He’s still there, watching me.
I go directly to the sportsbook, a cavernous room with a forty-foot-high ceiling and wide-screen television monitors blanketing the space like animated wallpaper. The back wall behind the service counter, where patrons make bets, and which looks like the hotel’s front desk, is entirely dedicated to a digital toteboard listing the current betting odds on hundreds of contests. The backdrop of ESPN’s SportsCenter set is modeled on such a toteboard. Dina, the night supervisor, greets me. Gino Miceli, the vice president of sports and horse racing (and Dina’s boss), a former Brooklyn pizzeria owner turned casino executive, told her I’d be coming and to take good care of me. I phoned Gino earlier in the week and he didn’t seem too interested in my fanciful story of hitting it big in Hollywood and wanting to scratch my action itch. He just wanted to know when I was coming and how he and his staff could make my visit to Caesars special. “Let me win!” I barked.
I plunk the shoe bags on the counter. “I’d like to open a betting account,” I tell Dina as she eyes the mountain of money. “And oh, by the way, could you scare up a couple of buffet tickets?”
A portly woman with round cheeks, Dina titters obsequiously at my joke. Her entire face jiggles when she laughs. I’d previously seen a couple of small-time bookies, outlaws who operated out of basement poker rooms and sports bars. Dina’s not what I pictured a professional casino bookmaker would look like.
The sportsbook air is filled with the low hum of televised highlight shows and the pungent aroma of cigarettes and perspiration, the by-product of excessive adrenaline and anxiety. Dozens of sports fans congregate beneath the broadcast screens and toteboard, silently wishing and praying and willing their team to win tomorrow’s game so that they too can win. There’s a sense of desperation already, and none of the contests have even started.
For the next hour we fill out paperwork and count the money. Though two clerks work on the stacks of bills, counting them into $10,000 packets, it takes thirty minutes, and I quickly exhaust my supply of small talk, leaving me and Dina in uncomfortable silence. I’m given tickets to a VIP table, in the middle of all the screens, a prime location to root and holler and play out private dramas in public. While the employees count and package, I make some noise about being a big poker player down at the Horseshoe. But no one seems to care where the money came from, only that it’s probably going to end up staying with Caesars Palace.
Dina asks me if I want to bet tonight. I say yes, and as a courtesy she gives me an updated list of the current lines so I don’t have to wait for my games to appear on the toteboard, like stocks flickering past on a ticker. To my dismay, none of the games are posted at the point-spread numbers Big Daddy has ordered. It’s only a half point or so that they’re off, but the rule is clear: Wrong number, no bet. I tell Dina I’m going to get something to eat and come back later, after I’ve had a chance to “analyze” the lines.
With $400,000 at my disposal, I walk away from a wall of bets and return to the hotel room. Viv tells me Rick phoned and expressly asked for me not to call this evening. Saturdays are fourteen-hour workdays, so he goes to bed early the night before. I tell her my dilemma, that he gave me ten plays and none of them are bettable. She wrinkles her nose and says I should probably wait until morning.
We order room service and dine on our circular bed.
Big Daddy calls at 7:30 a.m. This is Vegas. On a Saturday morning. After a Friday night in Sin City, I didn’t think anyone ever rose before 10:00 a.m.
I tell him I refrained from betting, and he says I did the right thing. Then he gives me five or six plays and tells me to get downstairs and fire away. After I do I’m supposed to call him with confirmation from my room or a pay phone out of sight of the sportsbook management.
“And by the way, Mike,” he says, “before you go back out there we gotta get you a nickname, a code name, just in case anyone from the hotel is trying to listen. We don’t want them to know I’m talking with you.”
“All right,” I say, feeling for a moment like a clandestine operative behind enemy lines.
“You got one?”
My boyhood pals used to call me Koney—but that doesn’t seem secretive (or cool) enough. Neither does Viv’s favorite sobriquet, “honey-buns.” While I’m thinking, Big Daddy proposes “Shakespeare.” He says, “You know, the writer.”
I remember how my grade school basketball coach, an ex-military man with a crewcut and a copy of Playboy stashed in his desk, never called any of us by our names, only our jersey numbers. “Hey, 44!” he would shout at me. “More passing, less shooting! Play some defense, 44!”
“How about 44?” I ask.
“Just the number? 44? Well, okay.” Big Daddy seems to have expected more from a writer, something clever, like “Shakespeare.”
“Yes. Call me 44.”
“Well, okay, Mr. 44. Go on and make those bets.”
I throw on some jeans and hurry to the casino.
The Caesars Palace line manager, Stevie “the Pencil” Masters—he’s known for always scribbling something while he balances the action—is already there, getting ready for a big day of college football. Stevie, only thirty-two but already going gray around the temples, is painfully thin and bouncily hyperactive, as though he were jacked up on a potent mixture of coffee and point spreads. Rumor is that he was an adolescent math genius who got kicked out of a prestigious East Coast boarding school for booking bets on the intramural lacrosse games. Then he got expelled from Princeton University for booking bets on college basketball. Eventually he landed in Las Vegas, where no one begrudges him his penchant for accepting sports wagers.
Clutching The Gold Sheet, a weekly tout pamphlet filled with “best bets of the week” recommendations that ought to brand me as a half-sharp clod who thinks he knows something, I introduce myself to Pencil Stevie. Although the Code of Vegas decrees that the enormous amount of money I have on deposit is supposed to earn me some instant deference, I can feel him giving me the once-over, gauging, trying to get a read. His boss, Gino the Suit, has briefed him (warned him?) about me, but the Pencil seems to be the kind of guy who likes to make his own judgments. He asks me if I want to make some plays.
“I wanna bet fifty-five thousand dollars to win fifty thousand on the Southern Cal game,” I announce. It’s a big televised battle against Tennessee. Everyone is watching it—and betting on it.
Without a hint of regret, Stevie says, “I can only let you bet twenty-seven thousand five to win twenty-five thousand. I’m really heavy on that game.” He means all the money is coming in on USC.
I shrug and say, “That’s fine. My buddy Tommy—you know, the sportsbook manager over at the Gold Coast—he told me everyone likes USC. That’s the only reason I’m betting it.”
“You know Tommy?” Stevie the Pencil asks.
“Oh, yeah. Long time.”
“Good man,” Stevie says.
“The best.” I nod emphatically and move on to the next game, Florida, for another $55,000, against a nonconference punching bag—which the Pencil again lets me bet for $27,500.
And the Miami of Ohio game, another $27,500.
And Kansas State.
“These are all added games, buddy,” he says.
I play dumb. “What do you mean? They’re all football games that have been on the schedule for weeks,” I say, although I know what he’s getting at. “Added games” are typically untelevised contests of regional interest. The average gambler wants action only on the games he’s sweating, the ones he’s suffering through live. Only wiseguys play untelevised games.
Already I’m feeling the heat, and I’ve been playing only two minutes.
As soon as I return to the room and report my bets, as well as Stevie’s comment about the added games, Big Daddy sends me back down to bet a few more. They’re all “board” games, but Stevie still mutters something about me betting a lot of the hot sides, the teams that everyone else (including the wiseguys) is taking. I tell him I don’t know what he’s talking about. I just want to gamble.
When Rick sends me back down again an hour later to bet the other side of the Florida game—the line has moved from –41 to –44, meaning now Florida has to win by 45 in order for bettors to cash a ticket—the Pencil gets furious.
“You’re not betting both sides of the game!”
I say I’m just trying to hit a middle, what’s the big deal? If Florida wins by 42 or 43, I win both bets. If they win by 41 or 44, I win one bet and tie the other. And every other result costs me only the juice on one bet. For example, if I bet $27,500 on Florida –41 and $27,500 on the underdog, Podunk State, +44 points, I’ll probably win one bet (and collect $25,000) and lose one bet (forfeiting $27,500), for a net loss of $2,500. But those magical times when the final score falls in the middle of my point-spread numbers, I win $50,000 for the $2,500 I’m risking. I’m getting 20–1 on my gamble. (The odds are effectively even better than that, because when the final score falls directly on one of my point-spread numbers, 41 or 44. I win one bet and tie the other, thereby saving the $2,500 juice.)
Pencil Stevie tells me he smells a rat; that he’s got half a mind to shut down my account; that he gets a bad gut instinct; that he’s heard rumors about the big syndicates bringing in bettors disguised as tourists; that I seem to be playing some awfully hot games.
Casinos are private businesses that reserve the right to refuse service to people they don’t like: namely, anyone who has a realistic shot at beating them. With a built-in house advantage, why should they cut into the profits produced by legions of losers? Expert blackjack players and sometimes even professional video poker players face the prospect of being barred from the casinos, even though all they’re doing is using their minds. But I’ve never heard of anyone getting barred for betting on sports. Instead, the casinos prefer to do what Stevie the Pencil is doing: refuse individual wagers or severely limit their size.
I tell the Pencil I don’t know what he’s talking about. Syndicates? Is that some sort of Mafia insinuation?
Outwardly I act aggrieved. But I’m shaken. The first day of the first week of what the Brain Trust hoped would be a long, profitable season, and I’m already lit up with Vegas neon.
When I tell Big Daddy of my steamy status, he laughs, promising that our next few plays will definitely change the Pencil’s opinion of me. “Nobody in the world is betting a dime on these games. You gotta look like the biggest sucker in the world.”
I mumble, “You want me to make bad bets?”
“Come on, now, son,” Big Daddy chuckles. “There ain’t no downside to these games. You know me better than that. I ain’t gonna give these sumbitches a nickel.”
I go back to the book. The Pencil is mildly conciliatory. He says he’s going to be straight with me: There’s a lot of talk going around about the big syndicates like the Brains sending in a team of previously unidentified bettors. I, of course, feign ignorance. Although I’ve never once in my life assembled power ratings or crunched team statistics through a computer, I tell the Pencil that I consider myself one of the best handicappers he’ll ever meet, and that I expect to win.
“I appreciate your confidence, but look at it my way,” he says. “I can’t risk getting hurt by a big gambler who knows what he’s doing. And by the way, I’m going to call Tommy, our buddy at the Gold Coast, to check up on you, if that’s all right.”
“Sure,” I say, nonchalantly, making a mental note to have Big Daddy talk to Tommy (a man I’ve never met) before the Pencil does.
Then I give Stevie a bunch of ice-cold plays: Rutgers getting 39½ from Texas; BYU getting 8½ from Washington; Stanford giving 29 to San Jose State. He seems a little more relaxed. But I know I’m being watched like a recidivist felon.
“If those plays don’t cool him off, nothing will,” Rick Matthews tells me when I call to report the bets. I tell Big Daddy about the Tommy incident, and he says he’ll take care of it—but that in the future I should let him know if I’m using anybody as a reference. “We need to cover our tracks, 44.”
For the rest of the afternoon I join Viv in the spa, where we get massages and mud wraps. We’re treating our weekend at Caesars Palace like a holiday—me from the constant chase of freelance writing and she from her marketing responsibilities. We pretend we’re strangers. We pretend we’re movie stars. We pretend we’re an old married couple. Mostly we act like two kids in love.
Although bettors typically float in and out of the sportsbook to check on scores and changing point spreads, I’m glad to stay away. It’s a relief to be out of the casino, away from the flame of inquisition and mistrust.
Big Daddy Rick and I talk once more—he beeps me as my massage is concluding—to review our positions. He continues his rant about what a disappointing con game Las Vegas is, and says we’re done for the day. “But keep your beeper on, 44, in case something comes up.”
I’m hoping nothing does.
After a gluttonous dinner at Nero’s, the steakhouse, I stroll to the sportsbook with Viv to check the scores. Knowing my worried gaze and pleading voice wouldn’t affect the outcome of the contests, only my blood pressure, I’ve refused to watch any of the games. Now we’ll find out how the beefy scholar-athletes from around the country performed on our behalf.
I scan the giant, wall-sized toteboard, ticking off the wins and losses in my head. USC: winner. Florida: winner. BYU: loser. Sixteen games in all.
I look at Vivian with wide, astonished eyes. She smiles back at me. We’ve finished the day 10–6, up about $91,000.
In one pampered day I just earned $9,000.
The boss man calls at 7:30 a.m. on Sunday morning with two “total” plays and instructions to bet them for $20,000 to $25,000. Totals are known as “over-unders”: gamblers bet on the total number of points scored by both teams. Will it be higher or lower than the number posted by the bookmakers?
The Pencil is already up and working, scribbling furiously, with his chin propped on his fist. But he barely acknowledges me when I pop into the book. “Morning!” I say cheerfully, striding up to the long counter, separated from the seating area by low partitions, like a savings bank. He nods silently and scowls.
The cavernous room, soon to be filled with gamblers screaming at the jumbo screens, is almost deserted. One disheveled fellow sitting at a cocktail table is bent over a stack of papers, with his forehead in his hand, like Kant working out the meaning of life. Another guy, balding and potbellied, stands beneath the toteboard with his hands stuck in his pockets, his head tilted upward, and his mouth hanging open, as though he were admiring Michelangelo’s handiwork on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.
I make my bets for $20,000, and the clerks take them without discussion. Then I hang around the window for a few minutes, as if I’m studying other bets. I ask a few stupid questions and stroll away. But before I do, I sincerely thank Pencil Stevie for not letting me bet the other side of the Florida game—he saved me $27,500. I get a dirty look.
Back in the room the phone rings. Rick asks me how they took the action.
“It was cool,” I tell him.
“Don’t remind Stevie about the Florida game, 44. It will only piss him off,” Big Daddy says offhandedly.
I wonder if Big Daddy is having me watched, making sure I’m not placing any renegade bets or giving up his picks to other bettors. From that point on, I take special notice of the faces I seem to see repeatedly in the Caesars Palace sportsbook. I suspect one middle-aged redheaded woman, but I can’t confirm my suspicions. It’s like being in the middle of a movie spy thriller, with everybody—including the guys on my team—watching my every move. Suddenly I don’t want to step into that place again.
But Rick gives me another Brain Trust play—an icy play, he assures me—and I go back down. It’s the Tennessee Titans +6 against the Miami Dolphins. I bet $55,000 to win $50,000 and Stevie takes the action without blinking. That’s the way I like it.
During the morning NFL games I have brunch with Viv and try not to fixate on the heat or lack thereof my bets are generating. I tell her I’m thinking of bringing in an associate, someone to run from the room to the book so I don’t draw attention to myself. I assume casino surveillance is watching to see if I go to a pay phone immediately after I wager. Then again, Big Daddy probably wouldn’t appreciate the potential security leak, so I shelve the idea.
When we check the scores, I discover we’re handily winning our two morning games. In the midst of high fives, Big Daddy calls again with our after-lunch special. “You gotta have something to sweat in the afternoon, right, pards?”
I bet the Jacksonville Jaguars –4½ against the New York Giants for another $55,000. Again, the nice folks at Caesars take the bet without hesitation, as though I were wagering ten bucks. Then I depart for an afternoon round of golf at the Desert Inn, courtesy of the casino. When I say good-bye to the Pencil, I ask him if I’ll be seeing him again next weekend.
“You still want to come?” he asks.
“If you’ll still have me,” I say. “Oh, and by the way, could you arrange tickets to the De La Hoya fight?” I ask brusquely, remembering that I’m a high roller and entitled to such perks.
He says he’ll see what he can do. Call him tomorrow.
With no work scheduled for the evening, Viv and I have a splendid (comped) meal at the elegant Chinese restaurant and go to a show at the Stratosphere, where she gets hypnotized and levitated. When we get back, around midnight, I do a final check of the scores, and I feel as though I’m floating myself: We’ve won everything.
For the weekend, the Brain Trust has gone 14–6 and taken $231,500 of the casino’s money.
I could get used to this.
But I suspect Caesars Palace never will.
Back in Los Angeles, I talk to Stevie the Pencil on the telephone. He’s very cordial, almost apologetic. Seems his bosses weren’t too happy about my performance. Seems they want to impose new, lower limits on me: $30,000 for pros, $15,000 for college. Normally, when someone makes a large wager, the bookmaker moves the line to attract money on the other side. The Pencil assures me that if I bet and they don’t move the line, I’m welcome to bet them again at the full limit.
I tell Stevie, Be honest: We wouldn’t be having this chat if I didn’t do so well, right?
He says not necessarily. A lot of my plays were similar to the bets of the suspected computer teams.
I play the Iggy and ask him to explain. He does, telling me how a syndicate like the Brain Trust works. “These big groups, they use a computer to get their number. The Poker Players, Blair and Ferdy, the IBMs, Ricky’s Brain Trust—all these different syndicates, they figure out their lines with a computer. Then they bet a pile of money all around the world. They use guys like you to help them get down.”
“Fascinating,” I say.
Perhaps excessive bravado, I reckon, will make me look like the kind of idiot Caesars wants to keep as a customer. I tell the Pencil that I’m good. Damn good. A super sharp handicapper—and I’ll put my winner-picking abilities up against anybody.
The Pencil patiently says, with all due respect, there’s no such thing as a sharp handicapper who plays twenty games on a weekend.
Which is just what I want him to say. “So how come you’re lowering my limits then?” I ask, logically. “Because you’re scared of how good I am, right?”
He tells me if it were he, personally, he would take any amount from anybody. It’s the bean counters who make the rules. And so forth.
“Fine,” I say. “But you watch.” I promise I’m going to be the best handicapper Caesars Palace has ever seen.
I can almost hear him sneering over the phone line.
Big Daddy and I review the latest developments. He calls the casinos a bunch of dummies and decries their hypocrisy. “We’ll just have to set you up at two places at once,” he says. Maybe, he suggests, I could get set up with the Hilton, or some other joint that purports to cater to big shots like me. In the meantime, we’re stuck with one shopping outlet. That week, I busy myself with my usual routine of pitching story ideas to magazine editors and working absentmindedly on the ones they commission. All I can think about is flying across the Mojave to the parallel universe Rick Matthews is allowing me to inhabit.
Finally, Vivian and I return to Caesars Palace on the Friday afternoon before the big De La Hoya vs. Camacho fight. There’s a sexual charge in the air, an undercurrent of power and money. Pretty hoochie girls everywhere, their gambler boyfriends and sugar daddies not far away. Guys in track suits; guys with fight credentials hanging from their necks; guys who look like players. It feels good to walk through the casino knowing I’ve got $631,500 sitting in an account with my name on it. Even if I’m not really the kind of player the casino thinks I am. Or wishes I were.
Our room, booked through VIP Services, is comped, per the Suit and the Pencil. It is, as requested, in the Olympic Tower, nearest the sportsbook. And though it’s not quite as “superior” as last week’s, it does have an even bigger mirror over the bed.
I don’t read any sinister motives into our mild downgrade. On a fight weekend, I’m glad to have any sort of comped room in Las Vegas. And even gladder to have two $600 tickets to the fight, courtesy of my generous hosts. What a town. I even get to see Oscar and his entourage down in the casino.
I call Big Daddy, who tells me he’s got a special cell phone for me all set up. He’ll call me back at around 6:15, when he can talk more.
He doesn’t ring until 9:30, when Viv and I are in the middle of a glorious French meal at the Palace Court. The maître d’ brings me a portable phone, saying I don’t need to push any buttons, it’s all ready to go. How Big Daddy knew to reach me at this particular restaurant, one of nine at Caesars, I can only guess. “Hey, pards, you gonna be ready to go anytime soon?”
I tell Big Daddy it will be around thirty minutes. He says this might be our only opportunity to bet a whole bunch of games. I tell him I can sneak out for a few minutes, if necessary. He asks me if I’m there with a whole bunch of people. No, only my girlfriend Vivian, I tell him. I can go if he needs me to. “That’s all right,” he says, being gentlemanly. “Just call me as soon as you’re leaving, 44.”
As the waiter places our chocolate soufflé on the table, I ring Big Daddy back. He gives me eleven Brain Trust plays—one of which is the big Michigan television game; four of which are added games; and two of which, he warns me, are superhot.
Viv and I walk to the sportsbook, wineglasses in hand. I’m in a suit and tie. She looks smashing, an expensive plaything, pouring out of her little white dress. If I’m the sucker high roller from Hollywood, she’s the high-priced escort on my arm. And I’m enjoying the masquerade.
The moment we come in view of the counter, Viv discreetly whispers to me, “We’ve definitely been recognized. Three people behind the counter started talking to each other and looking our way, like they’ve been expecting us.”
I’m all smiles and handshakes—a fun-loving party boy who, with the help of the wine, doesn’t have to fake it too hard. Everyone—the clerks; Dina, the night supervisor; Little Mikey Brown, the night manager (and former heavyweight prizefighter)—is genuinely nice. Like they’re real pleased to see me. I ask Dina for an updated odds sheet and a statement of my balance. When she brings out the sportsbook’s list of accounts, I make a big deal of having Viv turn away, so she doesn’t see how much (shopping) money is available. As I verify my number—$631,500—I sneak a glance down the sheet and note that about twenty individuals have accounts open, and the total balance of these accounts is approximately $1,100,000. I’ve got more than half the money on account in the casino sportsbook. No wonder they’re hawking me.
Every play Big Daddy has requested is available except one total bet, and Dina takes my action without pause, making sure only that I haven’t exceeded the new, lower limits the Pencil has prescribed. I ham it up a bit, telling her such and such is my play of the week—even though I don’t have the faintest idea who the coaches are, let alone the starting quarterbacks. Viv tells me I look like a good-time Charlie who thinks he knows something the whole world doesn’t. In other words, a real idiot.
After betting, we hang around for ten minutes, watching highlights of De La Hoya’s past fights on the video screens. Vivian has a huge crush on Oscar the Golden Boy. I admit to her that I have a huge crush on the fantasy world I’ve entered, where pleasure and power and risk and reward all intersect.
Cheered by the casino’s warm reception, Viv and I stumble off to our room, where we giggle at our ceiling mirror.
I wake up at 7:00 a.m. and realize I missed a bet. The total play that I thought wasn’t listed—Miami of Florida—was there all the time. I had been looking at Miami of Ohio. (Ah, red wine.) Slightly panicked, I dash down to the book.
Pencil Stevie and all his day-crew boys are there. I say hello and shake some hands and get a mildly cordial reception. The number is still what Big Daddy ordered, so I don’t have to tell him about my mistake. I bet it and linger a little longer, as if I’m thinking about some other plays. I ask a few inane questions—“Hey, you think that LSU number might go to ten?”—and chat about the big fight. I say to Stevie, “Is anybody actually betting on Hector Camacho?” He tells me yeah, because he’s only making a hundred-dollar spread, cheap for a boxing line. I tell him that’s pretty good. He says, “Not for me it isn’t!” I laugh, genuinely pleased that the Pencil is joking around with me. Maybe he’s getting comfortable. For crissakes, I just gave him eleven plays before the first snap. He’s got to love me. Conventional wisdom says that the more games you play, the more money you’re going to lose in the long run. The more results the bookie can churn through his mill, the more profit he’s able to grind out.
Seconds after I return to the room, Big Daddy Rick calls for a report. He chuckles bitterly when I reiterate the limits they’re allowing. “All right, pards. I’ll get back to you.”
He does only once, another total play. It’s a light, low-pressure afternoon. I get a massage;Viv gets a full day of spa treatments. Every so often I pop into the book to check my results. With eight of our twelve plays complete, we’re 4–4, but up about $18,000, a decent if unspectacular result. We leave for the pugilistic festivities with $80,000 in wagers undecided.
The De La Hoya fight, like all big Vegas fights, buzzes with the kind of manic hum generated by celebrity, money, and hundreds of beautiful women in clinging, low-cut dresses. Viv and I enter the arena through a VIP entrance, where camera-toting autograph hounds have staked out spots to ambush the famous athletes and movie stars who pass this way. Our seats afford a terrific view and all the complimentary cocktails and salty snacks we desire. Oscar takes care of business. Big Daddy never pages me for emergency Brain Trust action. And we have a fine and raucous time.
Upon our return to Caesars, I discover the Brains have gone 2–2 in the night games, but the two we’ve lost were slightly bigger bets than the winners. For the day we’re up a piddling $1,600. I console myself: At least now the Pencil and his cronies will probably be more comfortable with my play.
We cap off the evening at a private party for Oscar at the execrable Planet Hollywood, where, to Vivian’s delight, we meet a couple of naughty girls. One of them, a slender brunette with pouty lips and a pierced tongue, seems to be a good candidate to join us in our room, but turns out to be a flirtatious bust. Instead, Viv ends up buying us a hooker—on my credit card.
I’m officially a Vegas high roller.