Three
Built In
After only one week of proving my usefulness, Big Daddy desperately wants me to get built in at the Las Vegas Hilton, where the self-proclaimed “Superbookie,” Moe Farakis, one of the tightest managers in the business, runs the show. Rick Matthews has heretofore been unsuccessful in cracking the Farakis defenses. Like one of those talented truffle-hunting pigs in Italy, Moe sniffs out Big Daddy’s Brain Trust associates and tosses them from the Hilton sportsbook like unwanted trash—along with countless other profitable customers.
To reinvent myself as the new Hilton boy, Rick implies, will require an astonishingly convincing (and brazen) act. But I figure if I can crack Caesars Palace, where whales from around the world frolic, I can surely swim into the Hilton sea. So I call up a casino host and drop some names and tell him what a big shot I am and how I want to be “taken care of” and all the usual megalomaniac blather. The host puts me in touch with Nick Cerruto, the sportsbook supervisor, who tells me the Hilton would love to accommodate me and my special needs—but that Super Moe will have to make the final call. And he’s on vacation.
“That’s fine,” I say, curtly. “But just so we don’t waste each other’s time, let me explain the kind of player I am.”
Per Big Daddy’s coaching, I tell Nick I want to bet ten to twenty games a weekend (true sucker action) at anywhere from $30,000 to $50,000 a pop, sometimes higher. Nick Cerruto says that for this kind of patronage everything will be taken care of—full RFB (casino parlance for room, food, beverage), fight tickets, you name it. I can almost hear him salivating. But his boss, Nick reminds me, has to make the final call.
A couple of days later, Super Moe calls me from a speakerphone, with Deputy Nick at his side. Moe asks me to reiterate the action I expect to play. After my extravagant spiel, in which I insinuate that I care more about deluxe freebies and obsequious toadying than betting lines, the Superbookie says he thinks they’ll be able to accommodate a player of my “magnitude.” For $75,000 a day in betting action, he can take care of my room. More will get me meals and other amenities. I tell him I won’t have any problem living up to those numbers. Hell, I might bet that in two games.
“I think we’ll be able to make you extremely happy,” Super Moe assures his pigeon.
“That’s nice,” I grunt, very much enjoying being a demanding prick.
The boss man answers on the first ring.
“So, what’s the story, morning glory?” Big Daddy asks excitedly.
“I’m in.”
“Well, how ’bout that? Mr. 44 at the Hilton!”
We talk about the logistics—money transfers, getting the plays, how to handle tough questions (act ignorant is Big Daddy’s advice)—and I ask him some tough questions of my own. The first experimental foray at Caesars, I know, can’t possibly be business as usual. No one goes 14–6 week after week. “You’re right about that, 44,” Big Daddy admits. “I’m good, but I ain’t that good. If all goes as planned,” Big Daddy continues, “you stand to make seventy-five to a hundred thousand in a few months. I expect a three percent return on investment, minimum. Based on how much action we can get down, you can figure your share. The longer you stay alive, the more dough you can expect to make.”
I start daydreaming about down payments on a country home in Great Britain, and my heart quickens. It’s all too fantastic. “And the downside?”
“None,” Big Daddy says. His lawyer has drawn up another document for me to sign, which will protect us both by making us bona fide business partners, albeit with drastically disproportionate shares of the company. “It’s all upside, 44. I’ll talk to you later in the week, pardsy. Over and out.” Then he hangs up.
Three days later, the day before I’m scheduled to fly to Vegas, a Thursday, Big Daddy calls to say Farakis, that no good so-and-so, has taken down half the games. Just took them off the board. No longer accepting bets. I’m made to understand that Mr. Farakis is a genuine dogshit. And worse. Big Daddy says it looks like we’re only wasting our time at the Hilton. He sighs hotly. “I guess we’ll have to confine our plays to Caesars for now.”
Like the degenerate loser I’m attempting to portray, I rationalize that Caesars’ complimentaries are half the reason for taking on such a high-pressure assignment. And there’s relatively less scrutiny from the management. Unlike the Hilton, Caesars, which is accustomed to hosting the highest of rollers from around the globe, is used to seeing monster $50,000 bettors in its sportsbook. That’s why the Pencil doesn’t have the ball-busting rep that Super Moe does.
So I call up and cancel my Hilton reservation. Deputy Nick asks if there’s a problem. “Yeah,” I say impatiently, “there is.” To subtly reinforce Big Daddy’s message, I tell Nicky I’m going to play at Caesars, where they have more games to bet on, where they don’t take half the games off the board late in the week. While Nicky stammers an explanation, I say good-bye and hang up.
Then I reconfirm my Palace dates. Everything’s all set.
Allowing myself to fantasize, I tell Vivian that I’d be happy—all right, thrilled—if I could clear $2,000 to $4,000 a weekend. And it’s not beyond the mathematical pale. So long as I’m not found out.
Reasonably intelligent people play slot machines and roulette wheels because of sporadic positive reinforcement. They know intuitively that these games aren’t fair contests, that the casinos are able to offer visitors prime rib and lobster tails at the money-losing price of $7.95 because the shortfall is subsidized by gambling winnings, but otherwise clearheaded individuals soldier on anyway. Gamblers remember the one time when they lined up three sevens, or when their birthday number came in. They console themselves with fond memories of the past—or, if that’s not too sunny, a bright future. They tell themselves things will be better tomorrow or later in the evening. Maybe even on the next spin.
It’s my second weekend as a Vegas playboy, and, it seems, the magic has already vanished. The Brain Trust is merely breaking even. And I catch myself reciting the litany of affirmations that bettors rely upon during the darkest hours: “It will get better. Remember last week. Big Daddy promises.”
We win the Syracuse game; we lose the Penn State. We win Michigan State and Northwestern back-to-back; we blow the profits on Iowa and Baylor. As the great critic Pauline Kael was apt to say about movies she disliked, we can’t get any rhythm going. Bored and increasingly superstitious, I watch bits of the games on television. Spoiled by early success, I catch myself on this gloomy Saturday muttering curses at the steroid-enhanced hoodlums dropping passes and missing tackles, for no reason other than to rob me and my cronies of our richly deserved winnings. Bastards!
Walking to the sportsbook through the hordes of narcotized zombies planted at blackjack games and video consoles, I catch a glimpse of my face in the reflective surface of a keno machine. I have the grim look of a slot junkie.
I crack a smile and resolve to order a really nice bottle of Bordeaux at dinner.
On Sunday, Big Daddy calls at 9:00 a.m. with the NFL orders, three solid plays and two provisional ones, which I’m instructed to bet if the line moves in our favor. It doesn’t. So our weekend hinges on two games: the New York Giants –2½ against Baltimore and the San Diego–Oakland game going over 36½ points. Win, and it’s another profitable weekend; lose, and it’s a free room and all the Château Haut-Brion you can guzzle.
The Giants, winning and covering the spread with a few minutes to go, give it away on a late turnover. Our weekend is now certain to be a loser, no matter what happens in the late San Diego game. I’m grouchy.
To make matters worse, when I check the incidental charges on my in-room video, I discover that the Pencil didn’t take care of Vivian’s overpriced salon and spa charges, as promised. The nearly $500 in beauty treatments on my bill wouldn’t rankle me nearly as much if I were winning, say, $40,000, instead of losing as much. I go downstairs and tell the Pencil I’m taking down my money—all $589,000 of it. The truth is, I have to go on a writing assignment out of the country for a couple of weeks (for a Traveler story about Scandinavia), and Big Daddy tells me dispassionately that he doesn’t want a messy situation if, you know, somehow something happened to me or the airplane I’m flying on. Better to cash out and start fresh if and when I return.
But I don’t tell Pencil Stevie any of this; I let him think I’m pissy because Caesars didn’t pay for my girl’s pedicure. After about half an hour of paperwork, a clerk escorts me to the main cashier’s cage, where another clerk tells me it’s going to be a while. I take the opportunity to chat up Dick Rollins, a smooth casino host, seeing if he’ll check me out of my room at the VIP desk, knowing that if any of the unwanted charges show up, I might be able to convince him of the cleverness of comping them. He looks over my player profile on one of those slant-top monitors built into reception desks. Sure enough, after perusing my particulars he’s eager to help. Remembering that “I” have more than a half-million dollars on deposit at Caesars Palace, and that “I” have just lost more than $40,000 in two days of sports betting, I—the real me—have a right to be truculent.
Dick Rollins makes some feverish calls while I tell him, You know what, don’t bother, it’s just the point. As he pulls his strings, I finally retrieve my cash, big bricks of hundreds that weigh about twenty pounds. I put them in a plastic Caesars Palace laundry bag. I poke my head into the office to say good-bye to Rollins the Host, who wonders out loud if maybe I wouldn’t like a cashier’s check instead. He hands me his card and reminds me to call if there’s anything he can do for me.
I just shrug and walk out.
Viv meets me at the valet. She sits in the passenger seat of our rental car, a purple Dodge that, it occurs to me, does not befit a player of my stature. Next time, I remind myself, I need to request a limousine. I gently place the laundry bag of money on her lap—“Jesus!” she exclaims; “holy shit, that’s a lot of money!”—and drive to a gas station about a mile from the hotel, on the way to the airport. The whole way I’m thinking how comical it would be if I were to crash and hundreds of thousands of hundred-dollar bills were scattered across Flamingo Road. Upon further consideration, I decide it probably wouldn’t be very funny at all. We arrive at the prearranged meeting spot without incident. Big Daddy is waiting in the parking lot with an associate, Sergeant Clark, sitting beside him in the big Mercedes. I don’t dare ask about the Sarge. Anything to do with the Brain Trust network, it’s been made clear, is none of my business.
I introduce Viv to Rick, who, in his most courtly, southern-gentleman fashion, says what a pleasure it is to meet her. She says likewise, and I hand the laundry bag to him through his rolled-down window.
“How much is this?” he asks.
I tell him, “Five hundred and eighty-nine thousand. I left a hundred on deposit to keep the account open.”
Big Daddy nods. “All right, then, 44. I’ll see you in a couple of weeks.”
I tell him I’ll call when I return from my travels. As I turn to go, Big Daddy says, “Hope your trip’s okay, pards.” Then he rolls up his window and drives away.
Viv and I drive onward to the airport. I’m thinking that maybe I should have asked for an advance on my winnings. “Maybe I should have had Rick count the money. You know, to verify my trustworthiness. Maybe I’m too trustworthy.”
She tells me to stop worrying. “These gamblers just do things differently than normal people. And, by the way, you didn’t tell me: Big Daddy is really cute!”
I tell her I hope she still thinks so when this adventure is all over.
For the next two weeks, while I’m traveling in Europe for my real job, I notice myself watching the sports scores on CNN, wondering which teams “we” bet, and if “we” are winning. In my absence the guys at Caesars, I assume, are checking up on me, talking about my wins and losses, attempting to discern a pattern that will answer definitively: Who is this guy? And, more important: Do we really want his action? I imagine two scenarios upon my return. Either they’ll take me back warmly—and even consider raising my limits to the first-week levels, as befits a sucker who somehow got very lucky but now shows signs of coming back to Earth. Or they’ll say, “We’ve done a little investigating. Don’t ever step foot in here again.”
I want to be welcomed back, brought into the casino’s comforting fold, where the danger of being found out, of losing, of winning heightens the senses and sharpens the mind. Eating alone at a restaurant in Copenhagen, I scan the menu. The dishes. The prices. Numbers. Little numbers.
Real life seems hopelessly banal compared with the sporting life. A modest life of quiet desperation seems, well, so quiet compared with the operatic anxiety of having your fortune teetering on the precipice of a field-goal kicker’s toe. During the days leading up to my return to Vegas action, I find myself distracted, daydreaming, unable to concentrate fully on my work. Writing a story about resort hotels in Denmark seems dull and annoying every time I consider what I’ll be doing over the weekend. For the first time in my life I feel what it’s like to be a nine-to-fiver. You function for five days a week, but you live on the weekend.
Finally, it’s time to be reborn. Vivian and I go to Vegas on a Friday evening flight from Los Angeles, one of those peculiar airborne symposia where everyone seems to have a hot gambling tip, a scheme, a system. The guy sitting next to me volunteers a few “sure thing” college football games to bet on. I thank him for his generosity and wink at Viv.
When we land I call Big Daddy from an airport pay phone. He directs me to ring him again as soon as I’ve checked into Caesars Palace. He says, “I’ll have a guy bring some money over as soon as we know your room number.”
The hotel does not have me listed as a VIP. Only my room is comped—I’m R, not RFB. This disturbs me, but I figure I’ll get it rectified when I see the Pencil in the morning.
I call Big Daddy from the room, a spacious suite with his-and-hers showers. He says Sarge Clark, the guy we met a couple of weeks ago, will come by in the next thirty minutes with $200,000. For what seems like the twentieth time, Big Daddy asks about the betting limits I’ve been given. I go over the new, lower terms—$15,000 and $30,000 for college and pro, respectively—and he mutters, “That’s no good. This is hardly worth my time, or yours.” Nonetheless, he gives me four plays—all televised regular games—to make when the money arrives.
Room service and the Sergeant knock on the door almost simultaneously. While the waiter sets up the table for our late-night supper, Sarge sits in a corner chair, with a large black satchel on his lap. As soon as the Palace employee departs, Sarge opens the satchel and pulls out a handgun and a folded paper bag, which he opens wide for me to inspect. “It’s all bundled,” he says.
Eyeing his weapon—I’ve never seen one before, except in movies—I pull out the bricks of hundreds, counting in $10,000 units. “Two hundred thousand,” I say. Viv pretends to watch television.
Sarge calls Big Daddy and reports the delivery. Then I get on the phone to confirm. “It’s all here, Daddy. Nice and neat.”
“All right, pardsy,” Big Daddy drawls. “I’ll talk to you in the morning.”
Vivian and I eat our dinner with the money sitting portentously on the bed, like a mute guest, impossible to ignore. Occasionally we look at it and laugh.
“This is frickin’ weird,” Viv says, grabbing a brick and tossing it from hand to hand like a tennis ball.
“Surreal,” I mumble, looking out the window at the other hotel-casinos lining Las Vegas Boulevard. How many other rooms on the Strip this night, I wonder, have $200,000 in cash sitting on a mattress?
When I go downstairs to deposit the money, Dina waves to me. She’s clearly been waiting for my arrival. When I approach the counter she says, “I’ve been on the lookout for you. Everything all right?” I unceremoniously plunk my brown paper bag on the counter. Slipping back into my high-roller persona, I tell her, No, in fact, I did not appreciate the incident at check-in, which, I tell her, made me feel like a nickel slot player. “Was this your way of telling me you’re not really happy to have me betting in your casino?”
She apologizes and says she’s sure Stevie the Pencil will take care of everything in the morning. Do I want her to call him?
“Of course not,” I say, petulantly. “I don’t want to be a jerk about it.”
Dina reveals that she’s been instructed to call him when I arrive, anyway. Seems the Pencil wants to know how much money I brought and which games I’m betting.
Utterly unsure what any of this means, I shrug. “Whatever,” I say.
After they count my bricks and I make a few bets, I give Dina and one of the clerks some souvenir currency from my trip abroad and join Viv in bed, where I stare at the ceiling, wondering if I’m living or dying.
Big Daddy calls at his customary 7:30 a.m. All he wants is confirmation of last night’s plays, and he says he may release me after 11:00 a.m. “We’re not gonna do much today,” he drawls. Caesars has posted close to fifty games on the toteboard today, college-football Saturday. Did the linemakers come up with sharp point spreads this week? Is the Brain Trust computer broken? Has the boss man detected too much heat emanating from his supernumerary at Caesars Palace? Has Big Daddy lost his golden touch? But I don’t ask for an explanation.
Eleven comes and goes, and Big Daddy never calls. When I reach him, he confirms that we’re through for the day. He suggests that I spend the afternoon meeting other sportsbook managers around town, seeing if I can’t establish some new relationships. “The limits they’ve got you at now, at Caesars, they’re not gonna work. See what you can do.”
At the Hilton, where curmudgeonly Moe Farakis holds court, Vivian and I are greeted warmly. Nicky Cerruto, who remembers me from my inquiry a few weeks earlier, is clearly eager to have my business. Over the phone, I pictured a young Al Pacino. The person I’m looking at is more like an old Tobey Maguire, with big puppy eyes, neatly combed brown hair, and cheeks a grandmother would love to pinch. We agree on limits: $50,000 for NFL and $25,000 for college, with $10,000 on added games. And on “key” games, television matchups, and so forth, they’ll often let me bet double. And if I want to bet more, just ask. And as far as taking care of me and my spa-loving girlfriend, if I bet what I say I’m going to bet, everything—everything—will be courtesy of the house.
If I’d like to start playing with them tomorrow, on Sunday, they’d love to have me, Nicky says. I tell him I’ll think about it—I’ve got to run this by Big Daddy—but in the meantime, I say, sign me up for next weekend. Deputy Nick seems genuinely pleased to have another big fish on his hook. And I’m pleased that we seem to be back in the big leagues, where the swings (the volatility of results) could make me relatively wealthy. It’s a lot easier to win $250,000 in a weekend when you’re betting $25,000 and $50,000 than when you’re betting $10,000 and $30,000.
When our taxicab returns us to Caesars Palace, I call Big Daddy with the news. He quickly decides to move our operation to the Hilton next weekend. But he counsels me not to burn any bridges at Caesars, to be polite and stress that I would like to keep doing business with them if they change their limit policy.
Meanwhile, ironically, we’ve lost the first three of our four games. The Pencil, I’m sure, is cursing the lower limits he’s been forced to impose on me. Perhaps he’s thinking I’m not such a wiseguy after all.
When I go downstairs to check on my final bet of the day, Pencil Stevie is there, and he’s not in a good mood. I ask him if, in fact, I’m RFB in his casino, and he answers me shortly, “Yeah, you are.” I tell him what happened at check-in, and he says the casino just won’t take care of sportsbook customers, that he’s going above and beyond for me. He tells me to eat in any restaurant I want, take my girlfriend, it’ll be taken care of. And then he says, “Look, Mike, if you don’t like the way we’re taking care of you, you don’t have to play here.”
I don’t get confrontational. I just nod and say, “Okay.”
But the Pencil continues his rant, like a brokenhearted lover who knows he’s losing his paramour. “I’m sure Nicky will take very good care of you over at the Hilton.”
Apparently these sportsbook people talk to one another.
I check the scoreboard. We’re resoundingly winning the last game, Washington University laying the points, so Viv and I can go off to dinner—a comped dinner—losing “only” $25,300 for the day.
Groggy from too much champagne and Sauternes the night before, I go downstairs early on Sunday morning and bet two NFL games, a morning and an afternoon matchup, at $33,000 each. One of them is the Battle of the Bays, Green vs. Tampa, a nationally televised, superhyped conference showdown. (The Brains like the favorite, the Packers.) I expect the Caesars management will let me bet more on this game, since everybody in the joint is wagering on it. No, an apologetic clerk informs me; Pencil Stevie isn’t in at the moment, and he’s the only one who can authorize a bigger limit. But he’ll be here in half an hour, if I’d like to wait.
“I need my action now!” I exclaim, perhaps a bit too maniacally.
I bet at the usual limit and return to the room. Big Daddy is, predictably, bitter. “Biggest day of the week and the boss isn’t in the shop. I’ll tell you what…” He sighs and directs me to play another game, San Francisco –5½.
When I arrive at the sportsbook, the number we’re looking for has already changed by a half point. Per my instructions, I’m required to back off. When I call to report the news, Big Daddy seems perplexed, a bit peeved. “Somebody’s pickin’ off our numbers, bettin’ ’em before we can. Guess we gotta move faster,” he says.
An hour later, almost three hours before the start of the late games, Big Daddy sends me down to bet Arizona in another afternoon tilt. The Pencil is unusually jovial. “Mr. Konik,” he says cheerfully, “you’re all taken care of, all RFB.”
I nod and say thanks.
“Take your girl to dinner tonight, it’s all set up.”
I can never figure out what makes the guys on the other side of the counter happy or sad, but the Pencil is back in his “let’s be pals” mode. In the casino business, everybody loves a loser.
And lose we do. Both the Packers and the Cardinals give up late leads to let the underdogs get in under the spread. For the weekend we go 2–5 and drop another $62,000. When I talk to Big Daddy late in the day, he sounds subdued, mildly frustrated, as any shell-shocked gambler might. “What happened with the Packers?” he asks. “Weren’t they leading twenty-one to three at the half? And Arizona? How did they ever let Minnesota get the ball?” I hear in his voice a trace of human fallibility, as if he were just another fan, not the greatest sports bettor on Earth. I want to comfort him. But I also want him to be strong.
I trust Big Daddy to make me a winner.
Sarge comes by several hours later to take home what’s left of the money. Viv and I go to Palace Court, the French restaurant, and mistakenly order a $450 bottle of ’88 Cos d’Estournel. (We meant to select the ’89, at a mere $250.) When we check out of our suite, we discover that our $800 dinner for two indeed has been “taken care of.”
God bless Las Vegas.
The following week, back in Los Angeles, Vivian returns to her windowless office at the hotel. I return to pounding out a thousand words a day and halfheartedly chasing down editors who might grace me with the opportunity to earn for an entire article what I make on one Brain Trust football bet. Eager for Friday to come, I talk to Deputy Nick Cerruto, who confirms my room reservation, betting limits, and RFB status. He’s also dispatching a limo for me at the airport.
His pitch is this: “If you bet what you say you’re going to bet, we’ll have no problem taking care of everything. When you check in, the account will be open and subject to billing. But as soon as we see your play, we’ll adjust everything to RFB. No problem.”
Vivian makes appointments for massages and wraps and whatever else she has done in the spa, gleefully skipping around our house like a child who’s just learned she’ll be spending the weekend at the carnival. I’m hopeful that all will go smoothly. But the outcome, like almost everything else Brains-related, is ultimately in the hands of Big Daddy Rick. When I talk to him midweek, he’s upbeat, pleased that we’ll be able to bet some serious money. But he also warns me that Moe Farakis will be watching me like a hawk hunting rodents. “He’ll have a camera on you, looking to see if you’ve got a beeper or a cell phone,” Big Daddy warns me. “Make your bets and leave. Don’t hang around the casino floor.” We agree to communicate on a cell phone and only in the room. Big Daddy also promises to have documents for me to sign, and that the money—more than $400,000—will be ready for delivery shortly after I check in.
Before we hang up, he asks me how I left things with the Pencil. I tell him that ol’ Stevie was happy to raise my limits—as long as I wanted to bet Sunday night on the next weekend’s games. I expect Big Daddy to scoff at such a notion. Instead, he tells me, “You tell Stevie, if he wants to let you go first, you’d be happy to play with him. Truth is, couple of local guys, guys named Jimmy and Billy, get to bet the games first.” He explains that some of the boys behind the Caesars counter allow a few neighborhood gamblers to bet into the point-spread lines before the Brains and the other syndicates can, before the numbers get pounded into shape by professional handicappers. “You tell Stevie if he wants to let you bet before the local hotshots, before you go back to Los Angeles, you’d be happy to oblige,” Rick advises. “Hell, he wants to do that I’ll light him up like a Christmas tree!”
We both laugh heartily. It’s the first time I’ve heard that sound from Big Daddy since the start of football season.
The Hilton limousine is very nice. The suite with a putting green outside the glass door is very nice. Room service is very nice.
I must remember that this is all a façade. The niceness could disappear the moment I start betting—and winning.
The Sarge arrives shortly after I check in, bearing $300,000. He hands me a mobile phone that works on a digital radio signal, supposedly impossible to intercept. After I count the bricks of hundreds he says, “You’re in business, kid.” Sarge tucks his pistol into the waistband of his pants. “I think we got one play for tonight. Get in touch with Rick and he’ll give it to you.”
I call Big Daddy on the new device. He counsels me once again on security—I can’t be too careful in this joint—and, after some consideration, agrees with me that it might look funny to make only one bet tonight. Better to wait until the morning, when he says he might find something else for us to play. I feel the impulse to suggest certain games, as if I’ve garnered several decades’ worth of experience in a mere month. But I know better. I know my place.
Still, I make a record of the games I would play if the handicapping were up to me. Just in case I possess a previously unmanifested natural talent for picking point-spread winners.
After concluding business with Big Daddy, I go downstairs to the cage to deposit the money. Unlike Caesars, the Hilton compels me to buy $5,000 denomination chips. Which means I’ve got to walk around the casino with $300,000 in negotiable instruments in my pocket. For the first time on the job, I have an urge to do a little renegade gambling on the side. Nothing major, maybe a few thousand on the craps table, maybe $5,000 on blackjack. And if I lose, there’s always more where it came from. I’ve got to win eventually, right?
I stop myself before the dangerous nonsense gets out of hand. I’m feeling blue. Vivian and I have had a bad fight and are on the brink of breaking up. Despite the allure of the Hilton spa she’s remained in Los Angeles, stewing over real and imagined slights suffered at the hands of her increasingly gambling-obsessed boyfriend. Seeing so many sexy women in the casino has given me a big-wad complex, an urge to show off my huge bankroll. Win a few thousand. Rent a hot whore. Live it up.
I’m starting to understand why casinos can be so addictive to lonely middle-aged men all across America.
Psychological motivation aside, the odds of putting a few easy hundred (or thousand) in my pocket are enormously favorable. When you’ve got tens of thousands to play with, winning a few hundred is almost a statistical cinch. I briefly consider returning to the casino and grinding out a quick profit, but decide to stay in my room and read. No gambling, no girls. No trouble.
I call Vivian before turning out the lights, but she doesn’t answer. Dreaming fitfully of touchdown passes and fumbled kickoffs, I rise early and wait for my usual Saturday morning call. When it comes, shortly before eight, Big Daddy has five plays for me, including the highly anticipated Ohio State–Penn State game, an NFL game for the following day, and two more games on television. “They’re gonna love you, baby,” he says cheerfully. The Penn State game is a key game, so I can bet double my usual limit. One of the others, Stanford-Arizona, is supposedly a circled game—limited betting because of an injury question or a vulnerable line. Nonetheless, when I go down to play, the supervisor on duty takes all my bets (including the Arizona game) without blinking and treats me with utter graciousness.
If there’s heat on me, I don’t feel it.
The security of my new radio cell phone makes me feel even more at ease. Already I’ve bet close to $200,000 and haven’t had any reason to sweat.
Big Daddy calls back twenty minutes later with another play, Navy +1 vs. Air Force. “The game starts at nine, 44, so get down there quick.” I have twenty minutes.
When I bet, Nicky Cerruto, dressed in a blue suit and red tie, looking like a lad on break from boarding school, walks over to shake my hand. He’s as nice as could be, inquiring if I want to go eat anywhere, if I’d like a pass to the SuperBook’s exclusive Hall of Fame Room to watch the games in privacy, if there’s anything he can do. I request lunch and dinner reservations and tell him I’ll probably go to the health spa later, too. “No problem,” he says, smiling, revealing gapped front teeth. “I’ll call it all in and it’ll be taken care of.” Before I go, Deputy Nick asks me if I made any more plays since my original five. I told him I just bet Navy. “You gotta like their running game,” I remark, as if I know what I’m talking about. He nods and says good luck.
“He’s got to love that play,” Big Daddy tells me when I call with confirmation. “Good sucker play.” Then he says he’ll get back to me sometime later. Which means that I’m supposed to wait in my room, out of view of the security cameras, unsure when I’ll be needed again. The waiting was easier when Viv was here with me to pass the time. With only $80,000 left to gamble with, I’m hoping Big Daddy will have a few more games for me soon and release me for the day. When he calls later and finds I’ve slipped out to the coffee shop for brunch, I get a mild scolding. “Now, 44, you aren’t on vacation. You need to be available.” I apologize, make two more bets, and return to my gold-trimmed cell.
My relationship with the Hilton seems to be going smoothly. We lose the first two games on last-minute misfortunes, but given the casino’s abhorrence of winning players, the tough beats may be good for me in the long run. Deputy Nick confides that he needed the losing Navy squad, too. “We were rooting for the same side.” This is wonderful, the surest way to stay ice cold: bet what the casino wants you to bet. I hope we’ll have more games like this.
Big Daddy calls to see how much money I have left to wager. I tell him $25,000. “Well, we need twenty-seven five to bet the LSU game. Hey, pards, I’m a little short, you think you could loan me twenty-five hundred?” Before I can respond, Rick breaks into a hearty laugh. “I’m a little short!” he repeats, guffawing. “We need this Ohio State game to end so we can have something to play with.”
Ohio State leads by a touchdown and is getting 7 points on the spread. Problem is, the game might not end before the 4:00 p.m. kickoff of the LSU-Florida tilt.
I suggest that I should go down to the casino and watch the end of the game. If it concludes in time, I’ll bet the LSU game and the Nebraska game, another play the Brain Trust favors. If it doesn’t, I’ll just bet whatever I have left on whichever game Big Daddy prefers.
“Yeah, good idea, pards,” Rick responds. “Go on down there.”
As I sweat the closing moments of the key Ohio State game, Nick tells me that he needs the same side as me. (Good.) The game is close, with the lead going back and forth. But for the entire second half, Ohio State stays within the 7-point spread. I’m watching the game clock and the real-time clock; it’s going to be close. For a moment, I’m rooting hard for two different propositions—for the Ohio State side and the game to end—applauding every small Ohio State triumph and cursing the miscues. I’m an authentic, money-crazed sports junkie.
With a few minutes left in the game, it becomes clear that the end will not come before 4:00 p.m., so I’ll have to bet what I can on the Nebraska and LSU games. But at least I know I’ll be collecting a juicy $50,000 win fifteen minutes later. Since Deputy Nick will let me bet only $10,000 on the Nebraska game—Nebraska is favored by 41 points, and that kind of spread normally kills the betting action—I decide to split what I have left on the two games. At 3:59, I bet $11,000 apiece and hope the boss will approve.
I figure he’ll be in a good mood as soon as Ohio State hangs on to its point-spread victory. But then, with a minute left and Penn State trying to pick up a first down to seal a 4-point win, the big Nittany Lion running back barrels through the line and rumbles toward the end zone. Miraculously, Ohio State defenders take him down at the three-yard line. With thirty-nine seconds left, there’s time for two more plays. If Joe Paterno decides to ram in another score, they’ll cover the point spread and I’ll be screwed.
The Hilton SuperBook is in a state of delirium. Half the crowd in the book is yelling at the fifteen-foot big screen: “Go for it! Cover the spread! Go!” The other half is screaming, “Stop! Stop!” I’m holding my breath.
The Penn State quarterback gets under center, snaps the ball…and takes a knee.
Yes!
For me, it’s a $105,000 kneel-down.
I hurry back upstairs and call Big Daddy with my bet confirmations. Fortunately, he’s pleased with my decision to split the money on two games. “Just too bad Ohio State didn’t end a few minutes sooner.”
“What a game,” I say, reminding him that we squeaked out a big win.
“Tell you what, that big old back almost made it in.”
“Yeah, my heart stopped there for a moment,” I admit.
“Me, too. He goes in I’m one sick puppy, I guarantee you.”
“Gotta love that kneel-down.”
“Yes, sir. I was glad to see him take a knee,” Big Daddy says light-heartedly.
“Excellent decision by Mr. Paterno. He’s quite a gentleman.”
Big Daddy chuckles and tells me I’m done for the day. “We’ll talk in the morning, pards. You go enjoy yourself tonight.”
“You, too, Big Daddy.” I attach my phone to the charger, and I wonder. I wonder if Big Daddy goes out to party on a Saturday night after pulling off a big college football win. Does he dance? Does he chase women? Does he buy new Porsches? Or is it just another work night, a brief interregnum before Sunday’s NFL battles? I hope he invites me to join him one of these weekends, after the work is done. I hope he lets me behind the veil of secrecy. For now, our worlds intertwine only when the Brain Trust needs to bet a pile of money.
On this night I join my friends Craig and Pamela Fullbright, managers of the poker and slot tournament operations at the Golden Nugget. Craig has been a trusted source for many of my best gambling stories and is a thoroughly honorable guy in general. He and many of his cronies in the gambling world have included me in their hermetic fraternity precisely because I’ve proved that I can keep a secret. I know, in turn, that I can tell Craig and Pam some of what I’ve been up to without its becoming public knowledge. Over dinner at Hugo’s, an elegant restaurant in the basement of the downtrodden Four Queens casino, on Fremont Street, I hint at my association with the Brains. The Fullbrights are fascinated but concerned. “You can’t be too paranoid, Michael” Craig counsels. “People talk. They investigate.” He nods significantly. “Be careful.”
For the image I’m trying to cultivate—“Poker Mike,” action junkie—Craig cleverly suggests I arrange to play a big, $3,000-a-hand poker match at the Mirage, where both he and I know the manager, Niall Nokes. “If you’re trying to pass yourself off as a big poker player, eventually some sportsbook guy is going to call Niall. And Niall’s going to tell them what he knows, that you’re a writer, a guy who writes gambling articles. Why don’t you tell him you’ve come into a lot of money and you want to play high? Then bring a buddy and stage a game. It’ll only cost you a couple hundred dollars for the rake, and it will buy you a lot of cover.”
I agree that it’s a fine idea. And fun.
After dinner, we all return to the Hilton for a nightcap. I observe several casino employees hanging around the bar, hawking me from a safe distance. Perhaps I’m only imagining this rank surveillance, or maybe Craig’s cautionary advice is particularly appropriate here at Super Moe’s house.
Am I inebriated, or has someone been in my room? My papers, which include a full schedule of football games and my Brain Trust marginalia, seem to have been rifled. My briefcase, which contains, among other things, Rick’s telephone number, notated as “BD,” is securely closed—which worries me, since I could have sworn I left it open. I look around the suite. A maid has turned down the bed and left chocolates on the pillow. But something else is different, too. I can’t say what, but I can feel it. I tiptoe toward the bathroom, half expecting to find someone hiding in the shower, half laughing at myself for being suspicious.
No one’s there.
Vivian would provide immediate comfort right now. She’d say something reassuring, something sober. I call her at home. She doesn’t pick up.
I bolt the door, lock my patio window, and go to bed with the phone tucked beside me, predialed to 911.
On Sunday, Big Daddy has five orders off the NFL menu. Problem is, none of the point spreads the Brains seek are currently available. He wants me to go downstairs, camp out near the counter, and pounce like a feral cat when the lines move to our desired number. My instructions: Bet what I can and sneak back to the room thirty minutes before the 10:00 a.m. kickoff time to check in for further directions. And make sure no one’s following me.
At 8:45 a.m., when I enter the Hilton SuperBook, which like the sportsbook at Caesars is as cavernous as a medieval dining hall, the place is already abuzz with bettors diligently studying their tout sheets and handicapping forms, searching for a winner. I take an empty seat in front of the giant television screens, broadcasting pregame shows. Perhaps it’s my newly formed paranoia, or maybe I’ve simply become acutely aware of the environment around me, but out of the corner of my eye, I catch one of the mid-level supervisors snooping on me, trying vainly to blend into the crowd. Since I’m carrying neither a beeper nor a cell phone, I’m cool. But still, I know I’m being watched, and I need to be especially careful.
Am I hallucinating, or do I recognize two other familiar faces in the crowd of bettors? No, that’s them: a young woman with wild red hair, like an Irish fairy; and an older gentleman with a baseball cap and a leather fanny pack. We never say anything to one another, but I’m sure Flame-head and Packman notice me, too. For all I know, they’re paid (by either the Hilton or the Brains) to keep an eye on me.
Shortly after nine, the San Francisco–St. Louis line goes from Frisco –14 to –14½. I leap into action, betting the Rams +14½. The number immediately goes back to 14, a point spread that Super Moe and his deputies hope will attract a legion of San Francisco supporters to balance my $55,000 wager on the underdog.
None of our other numbers come up. So I return to the room and check in with the boss. He amends some of the orders, telling me to go ahead and bet Detroit +6 for up to $75,000. Since our limit is $50,000, I figure Big Daddy must be getting me confused with another of his operatives. I return to the counter and bet the game for my limit. The line moves to 5½. Ten minutes later someone—or a lot of someones—lays the 5½ on Tampa Bay, and the line bounces back to 6.
After kickoff time, when I call Big Daddy to report my wagers, he asks me why I didn’t bet $75,000 on the Lions. I immediately realize I was supposed to bet an additional $25,000 when the line moved back to 6. And I didn’t.
Instead of making excuses, I tell him bluntly I made a mistake and I apologize. Big Daddy gives me a brief lecture, explaining that anytime the line moves, even if I’ve already bet the game once, I’m entitled to bet it again at the new number. I tell him I understand and that I won’t make the same mistake twice—though I know it’s exactly this kind of betting that will bring major heat down upon me. The average gambler doesn’t exceed his personal limit because the line returns to a point spread he likes; only wiseguys do.
“All right, then, 44. I’ll get back to you,” Big Daddy snaps. An hour later, he instructs me to bet up to an additional $100,000 on the Rams—if the number moves to 14½ again. (I’m praying it doesn’t. Making that kind of wager would be wearing a sandwich board that says, “Hi, I’m part of a betting syndicate with unlimited resources. Did you think I was just some fool from Los Angeles? Think again!”) I’m supposed to hang around the sportsbook and wait for the line to pop.
This gives me an opportunity to visit the SuperBook’s Hall of Fame Room, where invited suckers (i.e., people who bet large and usually lose) can watch the games in soft-armchair comfort. Again, I know I’m being spied upon—but so what? I’ve got nothing to hide. I spend the next hour chatting with a couple of other big bettors—“squares,” as management would call them—about the football games. They ask me who I have going in the morning games, and I tell them: Miami and Detroit.
“You’re looking real good in both those games,” they say.
Detroit, the underdog, is soundly whipping Tampa on the Buccaneers’s home field. The Lions will definitely come in under the spread. Now I feel really bad about not betting the additional $25,000. My cut of the extra money would have been $2,500. And I’m sure the boss isn’t too pleased, either. Nonetheless, we’re now up $110,000 for the weekend.
The Rams’ number never moves the half point I’m looking for, so after the 1:00 p.m. kickoff, I return to the room to report. The first thing I tell Big Daddy is, once again, I’m sorry. I apologize for screwing up, and I tell him I feel terrible about letting him down.
The gracious southern gentleman has returned. He says, “That’s all right, pards. We coulda lost the game, too. Don’t worry about it. No big deal.” Big Daddy strikes me as the kind of man who values an associate who can take responsibility for his actions, although he also strikes me as the kind of man who wouldn’t come out and say so.
We’re done for the day, Big Daddy says, but I should ask Deputy Nick if I can bet my games for next week tonight, since I’ll be away in Hawaii the following weekend, working on a magazine story about the Ironman Triathlon.
Nick tells me I can bet, sure. But at low limits. “We put up the line Sunday night more as a courtesy than anything. I’ll have to ask Moe, but I know the limits are going to be pretty low.” I say thanks but no thanks and go to the gym, where I work out in front of the television, watching the Rams get waxed by the 49ers. It looks like we’re going to finish the week with a $55,000 profit. Good, but not spectacular—which is probably the best result to encourage longevity.
Sarge arrives promptly at 4:30 to pick up the phone and money. “How’d we do?” he asks, in the loud voice that always makes me feel that an eavesdropping security officer could easily make us. I tell him it was a good week. “Yeah, anytime it’s positive instead of negative is a good week,” he says, tossing the bricks of hundreds into a duffel bag. When Sarge calls Big Daddy, I can hear his voice projecting through the earpiece speaker in Sarge’s cell phone. “All right, Sarge,” Big Daddy says. “Deposit the money in an account at the Union Plaza. Name of Kelly Josephson.”
I smile to myself. The Brain Trust door has opened a crack. This Josephson fellow happens to be the manager at one of Big Daddy’s restaurants.
Before I check out, I make a point of shaking Deputy Nick’s hand, complimenting him on what a fine shop he’s running, with cheerful, helpful employees who couldn’t be nicer. I tell him I’ll look forward to coming back, if only for the chance to meet Super Moe Farakis. “I guess you’ve got to play much higher than I do to shake his hand, huh?” I say.
Nicky chuckles nervously and says how much he appreciates my living up to the action I promised. He’s pleased. Super Moe, he says, will evaluate my play from this weekend, and if he likes what he sees, Nick is sure we’ll be able to continue our nice relationship in the future. This last comment disturbs me—the bit about evaluating my play—but I just say thanks again and tell him I’ll look forward to seeing everyone in two weeks.
In the limousine to the airport, feeling naked and depressingly average with only a hundred dollars in my pocket, I silently pray my adventure hasn’t ended.
When I’m away from Las Vegas, I continue to work as a journalist. I vainly try to be a good boyfriend to my aggrieved partner, who reconciled with me in time to fly off to the Kona coast for a long weekend of sunbathing and swimming. Upon my return from the Hilton, I rededicated myself to improving my relationship with Vivian, who confessed she missed our Las Vegas extravaganzas (among other things). Over dinner in our dining room, away from my computer and the television, those conduits of news and odds and all things sports related, I reassure her, “When we’re away from Las Vegas, I’ll forget about the gambling. That’s just for the weekends.”
“Because it’s not like three days a week isn’t enough time for football games,” Viv reminded me. “There’s more to life than point spreads and Rick Matthews, right?”
“Of course,” I agreed. “Music. Art. Literature—all way more compelling than some stupid college football game.”
But, honestly, after what has seemed like an eternity away, I’m raring to go, eager to rejoin my other life. I try to be Michael, the normal guy who walks the dog, goes to the gym, writes all day, and takes his girlfriend out for dinner when she’s not too tired from ten-hour days at the office. But I miss the action.
Before unpacking my luggage from Hawaii, I call Nick Cerruto to confirm my weekend reservation—and to make sure everything is still cool at the Hilton. Nicky asks me how Hawaii was, and if I competed in the race—“I know how much you like to work out,” he jokes, referring to my insistence that the sportsbook comp the on-site health club as well as my RFB. We chat about sports, how I missed some good games, how his book did over the weekend. He’s surprisingly candid—“We lost on college football, broke even on baseball, and won a little on Sunday football”—which, I infer, means the Hilton’s not scared of me.
Deputy Nicky and I go over the particulars of my upcoming visit, including a special request I’ve made for the casino to take care of an additional room for my neighbor, Rex, a Hollywood actor–model–dancer–nightclub bouncer who’s coming to town for some classic Vegas debauchery. We agree to talk again in two days, on Thursday, when Nick knows his key games.
I’m feeling good about this place. Everyone seems to like the other guy, as if we’re all frat brothers, not financial competitors fighting over a pot of gambling gold.
I haven’t spoken to Big Daddy for almost two weeks, during which time I’ve followed the movement of the lines, keeping track of what I assume are Brain Trust positions. I’ve missed him. And I secretly hope he missed me a little, too.
Rick Matthews sounds genuinely pleased to hear from me. But he’s perturbed that I didn’t ask Nick exactly how much I’m allowed to bet on circled games. I figured I’d just find out when I went to make a play. “Ask him, 44,” he instructs me, “so there’s no fooling around with your limits once you get there.” I tell Big Daddy I can call back right now to clarify, but the boss man thinks I shouldn’t make a special entreaty—too obvious. But if I happen to talk to Nicky on another occasion, I ought to ask.
Big Daddy, I’ve come to realize, gets exasperated quickly with anything that remotely resembles incompetence. You don’t earn millions of dollars while everyone else loses without doing everything right.
Minutes after checking in at the Hilton, I call the boss from a pay phone. He says Sarge will be here with a delivery within fifteen minutes and that he’ll call my room in five minutes with a bunch of plays. We could probably find a less conspicuous place to transfer the money, but probably not a safer one. I hang up and grin: It’s good to be back in action, back on the furtive mission of beating the casinos at a game that shouldn’t be beatable.
When Big Daddy calls with the plays, three of them are added games, the lightly bet, untelevised contests between teams like Southeast Louisiana and Troy State. Rick asks me, “How much are they gonna let you bet?”
I tell him, “Almost nothing. Six thousand.” Funny how $6,000 has suddenly become almost nothing.
Then Rick asks, “Now, 44, do you think betting any of these games is going to wake them up?”
I haven’t felt any heat up to this point. But the added games were what seemed to raise suspicions with Pencil Stevie over at Caesars Palace. So I tell him it’s likely.
I can hear him chewing on a lollipop. “Tell you what, go on down there and bet two of these games. Mix ’em up with the television games. It should be all right.” I like that we’re betting the big Michigan vs. Michigan State game. And I like that we’re playing New England vs. Miami, an NFL game, on Friday night. But I’m wary of wagering on the University of Alabama–Birmingham. I don’t like fooling with anything that might stir suspicions and blow my cover.
Sarge shows up at my suite minutes later with $300,000. But he has no phone. “Rick never gave me one,” he says, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips. “Let’s call him.” He heads toward the phone on my bedside table.
I stop him. “The numbers show up on the hotel bill.” Sarge nods and starts to leave for a pay phone downstairs. Then he realizes he’s got his own personal cell phone in his jacket pocket. He laughs and launches into a smoker’s coughing fit as he dials Big Daddy’s number.
The boss says he’ll personally deliver a secure phone in twenty minutes. I should look for him at the hotel’s back entrance, in a red Lincoln Navigator. The $300,000 in cash slung over my shoulder in a carry bag makes me feel like I’m toting a small child. I wait in the Hilton’s rear parking lot, like a CIA operative waiting to make a microfilm drop.
Big Daddy arrives as promised—with his sister Kathryn and her nephew Eric. They’re on their way to dinner. Mrs. Matthews-Reynolds is a real beauty, a well-preserved southern belle of fifty, with a bright smile, a smashing figure, and a plumbing contractor husband with no interest in gambling or sports. He plays chess for amusement and can’t understand why his wife and her big brother derive so much enjoyment from betting on football. Nonetheless, the tolerant Mr. Reynolds allows his spouse her unusual hobby in the interest of keeping the whole family happy. Eric, clean-cut and handsome, seems about my age, in his thirties. I say polite hellos to everybody, as if I’d just run into them in the grocery store. Big Daddy hands me a phone and several batteries. “Knock ’em dead, pards,” he says, smiling.
I watch the luxury SUV roll away, and I wonder what Big Daddy is telling his loved ones about the young fellow holding $300,000 of his organization’s money. Trustworthy, probably. Or maybe naïve and ignorant. I wish Big Daddy were telling his family that I’m super sharp, a real wiseguy. That I put the smart in smart money.
When the cage personnel count the cash, I’m $100 short. I have $299,900 to play with. When the cashier asks if I want to add another hundred to round it off, I reach into my pocket and discover I have only $78. That’s me: Mr. High Roller.
I make my football bets without incident. Indeed, when I’m done wagering, one of the clerks says cheerfully, “Enjoy your dinner, Mr. K.” I do. And also going with Viv to the stripper bar afterward. And dancing in the lounge. All of it. Las Vegas is a hedonist’s paradise when you’re rich. Even if the money’s not yours.
Everything starts to unravel.
I bet on seven college football games, winning six of them, including the big Michigan contest. Most of my bets, Big Daddy assures me, are cool plays, the kind of bets “they’ll love you for.” But the bursars of Vegas, especially the actuaries in the sportsbooks, don’t like anyone who shows any hint of expertise. You’re not supposed to go 6–1. You’re not supposed to come out on top. Period.
Deputy Nick, his boyish features arranged into a pensive scowl, approaches me in the Hall of Fame Room late in the afternoon, when I’m up about $125,000. He tells me he’s going to have to cut me back from $25,000 to $20,000 on college games and from $50,000 to $40,000 on pros. “That’s still double the normal counter limit,” he explains. “But management wants to see some casino play out of you. They’ll extend the limits as a courtesy to big casino players. But we haven’t seen any play in the pits from you. So…” He holds out his palms. “That’s the deal.”
I don’t protest. “But I can finish out my weekend at the limits we agreed upon, right?”
“No,” Nick says. “Effective immediately.”
When I report the news, Big Daddy laughs bitterly. “You’re not allowed to win, pards. You just broke the rules.”
I remind him of a famous marketing campaign one of the casinos launched not long ago. The theme was “We Love Winners!”
“Oh, yes. Sure they do. Love ’em to pieces. Maybe you ought to go visit Moe Farakis right now, 44, and see if he wants to give you a hug and a kiss.”
“Only if I promise to give back everything I won, right?”
“Now you’re learning, son. This whole sports betting racket—pretty fun, isn’t it?”
Early Sunday morning, while Vivian helps herself to Hilton spa treatments, I encamp in the SuperBook to wait for line changes on five NFL games. If a juicy number the Brain Trust wants suddenly appears, I’ll bet. If not, I’ll pass. In the meantime, I wager $44,000 on the Pittsburgh-Jacksonville game. Steelers –3.
After I make my play, I sit in the front row of the SuperBook chairs, with the rest of the gamblers, scanning the board for my key numbers. Then Nick Cerruto appears at my side. “Mike, I gotta talk to you again. We’re cutting you back to normal counter limits. We know you’re getting your plays from somewhere. It’s no coincidence that every time you bet a game it moves all around town within five minutes.”
I act flabbergasted—partly because I am. “Nick, I have no idea what’s going on at other casinos.” I really don’t. “If I make a bet and the number moves someplace else, that’s none of my business. I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The Pittsburgh game,” Nick says. “You bet it two minutes before it moves to three and a half in every place in our industry.”
I tell Deputy Nick that it makes no difference to me. I could have bet the game last night, or two nights ago. This is, indeed, all a coincidence.
“Well, why didn’t you bet it then?” Nick’s youthful features grow dark.
“Because I was hoping it would go to two and a half,” I reply, logically.
Nick shakes his head. “We’re not stupid, Mr. Konik. We know what you’re doing.”
I tell him what I’m doing is winning. That’s my real crime.
Nick says, “If you can beat us on your own, god bless you. But we know you’re getting help from somewhere. You know it and I know it. Now you can deny it, but we both know the truth.”
“Man, I didn’t know the Hilton was in such weak financial shape. I better short the stock,” I hiss, getting up to go. “Careful, fellas,” I announce to the congregation of football fans eavesdropping on my dispute, “the SuperBook might be insolvent.”
Of course Big Daddy is furious when I report the latest developments. “That’s just an excuse, 44. Go over the list of plays you made in the last two days. Read ’em to me.” I do, and he comments on each one: “That game never moved off the number”; “That one closed right where it opened”; “That one they needed your bet!”—culminating in a big laugh. “What a bunch of pussies. I tell you what, pards. If it were me, I’d be sending a limo full of hookers to chase you down, the kind of business you bring them. But these dumb asses, they want to run out a good customer. This whole deal about the lines moving when you bet is total bullshit. They just can’t stand that you’re winning.”
Big Daddy is right. But so is Nick. I have no way of knowing how the lines are moving all around Vegas—Nick and Big Daddy know; their computers show them that information. I’m sure some of my bets have been hot ones. But others, I know, are totally cold. Nick’s claim that every bet I make coincides with a major line move has got to be false. But, on the other hand, I’m sure it happens occasionally, despite Big Daddy’s blanket denial. The bottom line is this: Of course I’m getting my plays from someone else. The best sports bettor in the world, in fact. But if I were losing, the casino boys wouldn’t mind one bit.
Big Daddy tells me to forget about betting the five other games he’s ordered. We’re through at the Hilton. In fact, he wants me to write an outraged letter to the president of the company, outlining how I’ve never received such shabby treatment. I can’t really see the point, but Rick’s got motives that extend beyond me and my fleeting ability to bet on a few football games in the sportsbook.
I return to my suite, depressed. “It’s over,” I announce to Viv, who’s lounging on the bed in her panties. “We don’t have anywhere else to play.”
“We’ve made a lot of money, and who knows, Big Daddy might have some other plans for you,” she consoles me.
“Not if I can’t make any bets.” My tenure with the Brains has lasted less than two months. Five weekends of betting.
I spend the afternoon figuring my total take for the season. I feel like there’s been a death in the family and I’m straightening up the odd personal effects. I’m also rooting madly for my two outstanding NFL games to come through. If I’m finished, I want to go out $10,000 richer. For one of the few times all season, I feel the heart-pounding, sweaty-palm excitement of having thousands of dollars of your own money riding on the outcome of a football game. The Pittsburgh game is an $84,000 decision. I need this game.
The lead seesaws from a point-spread loser to a winner several times. On their final drive in the fourth quarter, the Steelers kick a game-tying field goal. We’re going to overtime. I explain to Viv that probably the best we can hope for is a tie, in which case we’ll get back our $44,000 bet. In sudden death most teams march down close to the opponent’s end zone and kick an easy field goal. If the Steelers do that, minus the three points we had to lay, the game’s a push, a point-spread tie. If Jacksonville scores first, we lose.
Pittsburgh wins the toss and promptly advances to the Jacksonville seventeen, where the inevitable field goal lurks. But then one of the least likely outcomes unfolds before my disbelieving eyes: On first down, Jerome Bettis, known to his fans as the Bus, rumbles into the end zone on a nifty little shovel pass play. Steelers by 6. We win!
I’m jumping around the bedroom like a kangaroo, high-fiving Viv and pumping my fist. “Eighty-four grand! Eighty-four grand!”
I’m still not sure how or when I’ll collect my percentage. Now? When Big Daddy says so? But I’m glad to go out a $269,900 winner. My cut comes to more than $5,000 a week. And who knows how much in suites, limos, and gourmet meals?
Downstairs I collect my cash and shoot a dirty look at Nick Cerruto, who silently oversees the payout. Super Moe finally emerges from his back office. I assume he wants to get a good look at me. Short, round, with a head crowned by a fringe of curly gray Three Stooges Larry hair, the so-called Superbookie looks more like a ladies’ shoe salesman. I flash him my warmest smile and resist the urge to blow him an appreciative kiss.
Twenty minutes later Sarge meets me in the suite.
It’s over.