Four

Close Calls

Twelve hours later, on the Monday morning following my banishment from the Hilton, Big Daddy suggests I contact the Mirage’s junket office in Los Angeles. He also tells me to call back our buddy Pencil Stevie at Caesars and see what he’ll do for me. “Come on now, pards,” Big Daddy urges, laying on creamy dollops of southern charm, “you got too much gamble in you now to quit. Hell, player of your reputation ought to be getting invitations from every joint in town, don’t you think?”

“You think my name is any good anymore?”

He grunts. “Only one way to find out.”

The Mirage is “eager” for my business, but they’ll have to call me back later in the day. (Probably after doing some checking up on me.) They never call.

Stevie at Caesars says he can give me a nice room, full RFB, and the same $30,000/$15,000 limits as last time I played. “That’s the best I can do,” he tells me. I’m sure he’s talked to Deputy Nick and compared notes. I ask him if I lose, will he raise the limits. “No, it’s not whether you win or lose, Mike. You’re always playing the sharp side. I just can’t fade fifty-thousand-dollar decisions on every game you play. These limits we’re offering you I can fade, whether you win or lose. They’ll have to stay where they are.”

“Sign me up,” I tell him. “I’ll see you Friday.”

When I report the news to Big Daddy Rick, he delivers his usual lengthy diatribe about how badly these people run their business, etc. But ultimately he instructs me to get on a plane. “We’ll give ’em some action.”

It’s not over yet.

 

While Vivian unpacks our bags in the suite, I deposit $300,000 into my account and chat pleasantly with Dina at the Caesars Palace sportsbook. She might be just an accomplished glad-hander accustomed to massaging the egos of big-time gamblers, but I play along with her genteel flirtation anyway. We’re all actors in other people’s high-dollar dramas. After the cash is counted and bundled, I give Dina seven plays, a mix of televised college games, added games, and an NFL game, Chicago vs. Detroit.

Afterward, when I confirm my bets, Big Daddy and I have a lengthy talk about the business of sports betting. If he were on the other side of the counter, he tells me, he’d steal away all the customers from places like Caesars and the Hilton. “These guys are a joke,” he chuckles. “I’m looking at the lines right now,” he announces. I imagine a monster computer with a live feed of the point spreads and odds offered at casinos around Las Vegas and the world. He laughs louder. “Caesars made Miami a favorite now—they were a two-point ’dog ten minutes ago! And the Bears are plus two and a half now.”

“I suppose that’s to be expected,” I say, as though I know what I’m talking about.

“Actually, 44, it doesn’t make real good sense.” Big Daddy starts to share some secrets about the significance of the number 3 in football spreads, but stops himself in the middle of his homily. “You’ll just write about it, and I don’t want to wake up too many people.”

This is the third time since I’ve known him that he’s acknowledged that one day I’ll chronicle my adventure. I’m sure it’s part of Big Daddy’s agenda: expose the casinos for the wimpy frauds they are. And someday I’ll make the perfect mouthpiece.

We agree that I should research betting opportunities at several other casinos. In the meantime, we’ll give Caesars some more plays—if he can find them. “Sometimes there’s not much to do. Sometimes they make a good number. We’re not going to manufacture games that aren’t there. Of course, we could always get lucky.” He laughs broadly again and says good night.

The next morning, Rick calls uncharacteristically late, with only one play. When I go downstairs to bet, the first thing I do is walk over to the Pencil and shake his hand. “Thanks for taking care of everything.”

“Everything all right?” he asks, scribbling on an old racing form.

I tell him yes and make some more small talk, offering to bring some cigars over from a VIP party I plan to attend later in the evening. He says that would be nice.

Let’s all be friends, I’m thinking. As I’m studying the board, Stevie tells me he’ll be happy to take some more action on the Notre Dame–Navy game, if I want Navy +16. I nod and pretend to be mulling the proposition. What I’m really thinking is how amusing this has all become. Soon the bookies will be telling me which games I can and cannot bet.

The sportsbook is unusually quiet for a Saturday. Business is slow, since next weekend is the Holyfield-Moorer heavyweight title fight as well as the Breeders’ Cup horse races, when all the hard-core gamblers in America will be swarming into the Vegas casinos like so many flies at the city dump. This lull before the action storm gives the Caesars Palace executives more time to scrutinize my every move, to analyze every bet I place. I can feel the tension.

Stevie and I engage in some more idle chatter before I slink off to the room. I’ve got $125,000 in play this weekend, and it feels like hardly anything.

Big Daddy doesn’t deliver any other Brain Trust orders the whole morning. While Vivian enjoys the spa, I do “real” work on my laptop, writing a story about a former nun who now runs a porno Web site, and desperately hope the phone will ring. If I don’t bet, I can’t earn any money. At 2:00 p.m., exasperated, I call Rick and ask if he’ll be needing me anymore, because I’d like to go out and do a fact-finding mission at some of the other casinos he and I have discussed.

He tells me to go. “Call me back around four for a check-in.”

I walk down the street to Harrah’s. Long a low-roller slot joint, the casino, which looks from the outside like a Mississippi steamboat run aground, has recently completed a much-publicized $250-million renovation, and management has stated publicly in gambling trade publications and through a costly billboard marketing blitz that Harrah’s wants to attract a “premium” level of customer. So I march into the executive host office and say I’m an RFB player across the street at Caesars and I’ve heard about Harrah’s push for big players and want to know how serious it is.

A perky young female host lights onto me like a vulture on carrion. I do my usual song and dance—blackjack and baccarat sometimes, sports for now, want to be taken care of, etc.—and she escorts me over to the sportsbook, where I’m introduced to Irving Rosenbaum, the manager. His greasy comb-over and fishy handshake say putz; his steely eyes and capped teeth say macher. My deceased grandmother, the one who peppered her English with Yiddish, would be happy I’m making deals with Irv. She would say, “He’s one of us.”

Mr. Rosenbaum quickly sizes me up as an ignorant sucker, an evaluation I reinforce by telling him what a supremely great handicapper I am. “Sure you are,” he says, smiling solicitously. “Or else you wouldn’t be betting, right?”

To my astonishment, Irving says he’ll be able to offer me $30,000 limits—on everything! NFL, college, and, incredibly, totals. Whatever I want to gamble on, he’ll book my action at thirty large a throw. As nonchalantly as I can, I tell him I’ll certainly be giving him some business. Maybe as soon as tonight. We shake hands and exchange pleasantries, and I get back in my room as quickly as possible to report the astounding news to Rick Matthews.

He admits he’s surprised. “The limits are a little higher than I expected,” he says, restraining his glee. Thirty thousand on totals is more than five times what we’re getting anywhere else.

Big Daddy wants me to bet a college game, but I can’t get back over to Harrah’s before kickoff. So I’m to withdraw $100,000 from my Caesars account, walk across the street with my phone, read off Irving’s lines to the boss—Harrah’s is not on the Caesars-Hilton-MGM computer line-reporting system to which Big Daddy subscribes—and be prepared to bet two or three games.

Before I go, I remind Rick how smoothly everything has gone at Harrah’s, and I ask him as nicely as I can not to burn me out.

There’s silence, then Big Daddy says, “Listen, 44, you have no fucking idea how hard I work to keep you cool as a well-digger’s ass. I give you the coolest plays I’ve got. Them guys, Nick and Stevie, they’re not choking on you because of your plays, it’s because you’re winning. Believe me, if they knew you were moving money for me, you’d be out on your ass in a second. They wouldn’t take a dime from you. And if any of them runners for the other groups knew who you were connected with—well, they’re liable to shake you down for information. So don’t you worry about staying cool. I only give you the coolest plays. It’s in my best interest, as well as yours.”

I’m genuinely shocked. “You mean they would threaten me?”

Big Daddy pauses.

“Rick, are you saying people would hurt me just to get the Brain Trust plays?”

“People do crazy things, 44. You know, when money’s involved, people get…let’s just say sometimes it brings out the worst in people. These casinos, the other betting groups, they all act like you got a key to the cashier’s cage. Like you somehow know in advance who’s gonna win. Now, you and me, we both know that ain’t true. It’s just gambling. But greedy people don’t recognize that, see? They believe you’re some kind of walking cash machine. So if they got the chance to stick you up…”

I try not to let my fear cloud my judgment. “Look, Rick, if you keep me cool and I never tip my identity to anyone, no one is going to hurt me, right?”

“That’s right. I wouldn’t put you in that position,44. It just ain’t worth it to me.”

I want reassurance. “So you’re not going to read about me in the newspaper one morning: ‘Sports bettor’s body found in the Mojave Desert, hot football picks stolen from his pockets.’ ”

Big Daddy doesn’t answer me directly. “I’m doing everything in my power to keep you cool and keep you safe.”

I hang up, shaken.

The truth is, I don’t really know what’s hot and what’s cold. I have a vague idea, yes, but this valuable information is known only to the true insiders who can track every dollar bet at Vegas sportsbooks with expensive computer software. I feel like the average private investor trying to make a killing in the options market: He thinks he’s privy, but really he’s as clueless as the next chump. Now I remember all the times I felt the gaze of familiar faces upon me at the sportsbooks. Was it my imagination? Or was I being watched by other syndicates, or casino management, or the Brain Trust itself?

When I go to the Caesars counter to draw down $100,000, the Pencil pops out of the back office to ask where I’m going. (He does this as offhandedly as humanly possible.) I tell him I might play some poker tonight.

“Oh, yeah?” he says, eyes widening. “Down at the Shoe?”

I shake my head.

“Next door? The Mirage?”

I tell him yes.

“Wow. No kidding? I tell you what, Mike, my opinion about you is changing. Maybe I was wrong about you.” I have some idea what this means, and I don’t want to encourage more conversation. So I mumble something nonsensical and shuffle away.

At five o’clock on a perfect autumn afternoon, I walk across Las Vegas Boulevard with a cell phone in my pocket and $100,000 cash in Vivian’s purse, which I’ve borrowed while she lounges at the Palace’s European pool, tanning her breasts. When I amble into the Harrah’s sportsbook, a modest but bustling pit replete with television screens and shouting bettors, Irving makes eye contact with me as I approach the counter. I nod to him as I copy down the point spreads for the NFL games, as well as the day’s two remaining college games. Then I take a seat in the back of the room and pretend to study my notes. When I’m sure nobody’s paying attention, I glide away, looking for a secure place to call Big Daddy.

A nearby men’s room is too busy, so I take an escalator to the third floor, near the showroom, and find a quiet corner, near a service elevator. I call Rick with the lines, sotto voce. “These numbers don’t have any opinion in them whatsoever,” he says. “This guy’s probably just getting his point spreads off some screen, from a computer service.” He pauses a moment to consider the data; then he instructs me to make two total bets for $33,000 apiece. “And I guess we should give him an NFL game, too, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, he would probably like to see that.”

“I’m sure he would, pardsy-wardsy. Well, we’ll give him something that looks real good. Go bet him the Monday night game. Pittsburgh getting three. He’ll love that.”

When I return, Irving and his staff couldn’t be more cordial, if slightly flustered at the sight of $100,000 in cash. To my delight, nobody blinks at my bets, especially since the first one I make is the Monday night game. Indeed, as soon as I’ve received my betting tickets, the supervisor on duty asks if there’s anything he can do for me. I tell him my girlfriend would love to visit the spa tomorrow. “She can’t get enough of that seaweed,” I joke. He immediately writes me a comp ticket, the currency of personal worth peculiar to Las Vegas, the drab little slip of paper that says, “You’re important.”

After attending the VIP cigar event, I return to Caesars and hand out pricey samples to several of the sportsbook staff. As Big Daddy has suggested, we want to remain friends with as many betting outlets as possible. And if a fine stogie can buy some much-needed goodwill, I’m happy to oblige. In this business, your “good friends” can turn baleful more quickly than you can say “wiseguy sports bettor.”

On Sunday morning, Big Daddy calls later than usual—only forty minutes before the 10:00 a.m. kickoff of the East Coast games—and asks me if I have the Harrah’s lines.

I tell him no. I’ve been waiting in the hotel room, a loyal soldier anticipating the order to go into battle. He sends me across the street to check on the numbers, after which I’m supposed to call him on the cell phone. I hustle across the Strip, jaywalking and jumping through a row of hedges. After scribbling down the current point spreads, I return to my service elevator alcove on the third floor. While I’m in the middle of reporting the numbers to Rick, the elevator door starts to open and I’m forced, mid-sentence, to shove the phone in my pants. When I return to Big Daddy a few seconds later, after a maintenance man walks past with a broom, he instinctively understands my situation and says, “Everything all right now, 44? Can you talk?”

“Yes, but I better make it fast.”

“Well, don’t do anything suspicious. Somebody will call security on you if anything looks funny. Anyway, let’s play the Baltimore game, plus four and a half. You might as well give it to Stevie at Caesars; you probably need to give him some action, right?”

I dash back across the Strip. When I return to Caesars to bet the Ravens game, the tension there contrasts starkly with the eager, accommodating attitude at Harrah’s. Jaws set, lips pursed, eyes unwavering. It’s the difference between a place that wants to gamble with you and one that’s scared.

Between the early NFL games and the start of the late games at 1:00 p.m., Big Daddy instructs me to alternate back and forth between the two properties, shopping for three particular numbers. If they come up, fire away; if not, I’m done for the day. After a peripatetic morning of Vegas Boulevard commuting, interrupted only by a brief poolside lunch with an increasingly brown Viv, they never appear.

The Brain Trust gets buried in two games—we’re never a contender after the first ten minutes—and benefits from incredible luck in the third. Our team, Kansas City, returns the final kickoff against Washington for a “meaningless” touchdown that covers the spread as time expires. For the weekend I end up $4,000 to the good, with another $33,000 pending on the Monday night tilt.

When Sarge comes to retrieve the money, I get further confirmation of what I suspected all along: the former Las Vegas Metro detective isn’t just packing for show. While he uses one of the two bathrooms in my suite, I surreptitiously inspect his pistol, a little silver snub-nosed thing, which he usually keeps in the waistband of his pants. It’s loaded with six bullets.

When he returns, Sarge asks how we did. I tell him we made a small profit.

“That’s better than losing,” he says.

I shrug. “Maybe not.” At this point I’m more concerned about long-term relationships. I can’t win if I don’t have anywhere to play. A week after it all seemed to come crashing to an end, it looks like now I’ve got several places to bet. And thus, the money, I’m beginning to understand, will come, as certain as the rising sun. I don’t know how it’s done, how we end up with a slight but definite edge, but it will come.

 

In less than two months I’ve gone from doubtful skeptic to true believer. I’ve seen the fear in a bookie’s eyes; I’ve felt the paranoia. The Brain Trust makes otherwise strong men, powerful managers who are used to bullying the weaklings, tremble with trepidation. The bookies are accustomed to winning. So are the Brains. Something’s got to give.

In preparation for another Vegas weekend, Irv Rosenbaum says he’ll see what he can do about sending me and a guest to the big Holyfield fight. “It shouldn’t be a problem,” he tells me cheerfully. “We’ll take care of you, sir.” I like Irving. He’s committed to pampering his new sucker, and he doesn’t seem to mind gambling—so long as he thinks he’s taking the best of the proposition. Jew, Italian, hillbilly—none of the stereotypes matter in the sports betting world. Everyone is trying to empty the other guy’s pockets.

I’ve got three gentlemen on my call list. Someone’s going to send me to see Evander. And maybe all three will get a piece of my business. Irv Rosenbaum is the first to call back to say he’s procured two tickets to the fight for me. I immediately book a reservation at Harrah’s and thank him for taking such good care of me. Terry Roberts, the boss man from Sunset Station, a new off-Strip property, calls to say he can offer me only $5,000 to $10,000 limits, but if I play at that level he’ll have no problem comping everything for me. “And for the lady in your life, we’re near a great shopping mall,” he reminds me. Stevie the Pencil calls to say he can’t get fight tickets for me—not for anybody. He can set me up at full RFB, but “they” won’t give him any tickets for his big players. I don’t complain. “Thanks for trying,” I say.

He asks me how I did this weekend. “About break even?”

“Yeah, it’s tough laying eleven to ten,” I say.

“That’s why nobody can beat it, why everyone ends up losing eventually. I’m telling you, the vig gets you in the end.”

“Maybe you’re right. But I’d like to take my shots and see what happens.”

The Pencil steers the conversation around to what he calls “working for a living.” He keeps repeating the word “workingman.” Then he springs his big revelation on me: “Hey, Michael, you mind me asking what you do when you’re not gambling?”

I tell him I’m a writer and that I’m in the movie business, that I’ve sold a couple of big scripts this year for some serious ching-ching.

“I thought so. In fact, I’ve read some of the things you’ve written. About gambling, I mean.” He pauses to see if I’ll react. “They were very good. You’re obviously no dope. You know what you’re doing.”

“I told you I was smart,” I retort. “I told you I knew more about gambling than ninety-nine percent of the people in your sportsbook, and that if anyone had a shot at winning it was me.”

“Yes, you did say that. Anyway, I just wanted to let you know I enjoyed the stuff you wrote.”

What he really means to say is “I know who you are, pal.”

“I still think you’re probably moving money for someone,” he says. “But leave off the first week’s results and you would probably be stuck for the season. So, I don’t know.”

“Stevie,” I say, “I don’t know which games are hot. And I don’t know what the wiseguys are doing. I really don’t. I just know what bets I want to make. I read The Gold Sheet, like everyone else. I do a little homework. And then I put my money behind my opinion. If I’m wrong, I’ll pay the price. If I’m right, it’s party time. In any case, I’d like to think the casino would appreciate my business. I expect to be taken care of.” This is a theme I stressed in my letter to the president of the Hilton, decrying my rough treatment there. I’m getting annoyed with the belligerent attitude toward a good customer. “I expect the casino won’t act like they’re doing me a favor taking my action.”

“All right, all right, Mr. Konik,” Stevie says. I can tell he isn’t completely convinced I’m as benign as I claim. But he’s still having me as his guest for the coming weekend. I reckon he’s afraid of getting beat but equally afraid of losing a pigeon who could be contributing mightily to his bottom line. So, in the end, I’m still welcome to play at Caesars. “But be forewarned, Mike,” he informs me, “your comp privileges might get yanked at any minute. In fact, I’ve suggested to my superiors that they cut off your comps and raise your limits.”

I sense this is a test. “I would be very unhappy with that arrangement. I expect to be treated like a valued customer.”

“I hear you, sir,” Stevie says. But I can tell the end is probably near at Caesars Palace. The Pencil and I have reached a new level of frankness. And I know things will never be the same, now that he knows that I write about gambling.

When I report the latest developments to Big Daddy, he laughs and suggests I tell Stevie that, yes, indeed, I’m going to be writing a big article about my season of sports betting, and it would be an honor if I could mention that the world-famous Caesars Palace sportsbook—run by Mr. Stevie Masters—barred me from betting. “Tell him you would love to write that you had Caesars trembling in their boots. And by the way, would he put it in writing how scared he is of you, so you could add it to the article. Tell him you would like the whole world to know that you were good enough to scare off a place like Caesars.”

I chuckle. “Would you really like me to say that?”

“Hell, yeah! All this talk about moving someone else’s money. He’s bullshitting you. Well, throw it right back at him.”

Big Daddy’s response rolls over me like an enormous wave of relief. I may be on the verge of getting run out of every joint in town. But I’m sure of one thing: It’s going to be fun.

 

I check into Harrah’s hotel for the first time, on a Friday afternoon, traveling with nothing but a six-figure bankroll to keep me company. Vivian and I are fighting again. Although we’re allegedly committed partners, living together, she’s “starting to see” an unemployed actor-model-dancer-waiter she met at her gym. It’s her unsubtle protest against what she perceives as a lack of attention—“All you care about is betting on sports!”

I’m in a melancholy mood. The management at Harrah’s is not. Harrah’s glee at my arrival is obvious: limousine at the airport, big suite, personal greeting by key-bearing host, tickets to the Holyfield fight.

Sarge arrives promptly with $350,000. I expected more, since I thought Big Daddy wanted me to play Harrah’s and Caesars simultaneously. When I call Big Daddy to acknowledge receipt of the cash, he instructs me to cancel my reservation at Caesars. The Pencil, he thinks, will be happy to have me bet some games without having to comp my room and meals. “Just tell him you’re playing at the Mirage, where they’re taking care of you. He’ll thank you.”

Big Daddy has cautioned me not to mention a word about Harrah’s to anyone. This is too good a situation to jeopardize. I’m not sure if Rick’s analysis is correct, but it’s not my call. I do as I’m told.

After placing $165,000 worth of bets under Irving’s watchful and approving eye—of course he approves; I’m playing what seem to be “square” games on the wrong side—I trot across the Strip to Caesars, with $50,000 in my bag.

The Pencil, to my surprise, is there behind the counter. I make my bets, two lukewarm college games, and pay in cash. Instead of putting my usual $300,000 on deposit, I motion to Stevie and ask if he’ll meet me down the counter at a closed betting window. “What’s up, Mike?” he asks fraternally.

I tell him he can cancel my reservation, that I’ll be doing most of my play elsewhere this weekend, but that I’ll come by and give him some business when it makes sense for me. The Pencil says he understands completely and offers to buy me dinner anyway, since the bulk of my expenses will be covered by one of his competitors. Then something nice happens: Stevie and I chat for about fifteen minutes, relaxed and comfortable. I tell him I’m glad he enjoyed my articles, and, as he must know, I’ll be writing one about my sports betting experiences—and, by the way, I’ll make sure I spell his name right. And, oh, one more thing: Does he mind if I characterize mighty Caesars as being so scared of me they were “shaking in their boots”?

He grins and asks that I just be fair. “I got an idea for the title of this article,” he says, writing two words on a piece of Caesars letterhead. “The Front.”

I scowl disapprovingly.

The Pencil smiles broadly. “I’m kidding! I thought I could joke around with you.”

We talk more about my “smartness,” what a tough player I am, and how players like me make life difficult for bookmakers like him. “Can I be candid with you?” Pencil Stevie asks.

Before I can answer, he says, “Whenever the line on a favorite starts to drop, I know my book is about to take a hit. I know it. When all the sharps start betting the underdogs, I know we’re in trouble. Believe me, Mike, I realize that guys who bet as much as you do usually have extremely sophisticated information.”

“Well, I don’t know, Steve,” I mumble. “I’m just, you know…trying to pick—”

“Listen,” he interrupts. “I take back what I said about you—the part about being unable to win laying eleven to ten. I was wrong.”

“Serious?” I say, sensing a trap.

“Seriously. Your magazine articles, the ones you write about gambling, they’re very sharp, just like your handicapping. Since I met you I’ve hung on your every word, waiting for you to trip up. I listen to everything you say, and you’re always right there, saying the right thing.”

Stevie also tells me what a regular guy he is, how he likes to kick back with the boys, have a beer, and play the guitar—he’s got a Les Paul and a Stratocaster, and he’s really into Zeppelin. Stevie’s New England accent, I notice, comes on a bit stronger when he’s acting less than corporate. He tells me how the pressure of answering to management, of always sweating one bad week, even if he has twenty good ones, sometimes clouds his judgment. “Hell, I don’t even know if I’ll be around for long.”

I feel for him. He’s been at Caesars for three years expertly managing the top sportsbook in Las Vegas, and any week could be his last. The Pencil is a decent guy doing a hard job. And having a weasel like me in his face, betting huge amounts, asking for big comps, doesn’t make things easier. I genuinely like Pencil Stevie, and I appreciate his candor. It bothers me that I can’t reciprocate.

Before I go, he confides that Super Moe Farakis from the Hilton called a few times. “I told him I thought you were pretty sharp, but that I was going to play with you anyway. You don’t have to tell me what happened over there. I know. He’s a total pussy.”

We share a laugh and I scurry off to Harrah’s.

I spend a sleepless night worrying about Vivian. When Rick Matthews calls at daybreak with the early morning Saturday plays, I’m bleary-eyed and grouchy. My mood further dims when, to my surprise, he sends me to Caesars to bet a single college game.

The Pencil is there again. I wave to him, approach a window, and proclaim proudly that I want Maryland plus 18. I know this is a square play, and my sureness is confirmed when Stevie bounces over and asks me, what I want—$20,000? Since I have only $17,000 in my pocket, I make a quick joke: “Now I know I really picked the wrong team.” We both laugh. I pretend to check the board for a few seconds, looking for that one special point spread calling my name, and dash back to Harrah’s.

I bet Rutgers getting two touchdowns from Boston College, which I’ve previously played across the street. Now the Brain Trust and I have $49,500 on this otherwise inconsequential game. I make some small talk with Irving—“You got a horse for me in the Breeders’ Cup?”—but I can see he’s starting to sweat the money a bit. I don’t blame him. If I destroy his lines for a couple of weeks straight, the sportsbook’s entire quarterly earnings will be obliterated, and Irv could be out of a job.

For the moment, Mr. Rosenbaum doesn’t have to worry. I lose my first two games of the day, putting me in a $66,000 hole. Happily, the Rutgers game comes in, easing the sting momentarily. The other games in progress look bad—right until the end. Then I get lucky, as any gambler is entitled to every now and then. An interception returned for an improbable touchdown. A seventy-four-yard run out of nowhere. A terrible penalty call that goes our way. My teams start coming in from all directions. All three of my Caesars plays are winners, and most of my Harrah’s games, too. While I’m at the heavyweight title fight, watching Evander Holyfield dismantle Michael Moorer, Arizona, my last side of the college day, covers its 16-point impost.

I go 7–2 and win $99,000.

Luckily, my two losses come at Harrah’s. As tremendous as my current arrangement is at Irv’s joint, I’m wary of burning it out by winning too much too soon. On the other hand, Harrah’s makes money off legions of deluded people, many of them so sick they can’t help themselves. Fuck ’em.

 

Early Sunday morning, Big Daddy orders four NFL total plays. Before most of Las Vegas has had breakfast, I’ve bet $132,000. On the phone he says, “Let’s see, buddy boy, what do we have for ol’ Mr. Caesars?” He chuckles to himself, and I imagine he’s looking over his shopping list of games. “So Stevie says he’s not scared of you. He’s got to be cautious. Yes, sir, you can never be too careful when you’re trying to take people’s money.”

Big Daddy Rick gives me a list of NFL numbers I’m supposed to look for. He tells me to hang around the Harrah’s counter. “Is that place crowded?” he asks.

I tell him no, not now. During game time, yes. “It’s packed with people sweating their twenty-dollar parlay card.”

“All right, pards, you be looking for those line changes. Over and out.”

Actually, I’ll be playing a little guessing game, seeing if I can figure out which of the anonymous gamblers studying the toteboard are Big Daddy’s foot soldiers. In the afternoon, I’d like to avail myself of some high-roller amenities. A brisk workout. A massage. Hell, maybe I’ll try something I’ve never done before: get a pedicure. I’d also like to bet a few games at Caesars to maintain my relationship there. And I should do a fact-finding mission over at the Mirage, to see if there are any fresh fields to be sown.

My morning expedition in search of hot point spreads proves fruitless, as Irving seems to be reluctant to move his line much. Whereas at Caesars my $33,000 bets would warrant at least a half-point adjustment, at Harrah’s the lines don’t budge. Big Daddy, I know, will probably exploit this tendency by sending in an army of thousand-dollar bettors to pound the book at a choice number. If that happens, it won’t take Irv long to catch on: He’s going to have to move the line if he wants to attract balanced action. Then again, maybe he likes to gamble.

My poker pal, Spanish Jack, joins me for brunch in my suite. Over bagels and fruit smoothies, Jack rubs his triple chin and wonders out loud if I would get in trouble for telling anyone—him, for example—which teams the Brain Trust likes in the afternoon NFL games.

“Jackie, Jackie,” I moan, shaking my head. “I’m shocked.”

“I’m just saying,” he shrugs.

“Come on now, brother, don’t put me in that position.”

“Just a thought.”

The thought has indeed crossed my mind. What harm would it do if I told a friend or two which games the Brains liked, aside from breaching Big Daddy’s trust? No one would ever find out.

Or would they? I get the sense that Big Daddy somehow knows about every bet being made at every bookmaking shop in Nevada, that he’s an omniscient wizard controlling the action. I’ve observed firsthand how a point spread can move when “the steam”—a hurricane of bets, led by the smart money and reinforced by thousands of faithful followers—starts brewing. If one of the Brain Trust games went rocketing out of control because one of my friends bet on it—and told one of his friends, who told one of his friends—I’d be out of a weekend job, not to mention the good graces of a man I’ve quickly grown to admire.

I send Spanish Jack away without uttering a peep about the magic numbers and return to the sportsbook.

The afternoon games start without any of my key point spreads appearing. We’ve split results in the morning games and have two more bets in the afternoon, as well as one on the late ESPN game. I can either sit around Harrah’s and sweat the scores or do some more digging. I call Big Daddy for permission to leave. Permission is granted.

My first stop, the Mirage, yields a vague promise from Julie Jimenez, the assistant sportsbook manager, that if I bet as heavily as I’ve suggested I do, she’ll be happy to see what she can do for me. “But first we need to know who you are and how you play. We have to make sure you’re not one of Rick Matthews’s cronies,” she says, laughing. I laugh with her, realizing instantly that the Mirage is going to be a tough spot to play. To help the cause, I pop into the poker room, where I know the manager, Niall Nokes. He’s out, but I leave a note, telling him some exciting things have happened in my life, some of which might involve poker. Very high stakes poker.

Passing Siegfried and Roy’s white tigers on the way out of the casino, I take the Rain Man people-mover into Caesars Palace. Little Mikey Brown, who could play Evander Holyfield in the movies, is behind the counter and, as always, greets me warmly. As he dabs his ebony forehead with a silk handkerchief, I tell him I want to cash some winning tickets, about $100,000 worth. He says it will be a few minutes. In the interim we chat about the fight, about sports, about girls. Then Pencil Stevie comes out. To my relief, he’s chatty and all smiles. He comments that it looks like I had a good weekend. I tell him I did great yesterday but I’m losing the juice today. He confides that he’s heavy on certain games—“we really need Baltimore”—and asks me how I did “over there,” meaning the Mirage. I tell him I didn’t play much, that I did most of my betting at the Horseshoe. (I can’t mention Harrah’s.) While Stevie draws what looks like a cubist still life on an odds sheet, we talk sports, specifically the difficulty in beating it, and even after I get my money, I stay and talk for another ten minutes, continuing to raise the comfort level between us. Stevie mentions a story I wrote, about Jox Brijox and his Vegas line. “As you said in your article, we tweak his numbers all the time. They’re just a starting point. I got regular players in here who I know which way they’re going to bet. So I put up the right line.”

Before I go, Stevie promises he’ll be happy to take care of dinner for me tonight, or next week, or whenever. “I’ve got a record of every single one of your plays, and you’ve definitely earned it,” he says. We’re officially pals, Stevie and me.

Hiding in a men’s room stall, I stash the hundred large in my pants pockets and my underwear, $10,000 at a time. Then, as nonchalantly as I can manage with my currency codpiece, I walk through the casino and out the front door, into the light. Although Caesars and Harrah’s are directly across from each other, crossing the street legally requires a detour to the corner of Flamingo and the Strip, or to another crosswalk several hundred yards to the north. Preferring to spend as little time as possible out on the sidewalk with cash in my briefs, I decide to jaywalk across Las Vegas Boulevard. I force myself through a low hedge and dash across the last two lanes before a barreling tour bus can flatten me. As soon as I arrive on the Harrah’s side of the boulevard, two Las Vegas Metro cops roll up to me on their bicycles.

Clad in Tour de France yellow jerseys embroidered with POLICE on the spot where the bank sponsorship would normally go, bearing significantly more heft around the middle than Lance Armstrong, they both scowl at me disapprovingly through mirrored sunglasses. “What are you thinking?” one of them asks.

“You know we got crosswalks in this town,” the other says. “Let’s see some identification.”

“Sorry,” I say, fishing through my crowded left front pocket, searching with my fingers for my driver’s license among the bills. “I was just trying to save a little time. I know it was stupid.”

“What’s the hurry?” the first cop queries.

I look him in the eye. “Honestly? I got a hot tip on a football game. I got a whole bunch of money in my pocket, and I wanted to run over here and bet it before the line moved.” I hand the officer my license.

The bike cop looks it over and hands it back to me. “So, what’s the hot play?”

“Pittsburgh, baby. Steelers all the way!” I say, nodding confidently.

“All right, then. I’ll remember that. But it ain’t worth getting killed over, is it? Next time, use the crosswalks like everybody else.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Be safe,” they say, starting to roll off. “And good luck, dude!”

Making sure nothing has fallen out of my pockets—like a bar of hundreds, for instance—I start to make my way into Harrah’s and nearly trip over Irving Rosenbaum, who’s walking with a cell phone pressed to his ear. For a moment I panic. But then I realize I’ve got nothing to hide. He knows I’m going to make an occasional bet at Caesars. And while I’m not sure why he’s outside his property on the sidewalk in the middle of a game day—maybe he’s making renegade bets for himself!—I’ve got nothing to keep secret. Except, of course, the stuff that could get me thrashed by hired goons.

“Hi, Irving,” I say cheerfully as I skip past him. He barely looks up.

Depositing my Caesars winnings at the Harrah’s cage takes an inordinate amount of time. First I have to dig the money out of my trousers. It’s clear they’re not used to handling so much cash. Indeed, some of the tellers look up from their transactions to see who’s playing. I try my best to act like this kind of deposit is normal for me—which, at this point in the season, it almost is.

After a massage and a manicure in the spa, I withdraw my entire bankroll from Harrah’s and arrange a rendezvous with Sarge. He takes away $402,500 in cash. Before the late game, I’m up $93,000 for the weekend.

To pass the time until my limo leaves for the airport, I sit in the sportsbook with the other howling gamblers, eat some unhealthy sports-bar food, and root for the Steelers and the Ravens not to score. (I have the under.) It’s fun to listen to the theatrical emotions generated by the guys around me—the impassioned curses and plaintive pleas, all inspired by a $40 bet. If they only knew the guy sitting next to them had $63,000 riding on the outcome.

Before I check out, my perky and over-cosmeticized host, Janelle, confirms arrangements for the following weekend. She wants me to know I can expect another executive suite next time, as well as a good window table at Harrah’s spectacular steakhouse overlooking the Strip and a full day of spa activities for my girlfriend. Should I still have one.

I’m thinking life is good. “Life is good,” I tell Janelle.

“Yes, sir,” Janelle agrees, nodding her head so rapidly I’m fearful she’ll hurt her neck. “You bet it is!”

When I leave Harrah’s, the Steeler total is 23 points. I need the game to go under 44½. After checking in for the flight, I find an airport bar. The total is 30. On board, shortly before takeoff, the pilot says the score is 37–0, with six minutes to play. When I get home, I switch on ESPN and learn that 37–0 was, in fact, the final score.

It’s a $123,000 weekend.

 

Niall Nokes, poker manager at the Mirage, calls on Monday afternoon. I do my song and dance about coming into a lot of money (movie scripts, Spielberg, possible television series) and I confess I want to take a shot at the big poker games. I ask him serious-sounding questions about game security and my short- and long-term expectations. But, really, I just want to find out if I can somehow stage a match (for show purposes). Also, in case executives there are talking about me, I want him to be able to chime in with something helpful.

We talk for fifteen minutes, and when I hang up I feel like a heel. Niall is a good man, a cooperative casino executive with whom I’ve worked in the past. I hate lying to him.

Six days later, on a dull Sunday afternoon, the Harrah’s hotel suite feels more like a torture chamber than a sanctuary. Vivian and I are enduring a civil détente, the main components of which are repeated apologies and solemn vows meant to ensure a mutually bright and faithful future. She swears she’s stopped seeing her “friend” from the gym, and I swear I’ll be more solicitous of her needs, especially the ones that don’t involve her sexual appetites. Still, the tension between us is almost unbearable, and when she shows no inclination to leave our hotel room I have the urge to grab my Brain Trust phone and dive into the jangling distraction of the casino. This, I learned yesterday, is not a good idea. Indeed, when it becomes increasingly clear that the Brains have no action for me on this Sunday—the 10:00 a.m. kickoff passes without any word whatsoever from Big Daddy—I start to worry.

Perhaps he’s had me shadowed and discovered that yesterday afternoon, desperate to escape Viv and the morose room, I withdrew $1,000 from my sports account to play blackjack (and lost) and then made a renegade bet on San Diego State for $2,200 to try to recoup my deficit. I’m not sure if this last bit was against Big Daddy’s wishes—I strongly suspect it might be—but I didn’t bother to tell him in any case.

When it became manifestly clear that San Diego State was going to be a loser, I realized I was now responsible for $3,200 of missing Brain Trust money. But instead of telling Rick or taking out a cash advance against my credit card, I went across the street to the Flamingo and bet the New York Jets for $4,400—the largest sports bet I’ve ever made on my own behalf.

The scariest part was this: The Jets were not a Brain Trust special. They were my play, my choice. The line early in the week had been Jets –3, and the public (and the wiseguys, no doubt) had bet the line down and down and down, until the game was pick ’em. I figured that my old interview subject Jox Brijox, the nation’s linemaker, couldn’t have been three points off in his reckoning. There had to be some value at this point in betting the disfavored Jets. Plus, The Gold Sheet, the handicapping service for quasi-sophisticated bettors, was calling the Jets’ opponent, the Vikings, its key release of the week. So everybody in the world was on Minnesota. I figured I’d go the other way.

A defeat would mean I’d lose $7,600 of Big Daddy’s money. My options then would be to tell him the humiliating truth and have the amount deducted from my commission, borrow the funds from a Vegas gambler friend like Spanish Jack, or chase my losses with another bet in the afternoon, this time for $15,000. Every time I thought about losing the Jets game I felt my heart begin to race and my stomach churn, and I’d realize I was no better than a million other piteous gamblers. It’s a wonder that I slept at all Saturday night.

When Big Daddy doesn’t call Sunday morning, I figure I’ve been busted. Maybe whoever he’s paid off at Caesars is reporting my bets to him. Or maybe I’m being paranoid. Maybe there’s simply nothing for us to bet on this NFL morning.

Since I must stay in the room for Rick’s expected call, I can’t watch the Jets game, which is being televised only regionally. It’s probably for the best. Every play would most likely send me into joyous hysterics or incurable depression. Instead, I tiptoe around Viv, who has no idea what I’ve done, and check for updates every five minutes or so on ESPN’s sports ticker.

To my enormous relief, the Jets never trail in the game. At halftime they lead 17–7. And well into the fourth quarter they lead 23–7, meaning the Vikings would have to score three times unanswered for me (and the Jets) to lose.

With a few minutes left in the game, Big Daddy finally calls. “How ya doin’, pards?” he says breezily, as though he somehow knows I’m sweating out a crucial win.

“Ready and willing to work,” I reply firmly. “You got any business for me?”

Big Daddy tells me it doesn’t look like we’re going to have any plays for the afternoon or evening. “So as soon as this Detroit game is over, let’s rack up the money and see where we stand. I’ll arrange for Sarge to pick it up in a couple of hours.”

There won’t be any chasing opportunities in the afternoon. Big Daddy wants his money.

When I leave the room, the Jets are leading 23–15, having allowed the Vikings a touchdown and a two-point conversion. Another touchdown and two-pointer would mean a tie game, which would force a sudden-death overtime. The symbolism of that concept is not lost on me.

As Viv and I make our way through the casino toward the sportsbook, we pass a bar where several games are being broadcast on large-screen TVs. The first image I see is Bill Parcells, the Jets’ coach, raising his fists in triumph. The next image I see is a slow-motion replay of a Vikings running back being stopped two yards short of the end zone. “What happened?” I ask a happy barfly.

“Jets won. Vikings missed their two-pointer.”

“That play was to tie the game?” I ask expectantly.

“Oh, yeah. Real nail-biter.”

The Vikes had somehow scored another touchdown in the final seconds and with no time remaining went for the game-tying two-point conversion. And the Jets stopped them.

I’m glad I didn’t see any of this. Vomiting all over myself would have been embarrassing.

How does Big Daddy deal with million-dollar decisions every weekend? How can he sleep at night knowing a small fortune was won (or lost) on the fickle bounce of a ball or the call of a myopic line judge? Funny as this sounds coming from someone wagering hundreds of thousands of dollars on football games, if I’ve learned anything from this renegade escapade, it’s that I’m not cut out for high-stakes gambling. It doesn’t thrill me. It nauseates me.

Luckily, as in a fairy tale, everything turned out happily ever after. That’s when I tell Vivian the details of my near tragedy. She thinks I’m making it up. She can’t believe I would do something so stupid and reckless. I can’t either.

Following a celebratory glass of champagne, Vivian and I skip over to the Flamingo, where I cash what I anticipate will be my final ticket there. I make a big production of how my winning Jets pick was definitely not a wiseguy move. “Guess what, fellas,” I crow to the counter personnel, “those so-called smart guys aren’t always so smart, are they? I got news for you: There’s a new smart guy in town, and you’re looking at him. Those brilliant smart guys,” I mutter. “They don’t know everything, do they?”

I’m secretly hoping that with enough idiotic ranting and raving the Flamingo will install me at my preferred five-figure limits. It’s a long shot, but in the meantime I’m having a great time being a lunatic. It’s not hard to howl like a fool when you’ve just snapped off a $4,000 win that gets you out of serious trouble.

As I cash out my winnings at Caesars, a handsome gentleman dressed in a black double-breasted blazer and neatly pressed tan slacks emerges from behind the counter with a manicured hand extended in greeting. He introduces himself as Gino Miceli, vice president of something or other—the Pencil’s boss. “Just wanted to shake your hand and thank you for your patronage. We appreciate your business. Thank you.” As he turns to leave, he says, “By the way, Mr. Konik, I really enjoy your articles about gambling. They’re great.”

I tell the Suit he’s really going to enjoy the story I’m going to write about my season of football betting. “You never know, you might get a mention.”

“Oh, I’m going to look forward to that one!” he says, flashing a polished white smile.

At this point I don’t know what I’m going to say about my experiences as a high-rolling sports bettor. Maybe this double life will go on forever. Maybe my fantastic secret will be known only among my closest friends. Maybe my life has been irretrievably changed. Maybe the hours previously spent constructing sentences and paragraphs will forevermore be dedicated to finding exploitable point spreads.

Before the aroma of Gino’s expensive cologne has dissipated, I huddle with Pencil Stevie to set up a reservation for the coming weekend—“No problem, Mr. Konik”—and to inquire about getting my limits raised. On that count the Pencil’s undecided. “Just ask,” he says. “We’ll have to do it on a case-by-case basis. I can’t promise you anything.”

“Have a nice Thanksgiving, Stevie,” I say, patting him on the shoulder.

“You, too, sir.”

I know I will. For the season we’re 71–44–1, an astonishing 61.7 percent success rate. We’ve won $602,900—that’s $67,000 per weekend. It would take a downturn of catastrophic proportions for me to finish the campaign a loser.

And they say you can’t beat sports.