In Las Vegas and Atlantic City the competition to attract heavy gamblers is fierce. The profit to any casino from the action of just one unlucky high roller can easily outweigh the combined profit from hundreds of nickel-and-dime players.
All the major casinos will comp big players to the eyeballs—with first-class airfare, luxury suites, unlimited booze, and whatever else it takes to keep them happy while they blow small fortunes at the tables.
With every casino offering essentially the same inducements, the problem of how to compete effectively with one another for these premium players loomed large.
One solution involved offering bigger and better attractions. But only of a certain type. Whereas theme parks and circuses, rock singers and Broadway-style revues, magic shows and comedy shops were all useful in drawing the middle-class and family trade to the tables, the casinos had long since learned that these were not the enticements that drew North American high rollers. That constituency, composed primarily of wealthy middle-aged businessmen, responded mainly to two kinds of attraction.
The first was championship boxing, which over the past three decades had established itself more or less permanently in the converted showrooms of Las Vegas and Atlantic City.
The second was big-name entertainers. Tom Jones, Tony Bennett, Engelbert Humperdinck—you could probably count these guaranteed casino-fillers on the fingers of one hand. They had endured for decades, retaining the unwavering loyalty of their fans, many of whom associated them with pleasant memories of earlier, simpler times.
One of the brightest of these stars—if not the brightest—was Tony Francisco. The Galaxy had Francisco under exclusive contract in the Las
Vegas market for three separate weeks every year, a multimillion-dollar investment on the casino’s part that had paid off handsomely as a drawing card for big players—a fact that Francisco and his agent, Solly Greenspan, were keenly aware of. As a result, the pair had decided to try to sweeten the pot for Francisco’s services, slyly waiting until after the Galaxy had invested heavily in an ad campaign to promote the entertainer’s next scheduled appearance before springing their demands on Galaxy CEO Emmett Druperman.
Following Greenspan’s message to Druperman, an urgent videoconference call between the two men had been arranged. During the call, the agent had issued a thinly veiled threat to cancel the gig unless the Galaxy upped the ante from $2.5 million to $5 million for Francisco’s week of service.
When Druperman pointed out that the entertainer was bound by contract to appear at the lower rate, Greenspan smiled apologetically and reminded the CEO that the contract did provide for cancellation in case of illness and hinted broadly that Tony was not feeling too well.
“He seems to be coming down with a sore throat, Emmett. If it gets any worse, there’s no way he can perform … .”
Druperman’s brow knotted in anger. “Great timing, Solly. Right after I’ve spent a fucking fortune promoting this gig.”
“These things happen.”
“Whose idea was this, anyway? Yours or that goddamn old dago’s?”
“Tony’s always taken an interest in the business side of things.”
“And I suppose the extra two and a half will take care of this convenient sore throat?”
“Like a trip to Lourdes, Emmett.”
Druperman snorted in disgust. “So that’s the way it is now, huh, Solly? I remember when a man’s word meant something. When you made deals on a handshake.” He took off his bifocals and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Now even a signed contract isn’t worth shit.” Druperman watched the five-inch videophone screen intently as Greenspan shrugged helplessly. The gesture was amplified by the jerkiness of partial-motion transmission.
“Don’t shoot the messenger, Emmett.”
“I’ll get back to you.” Druperman hung up.
Having delegated the extortion business to Steve Forrester, Emmett Druperman returned his attention to the Tony Francisco situation.
The Galaxy stood to increase its drop by 10 or 15 million dollars during Francisco’s week, so he could well afford the extra money the entertainer was demanding. But it was a matter of precedent: once it became known that Emmett Druperman had caved in under pressure—and Druperman had no doubt that it would become known—his bargaining position would be weakened. Not only in his negotiations with the entertainment industry but, far more important, in his present and future dealings with the unions.
He was convinced that once you showed weakness, you became easy prey for every alligator in the swamp. He needed to find a way to solve the Francisco problem without losing money—or face.
Emmett Druperman lit his third and final cigar of the day, exhaled a cloud of aromatic blue smoke, and closed his eyes. Everybody had weaknesses. What were Tony Francisco’s? How could he exploit them? After a few moments, a smile flickered across his lined face.
He opened his eyes and pressed a button.
“Edith,” he said, “get me Solly Greenspan on the videophone.”
“Solly? How are you? How’s Tony?”
Greenspan’s image faded in on the videophone screen. He looked somewhat taken aback by Druperman’s apparent cordiality. “Fine, Emmett,” he said warily. “How about yourself?”
“All right, considering.”
“Considering?”
The warmth evaporated from Druperman’s voice. “Considering the crap you and your dago asshole boss are trying to pull,” he snapped. “Now, listen carefully and don’t interrupt. Here’s what I’m prepared to offer—it’s a take-it-or-leave-it proposition, and it’s more than you greedy bastards deserve.
“First, I’m prepared to write off the three million dollars Francisco owes this casino.” The performer, who had a weakness for gambling, had incurred substantial losses at the blackjack and craps tables and had tried to avoid paying off his losses by claiming he was only “shilling” for the house. The Galaxy had vehemently disagreed, pointing out that Francisco always collected on the rare occasions when he won. The debt remained on the books, although it was money that Druperman privately never expected to collect. However, Francisco did not know this. Druperman continued: “And let me remind you, Mr. Agent, that in your boss’s tax bracket and
with his overhead which includes ten percent to you and Christ knows how much to those other leeches that suck his blood, he’d probably have to earn three times that amount to pay this debt off.”
“Now wait just a—”
“No, you wait,” Druperman barked at the phone. “Just shut up and listen.
“Number two. After we wipe the slate clean, the Galaxy will give Francisco a two-million-dollar credit line, noncumulative, any time he’s performing here. And this time we won’t be too gung-ho about collecting when he loses.” Which Emmett Druperman was reasonably certain would happen. It would probably not cost the casino anything because Francisco was a notoriously inept gambler. And even if he got lucky and occasionally won a million or two, it was still considerably less than the extra money he was demanding.
“Number three. The paycheck for the week remains at two and a half million as per our agreement. And if you try any more stunts like this, you and your goombah boss will be spending so much time in the courthouse, they’ll name the fucking building after you.”
“You can’t just—”
“Believe me, we can and we will. We’ve got more lawyers than you’ve got pimples on your ass, Solly.”
There was silence from the videophone. That plus Solly Greenspan’s hangdog countenance told Emmett Druperman he had won. You just had to know which buttons to push, and you had to have the guts to push them.
“I’ll speak to Tony. But I don’t know if he’ll—”
“Sure he will, Solly. See you soon.”
Druperman hung up, pleased with himself. There was no doubt that he deserved the self-bestowed title of toughest son of a bitch in Vegas.