by Cooper, Doug
For Les, his average win was between seventy-five and a hundred bucks. He would buy in for $200 and play for two hours or until he won a hundred, whichever came first. If he sat down and won the hundred quickly, he would walk with his profits. If he was close to the two-hour mark and the count was negative, he would cash in early. If the count was positive, he would ride it out. And on the rare occasion that he burned through his initial $200 before it was time to go, he would buy in for another hundred, but he was disciplined and never went deeper than that into his bankroll in any single session. No matter how bad the beat was he’d always push back from the table. What made Les such a good gambler and so many others merely casino contributors was that he had no ego. He was dispassionate and approached it like a job, and he never varied from his mission.
On this fall Saturday, in addition to blackjack, Les was preoccupied with the USC–Notre Dame football game on one of the pit TVs. So much that I could tell he kept losing the count at the table. His eyes would drift to the game and he would watch a play, then attempt to total up the count before I cleared the cards. After a Notre Dame fumble on their own forty-one yard line in the fourth quarter, leading fourteen to ten, I knew he had missed the end of the last hand and had no idea what had transpired. I said, “Plus three.”
He said, “No, ND is up four.”
I glanced around to make sure the pit boss wasn’t behind me. “No, I mean the count is plus three.”
Les smiled and shook his head. “Is it that obvious?”
“As long as you stay conservative, you should be all right.” I dealt another hand. Ten and a two for Les. A two up for me. Count was now plus four.
Les studied the cards. The normal statistical play was to hit a twelve against a dealer two. Les said, “I’ll stay.” He knew at a count of plus three or higher, the better play was to stay because there was a greater probability a ten could come. His eyes went back to the TV.
I flipped my down card to reveal a ten. “Dealer has twelve.” Next card out of the shoe was a jack of hearts. “Name of the game is twenty-one not twenty-two. Dealer busts.” I paid Les twenty dollars by giving him a green chip and taking away one of the red. Les cringed as USC got a first down on the Notre Dame twenty-one. I said, “You got ND, huh?”
“Minus three.” With the count down to plus two, he pushed two red chips into the circle.
“Still looking good.” I dealt another hand. Five and a four to Les. A three for me. Count was plus five.
Les didn’t need me to tell him to double that hand. He put two red chips next to his bet. “Unfortunately I also have the over. Past two weeks they’ve been putting up all kinds of points. An ND win with no points does me no good.”
“You need to root for overtime. An SC touchdown here followed by an Irish field goal will get you to thirty-four. Once you get to overtime, anything can happen. Overtime is a friend to the over in college football.”
After rooting for ND all day Les now had to cheer on USC. I love watching sports bettors. An outsider would think they are psychotic. One moment they are celebrating one team and cursing it the next, trying to will the outcome that secures their bets.
Unfortunately, as we mapped out the scenario Les needed, a penalty pushed SC back to the thirty-three. After a short gain to the twenty-six, it was fourth and fifteen. With only about three minutes to go, SC opted to bypass the field goal and go for it, failing and turning the ball over on downs.
Les flopped back in is chair. “Well, that should do it.” He turned his attention back to the table and counted his chips. In addition to the $200 he started with, he was up ninety-five. “So looks like I’m breaking even today. Should’ve just bet them straight up.”
“Ah, the lure of the parlay,” I said. “Smaller investment for greater return. The sportsbooks love them. So many people have good bets, but add legs to get those better odds. Why make two straight bets up for less than even money odds when you can make one for 2.6-to-one?”
Les said, “I’m just shocked that game went under. Didn’t see that coming. Their defense gave up ninety-three points combined the past two games. I thought the game would be a shoot-out.”
The count was down to minus one. Les stayed with the minimum five-dollar bet. His first card was a queen of diamonds. Second card was an ace of clubs. “Ace from space,” I said. “Player has blackjack.” My upcard was a nine of hearts. I paid him the one and a half times his bet for the blackjack. “Player wins seven-fifty.”
He shook his head. “Of course I get the blackjack with the minimum bet.”
“That’s Blackjack Universal Law number one,” I said. “Blackjacks have the greatest probability of happening when you lower your bet to the minimum.”
“Ain’t that the truth?” He counted his chips. The win put him at $102.50, just over his quit threshold. Not to mention with the jack I had under, that meant three high cards had played, dropping the count to minus four. “Probably time to quit, huh?” He said and tossed me the $2.50 as a tip.
I nodded in appreciation, combining the chips with the others he had given me throughout the afternoon. “Thanks for the tips.” I stacked the four one-dollar chips and the two fifty-cent pieces with the other four red chips and colored up for a green, tapping the $25 chip on the table twice and dropping it in the tip slot. “Your goal is to win a hundred, right?”
“But technically I’m even after the parlay loss.” Les put his four green together and had the remaining red in four fifty-dollar stacks. Combining two of the red stacks, he pushed them to the center with the green.
I counted the two hundred for the cameras to see. “Two black going out.”
Les slid another of the red stack of fifty to the center. “This, too.”
I divided it into two stacks of twenty-five and took two green from the house. “Two-fifty going out.”
Les dropped the $250 in black and green in his shirt pocket and put the remaining stack of ten red five-dollar chips into the bet circle. I had never seen him vary from his strategy and never this aggressive, especially with the count against him. He had been playing more often lately and was also much more focused, but I had assumed it was because he was working on his counting. Seeing this move, I wasn’t so sure. He was playing like he needed the money, like he couldn’t afford to break even. I checked one last time before I dealt. “You sure about this?”
He nodded and stood from his chair. “Come on, one time.” First card was a five of spades. He said, “Well, that’s not a good start.” I slid my downcard in front of me and reached for his second card. He said, “How about a six?”
I gave him a five of diamonds. He released a deep breath, his shoulders relaxing. “That should work.”
My upcard was an eight of hearts. His two fives were a double-down hand, but it’s much harder to double with fifty dollars bet than it is with five. Also he didn’t have any more money on the table. He would have to dig into his winnings to fund the hand. I said, “Universal Blackjack Law number two: Double downs and splits have the greatest probability of happening when you’re playing your last hand and have to dig back into your pocket.”
He grimaced, rubbing his face, the tension returning. Looking at his cards, then at mine, and back at his, he reached into his pocket and put down the two green next to the stack of red. Holding out one finger, he said, “One card, up, please. No sense dragging it out.”
“Doubling down. Good luck.” I reached for the next card and slid it facedown, turning it over at the last second. “Eight of clubs. Player has eighteen. Let’s hope I have a nine or less to go with my eight.”
Les was quiet, just leaning forward with both hands on the rail, eyes burning a hole through my downcard.
I flipped it over. “Seven of diamonds. House has fifteen.” I pull another card from the shoe. A four of hearts. “Fifteen and four is nineteen. House wins. ” I collected his hundred in chips. �
��Tough break. Thought you had it when I had fifteen.”
Les was quiet, just staring at the empty circle where his hundred dollars used to be. He reached into his pocket and pulled out one of the black chips and placed it on the table. “Let’s go again.”
“You sure you don’t want change?” I asked. In the last hand, an ace and two fives and a four had been played. The two eights and the seven didn’t affect the count. It was now plus one. Not high enough to justify such a big bet.
Still standing, Les pointed to the table. “Please just deal.”
I called out to the pit boss notifying her of the increase in bet. “Checks play.” She gave her approval. First card was a queen of spades. Second was a six of clubs against my ten of diamonds. Surrendering wasn’t an option, so in basic strategy sixteen versus a ten is a hit, but with a count of plus one, player should stay.
Les said, “Hit me.” Next card was a three of hearts. Nineteen. He waved his hand over his cards. “I’ll stay.”
I nodded at his hand. “Nice hit.” Turning over my down card, I revealed a jack of spades. “Dealer has twenty. House wins.” I cleared his cards and collected his black chip. “Cards seemed to have turned on you.”
Count was now zero. I expected him to walk away, but he dipped his fingers into his breast pocket for the remaining black chip and plopped it down on the table. Winning would make him even with the $200 he started with. A loss, and he’d be down two hundred. Again I called out and received approval from the pit boss. With it being two times in a row, she walked down to observe.
Les’s gaze didn’t lift from the table. He was clutching the rail with both hands and subtly rocking back and forth. His first card was a king of clubs and second, a queen of diamonds for a total of twenty. He exhaled in relief. I turned over a ten of spades for my up card. Rare frustration spilled from Les. “Come on, you got to be kidding me. Can I catch a break just one time?”
I slid the corner of my down card over the mirror to check for a blackjack. Shaking my head, I looked up at Les and flipped over the ace of diamonds. “Dealer has twenty-one.” I scooped up his last black chip.
Les dug into his pants pocket and peeled off two hundred dollar bills from his money clip. “Two black, please.” He was now chasing his losses. His body was rigid, his face tight, pupils constricted. Even when he was looking at me, he wasn’t seeing me. He was staring right through me. Probably furious with himself for not walking away, all he could see were chips and cards. The only thing that would lift the haze was to get back to even. No doubt about it, Les was on tilt.
I gave him two black. He pushed both to the bet circle. The count was minus four, and there was less than a half of a deck remaining in the shoe, making it a true count of minus eight. He should be decreasing his bet to the minimum, not increasing it. He pressed his finger into the felt. “Let her rip.”
His first card was an eight of clubs, his second, an eight of hearts. I had a four showing. He reached back into his pocket and counted out his final two hundred dollars to split the eights. I exchanged the cash for two more black chips, stacking them next to his bet and separating the eights into two hands. The pit boss moved closer to the table to watch the hand. If Les won, he’d have all his money back plus $200. A loss would put him down six, seven if including the hundred he could’ve walked away with. I said, “Here we go. Splitting snowmen.”
First card was a nine for a seventeen. He waved over the hand to stand. On the second eight, he got a two for a total of ten. He shook his head to decline the double opportunity. “Figures. Just hit me.”
“Sure you don’t want to double?” I asked.
Les said, “Don’t have any more money.” He nodded his head toward the hand, again signaling a hit. It was a five.
“Fifteen.” I looked to him for direction. Against my four, he should stay, but as bad things were going, I wasn’t so sure.
He just waved his hand through the air in frustration. “I’m done. Hopefully you’ll bust.”
Underneath I had a four for a total of eight. Next card in the shoe was a six. “Fourteen,” I said. “Still got a chance.”
“Come on, eight or higher,” Les said. “Just bust one time.”
I slid over the next card, a seven of diamonds. Les just stared at the cards, not saying anything. I called out the total. “Twenty-one.” Still no reaction. I collected the cards and the four black chips. “That got ugly fast.”
Shaking his head, Les finally acknowledged the outcome. “Unreal.” He buried his hands in his pockets and slunk toward the exit.
I could tell he was just sick. I was, and it wasn’t even my money. It’s probably a good thing he didn’t have any more cash because he probably would’ve gone again. It was all so out of character for him. What I didn’t realize at the time was why he was taking the chance in the first place.
Dow Jones Close: Closed
Chapter Thirty-Six
Date: Friday, February 14, 2014
Dow Jones Open: 16,018.08
Max hurried up the sidewalk toward the Western Hotel. His lawyer, Amanda, his real estate agent, and his lead contractor stood in front of the boarded-up entrance where Max had crashed into the building.
Amanda glared at her watch. “You’re twenty minutes late.”
Max didn’t acknowledge the comment. He gestured toward the plywood covering the entrance. “Boy, somebody did a number on this place. Guess we’re going to have to use the back door.”
His real estate agent said, “Max, I don’t have to go inside to tell you this place is overpriced for what you want to use it for. They’re asking five million for the eight thousand nine hundred twenty-five square feet. That’s five hundred sixty dollars per square foot. I can find you just as much space three to four blocks from here. Won’t be as nice, but it’ll be a third of the cost.”
Max said, “Cost isn’t my only motivation.”
Amanda chimed in. “I’m sure if we agreed to pay to have the damage repaired and an inconvenience fee, the building owners would be willing to drop any potential litigation.”
“That might be the smartest play,” the contractor said. “You’re going to have to pay to fix the front anyway. Why overpay for the inside?”
Max kept his face emotionless, staring in silence at each of them, rotating his gaze. It looked like he was listening, but he was just waiting for them to stop talking. They had assumed he was only interested in keeping himself out of legal trouble, but his main concern was how he was going to fulfill the McDonald’s order. He knew there was no way he could do it at the other location. He shook his head. “You know the best part about unsolicited opinions is that they are as easily forgotten as they were requested.”
The annoyance returned to Amanda’s tone. “If you don’t want to listen to us, then why did you ask us here?” She had the longest and closest relationship with Max. She knew—or at least she thought—she could stand up to him with no repercussions. The other two recognized their jobs could be chopped in an instant. With a potential $400,000 commission on the line for the real estate agent, and a few hundred thousand in buildout costs and a potential fat ongoing maintenance agreement for the contractor, both hired hands kept their mouths shut and their eyes fixed on the ground.
Max said, “I asked you here to use your expertise to get the best deal, not to talk me out of it. So if there aren’t any other objections, shall we?” He motioned to the right and walked in that direction.
The real estate agent reluctantly spoke up. “Um, Max, it’s best to go around the other way.”
Max spun around. “Very well then. Now you’re proving to be of some value.”
The group walked down Fremont toward Ninth Street. The real estate agent switched into sales mode. She pointed at the bus stops in front of the hotel on each side of Fremont. “You have the Boulder City Express North- and Southbound bus lines right out fron
t, very convenient for work commuters.” As they rounded the corner to Ninth Street, she pointed to the vacant lot on the opposite corner to the northeast, the site of the old Ambassador Motel with their neon sign advertising, “Llamas Stay for Free,” still standing as an homage to the old Vegas. She said, “Ample parking on the Ambassador lot for any of those driving workers.” They walked down Ninth Street; the red words, “Viva Lost Vegas,” painted along the side of the white building were another shout-out to the past. She waved her arm at the message. “Of course any of the old signage can be removed, or these murals painted over.”
“I don’t know,” Max said. “I like keeping it as it is. I want to stay connected to the past. I don’t want to replace it.”
The contractor pointed up to second-level terrace lined with white doors. “Assume those are the rooms up there. What are the plans for those?”
“There’s a total of one hundred and sixteen rooms,” the real estate agent said. “All are stripped down but still have functioning plumbing.”
The contractor said, “We could easily convert them to offices or knock some walls down to open up space.”
They came upon the first of the side-door entrances about a third of the way back. The real estate agent put her key in the industrial gray door. She said, “Just prepare yourself. The inside is pretty rough. Not much has been done since they closed the place two years ago.” She pulled the door open with several tugs. The bottom scraped across the concrete. Holding the door with her hip, she cleared away spiderwebs with one hand while removing a flashlight from her purse with the other. “Just wait by the door when we get inside while I turn on the lights.” She ventured inside with Max following, then the contractor, and finally Amanda, who straddled the threshold, holding the door. The air was stale and humid, smelling of cigarette smoke and mold. They watched the beam of light bounce across the floor toward the front. With the exception of the daylight from the open side door and the streams sneaking through the cracks in the plywood covering the front, the room was pitch-black.