Good Luck Sir...Sorry You Lose!: My Time as a Las Vegas Dealer

By George M. Dean

Good Luck Sir... Sorry You Lose! is a lighthearted, sometimes quirky, look at the Las Vegas gaming business, through the eyes of a casino dealer. It follows the author's dealing career, told in chronological order, from 1980 until his retirement in 2018. During that time, he experienced lessons that were never taught in dealer's school, such as staying composed while encountering irate and contemptible personalities. And those were just the other dealers.

Our author also delves into the mind-set of the true gambler. From the desperation of the local player trying to parlay his meager buy-in into the two-week late rent on his apartment, to the high-rolling whale who thinks nothing of continuing to wager two hundred thousand dollars per hand in baccarat.

Throughout this book, there is some laughter and there is tragedy, but in the end, one comes to realize that this truly is a study in humanity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Apr 10, 2020
• ISBN: 9781646283781

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Good Luck Sir...Sorry You Lose!

My Time as a Las Vegas Dealer

George M. Dean

Copyright © 2019 George M Dean

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2019

ISBN 978-1-64628-377-4 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-64628-378-1 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Dealer's School, Nevada Club, and Golden Gate

Sundance Hotel and Casino

Silver Slipper Casino and Castaways

Westward Ho Motel Casino

Maxim Resort Casino

Fitzgeralds Hotel and Casino, Frontier Hotel and Casino

Paw Power, Arizona Charlie's Casino and Hotel

Dad, Mandalay Bay Resort and Casino

Aria Resort and Casino

Palms Casino Resort, Tropicana Las Vegas, One October

My Bilateral Lung Transplant

Is it Actually Worth it? The Players

About the Author

To my beloved family members—Kobe and Lula; who's perpetual support and encouragement were a priceless commodity. Kobe and Lula—best dogs ever!

Chapter 1

Dealer's School, Nevada Club, and Golden Gate

It's an August afternoon in 1980, at a mere 113 degrees as I got off I-15 at the Sahara exit. Not knowing which way to turn from Sahara, I took a left on the strip, which led me downtown. Approaching Fremont street, I could see the hotels on the left, and realizing they were too ritzy for me, I took a right. A few blocks down I passed by a couple of motels; nothing special. But then there it was on the left, the Pair-A-Dice Motel. It was all white with green trim, two plastic palm trees, with a pool and a neon vacancy sign. It was as if saying to me, Stay here, George, you know you want to! And I really did, as it was my kind of dump. So I went inside to discuss rates. I asked the proprietor, fellow named Gus, if he could offer me something in the five-dollars-a-night range. He looked up and snickered. Kid, I got just one room for six bucks a night, but it's no frills. That means no TV and no bottle opener on the wall. But for an extra two bucks, you get it all. And for nine bucks a night, you get a color TV with remote and a view of the pool. We call that the deluxe package.

The deluxe package you say? Why is it that you old farts are always trying to rip off us seemingly naive youngsters, simply because you hold the upper hand? You and I both know all of your rooms face the pool and have color TVs. Hell, you advertise it on your window next to your front door, I countered. So what's it going to be? Six bucks for your ‘deluxe package,' or nine bucks, after which I pay a visit to the Better Business Bureau!

All right kid, you win! I'll give you the room for seven fifty a night. It's the best I can do, Gus conceded. And I agreed to his compromise. When I got to the room, I found to my delight that it was all there: a color TV with remote, a bottle opener on the wall, and a nice view of the pool. I even got a bit of a bonus when I entered the bathroom—twin roaches scampering across the floor. That didn't really faze me. After all, I've lived in worse.

So that was home for the next four days as I went on my mad search for a furnished apartment. And that was going to be tricky since my 1970 Plymouth Fury was now out of commission, for a couple of reasons. The main one being that my California plates were expired, as was pointed out by the patrol officer who pulled me over, earlier. He handed me a screwdriver and had me remove my plates, with a warning about being caught driving with expired or missing plates. Nice, I thought, now I can only drive it at night.

In the meantime, I hiked it down to the Montgomery Ward to buy a bike for my temporary mode of transportation. I picked out the perfect three speed, for nineteen dollars including tax. As I finished paying for it up front, the salesman shows up with a long thin box. I asked him where my bike was, and he said I'd have to put it together myself. I snapped at him, No no, no no! I just walked a mile to get here! Does it look like I have any tools on me! I can't put this thing together. Just gimme the bike I picked out, or gimme my damn money back!

He said, Okay, hold on there, Stretch, lemme talk to my boss, and I'll let you know! Three minutes later he returned, wheeling me my bike from the display area.

So over the next couple of days, after perusing through the Las Vegas Review Journal and the Las Vegas Sun, I finally found just what I was looking for. There were two available apartments in a house divided into four studios. The owner was a dentist named Dr. Barney, whose practice was right next door. He showed me the larger of the two units, which measured seven feet by thirteen feet. It was furnished with a twin bed, a wooden chair, a kitchenette consisting of a small freezer, a hot plate, a small sink, and a table big enough for well…one. The bathroom had to be shared with the tenant in the smaller unit. The rent was sixty-five dollars a month including utilities. He asked me if I wanted to see the fifty-dollar unit also. It was half the size, so I stuck with my luxury apartment. I signed a month to month, pedaled back to the motel, waited until nightfall, and moved myself in, using my car. Life was good, so far.

Now I had only been to Vegas twice before, the first time with my older sister Penny, and then with my best friend Ken, his wife, and some other friends. The one thing I picked up from these two Vegas trips was my desire to become a dealer. I was twenty-four years old, and this was the career I had chosen. My next step was finding the right dealers' school. And by right, I mean cheap. I finally found this ad for the Nevada School of Dealing. They were offering their twenty-one (blackjack) course for $100 this week only. Normally it's $135, or so they had me believing. I pedaled my skinny ass down there, signed and paid up, and started right then.

The first thing we learned in dealers' school was cutting checks. Run down a stack of twenty. Cut in fives, fours, and then threes. Now do the same thing with your left hand. Fives, fours, and threes. Now switch hands again. I want five minutes with each hand for the next thirty minutes. Got it? shouted Ron. Yeah Ron was a real sweetheart, but he was also the owner and main instructor at the Nevada School of Dealing. And he thought nothing of yelling and deriding his students at will. And why wouldn't he? He already had our money, and he knew if we could put up with his abuse, we could handle any pit boss or floorman, no matter how much of an asshole they were. Next came shuffling, single deck, double deck, then a shoe. And Ron wanted it silent. He said, "When you shuffle up a shoe, I shouldn't hear a sound. It should be like my teenage daughter sneaking in at 3:00 a.m., trying to avoid my discerning stares. That's why you have to call out ‘Shuffle!' Now that I want to hear."

After that came pitching the cards. We would take a full deck and pitch them all to the center spot. Then the same thing to first base, then to third base, then back to center field. Over and over till our fingers were raw. Once Ron felt that was perfected, we could pitch to all seven spots. That's right, back in the early eighties it was seven spots, not six. And half the games were pitch back then, a rarity nowadays. Because I was so tall, I was instructed by Ron to hold the deck lower when pitching to protect the deck. He took the cards out of my hand to demonstrate, and cried out, Where'd you put these cards, your mouth? There wet!

I sarcastically said, Sorry, my hands get sweaty. I promise, I'll never sweat again. How about next time I pant like a dog!

What followed was dealing the actual game. First double and single decks, then we'd get to the shoes, both faceup and facedown. Now all of this took place over a couple of weeks. Ron came up to me one day and declared, "Okay, George, you're ready. Get in your black and whites and hit Fremont street.

Taken aback, I uttered, What, I'm done? No diploma, no graduation ceremony, no speeches?

Realizing I was trying to be a wiseass, he came back with, How 'bout I let you leave with both legs intact!

Okay, I said, but seriously, what do I say to them as far as auditioning?

What, do I have to do, draw you a picture? he quipped. Ask if they're hiring right now, and if they are, ask if you can get an audition. Duh!

Okay, got it. I said. So that was it. I was now a dealer looking for my first gig. The next day I hit up the Golden Gate, the Mint, and the Union Plaza. Nothing. I heard a lot of Sorry not right now, and Try back in a couple of weeks. The following day I went to the Sundance, the 4 Queens, Golden Nugget, the Fremont, and Horseshoe. Still nothing. Day after that, it was El Cortez and the Western. I was hitting everyone up on swing shift, so the next day I decided to try days. Around noon I went back to school to practice up a little on my pitch before continuing. While there I saw my fellow classmate David, who had just been told by Ron that he was also ready. Now David's approach to dealing was completely different from mine. I was looking for a new career while he was using dealing as a way to pay the bills while pursuing his card counting endeavors. He had vowed to double his investment of five thousand dollars and then return to New Jersey. In his mind, he had perfected his card counting strategy by reading and studying Kennie Uston's book, Million Dollar Blackjack.

So David asked me if he could come with me on auditions, and I said yes. So off we went starting at the Union Plaza. We hit up the pit boss, and I asked if they were hiring break-in dealers. He said no but to check back in a couple of weeks. Next stop was the Nevada Club, just two blocks south of Fremont on Main Street across from the Greyhound bus station. I remember after entering thinking that I had never seen such a small gaming pit before. There was one craps table, one roulette wheel, and four twenty-one tables. I asked for the pit boss, who was pointed out at the bar. We headed over to talk to Ben, the pit boss, and David asked him for an audition. He said, They just fired a couple of dealers on grave, so let's see if you guys can deal worth a damn. We followed him back to the pit where he put David on BJ-2 and me on BJ-4, both double deck games.

As I tapped the dealer out, she said All fleas, don't bother! Not knowing what she meant, I scooped up the cards, shuffled, and started dealing. It was just then that the excitement wore off and the nerves kicked in. My hands were fine, but my legs couldn't stop shaking. Come to think of it my hands started sweating too. Ben came by and asked if I was doing a new dance.

I answered, Yeah, let's go with that! He just laughed and walked away. Three hands later, he had the dealer take me back out. As I clapped off the game, two players each tossed me a fifty-cent piece. I thanked them both as the girl said to me, Hell, that's more than I got.

Well you're not me! I thought. As I walked over to Ben at the craps table, David had just finished up and joined us. "Made a buck, how 'bout you? I bragged.

No, nothing yet, he said.

So, Ben, I'm guessing I don't get to keep this? I asked.

He just pointed to the toke box where I proudly deposited my two coins. Clank, clank, as I was hoping everyone would hear. Can you both start tonight on grave? Ben asked.

Does a fat baby…uh, yeah, we'll be here! I responded.

Grave is two to ten, you need to be here and clocked in at 1:55 a.m. and don't be late, ever! he said. So I need you both to fill out these job apps now, and after your shift tomorrow morning, I'll send you to get processed, got it?

Yes, sir! David answered. So we filled out the apps, turned them in, and walked back to the school where I pedaled home so that I could crash a few hours before work.

That night I arrived a few minutes early, so I could meet the graveyard pit boss and get situated. To my delight, I found that he was a she and was gorgeous. Her name was Casandra but preferred to be called Cassie, and I had an instant crush on her. Unfortunately, she was about twenty years my senior, but her smile lit up that dingy pit.

After introductions, she asked how long I had been dealing, and I answered, After tonight, it'll be…one night. She snickered, handed me my apron, and showed me to the time clock. Just then the rest of the dealers piled into the pit, all ten of them, to clock in including David. Looking a little weathered, I asked if he gotten any sleep. He said no, that he had been counting down decks at the Horseshoe all night and that the cards weren't falling right. Big shocker! I thought to myself.

The first night went pretty well. There were two floormen in rotation, both pretty friendly, and other than one counting mistake by me, it was a fairly uneventful night.

At shift's end, while we clocked out, Ben, who had just come on duty, grabbed David and myself and walked us over to personnel to get processed. After that, we had to go to the police department to get our sheriff's cards. That process took forever. We had just enough time to go home and crash before doing it all over again. But that was it for that week. Now we had the next four days off. Being on the extra-board meant you were lucky to get three days a week. But that was okay because after two weeks, David and I decided to try and get another extra-board job to fill in the gaps. And sure enough, on the third day out, boom, we got hired at the Golden Gate. The good news there, was that they didn't have an extra-board. Everyone worked six days a week, meaning we went from one extreme to the other. And better news, tokes (tips) were more than twice as much. Instead of four to eight dollars a day, we were making ten to eighteen dollars in tokes. Add that to our minimum wage of $3.10 an hour, and we were in Fat City, or so we thought.

So David and I walked down to the Nevada Club and quit. Back then dealers never gave notice, they just quit prior to that day's shift. That was all the notice that was expected. Now you might be wondering whatever happened to my infatuation with Cassie. Fact is, I finally found the courage to ask her out. We dated, got married, and had two beautiful kids… Oh, never mind, that was all in my dreams. Fact is, I never saw her again. Why? 'Cause I was movin' on up!

David and I were hired to work on swing shift at the Gate, which is normally 6:00 p.m. to 2:00 a.m. In our case we worked late swing, which was from 8:00 p.m. to 4:00 a.m. So for us, since tokes were cut shift for shift, we would receive two envelopes each night, six hours for swing and two for grave. And almost immediately, I had noticed that management wasn't as pleasant or forgiving as to what we had become accustomed. You made a mistake, you got yelled at. You asked a question, you got attitude. In other words, they were pretty much assholes. Which in itself might explain the vast turnover in dealers. That and working the required six-day workweek. That got old real quick. In fact, my entire seven months at the Gate were fairly miserable.

I remember on our first day as we signed in, David and I got our meal tickets. Since we were breaking together, we decided to eat at the cafe on our second break. As we got our food and made it to the end of the line to hand in our tickets, the lady asked us what we wanted to drink. I said an ice tea, and David requested a beer. Are you insane, you can't drink alcohol at work! I blurted out. He'll have an ice tea too! I told her. I came to find out that David, being from an affluent family, had never worked before the Nevada Club, and essentially had no clue.

Now the pit was quite a bit bigger than we had at the Nevada Club, with 17 BJs, three craps tables, a roulette wheel, and a Big-6 game. We had our assigned games on swing, but grave had us on a rubber band, alternating tables. The routine was usually forty-five minutes on, fifteen off or one hour on, fifteen off, depending on game spread and business. And we were always busy on swing. The BJs all had seven spots, with an average of five to six players all night. And since this was downtown, someone was always taking a shot. I remember dealing double deck to a full table, with this guy in center field playing two hands. I had a face card up, peeked, and turned over a blackjack. While everyone else threw their cards in face up, he scooped up all four cards together, looked, puts his bottom card on top, and threw them in. He said, Cool, first hands a push!

My floorman didn't miss a beat. He ran up, rearranged the hands, separating the ace and face card for each hand, and told me to grab the money. He then told the guy to cash out, that he was done. As the guy was leaving, without saying a word, Bob, my floorman, exclaimed, Don't bother coming back to the Gate, you're eighty-sixed! Then of course, I got admonished. He told me never to allow a player to handle both hands at once. One hand at a time, duh! he ridiculed.

Sorry! I said. And I knew better, for this was covered in school. In fact, all the mechanics of twenty-one were covered in school. What wasn't covered was how to deal with assholes, whether they were bosses or players.