From: Las Vegas and the Mob

Things aren't always what they seem.

THE ROLL

By Dennis N. Griffin

It was 5:30 on a Tuesday morning. I was in a small casino a block off the Las Vegas Strip, where my wife worked as a waitress. I had another hour to wait before her shift ended and we could go home.

I decided to kill some time at the craps table. The place had a quarter minimum bet; so you could play quite a while on a ten-dollar buy in. I considered myself to be very disciplined at the tables, so I knew I?d never drop any serious money while just passing time. And, with a little luck, I might even be able to make a couple of bucks profit.

There was only one other player at the table. I shrewdly eyed his bet and the status of his chip rack as I walked up to the table. He had fifty cents on the pass line, with no odds behind it. The puck showed he was trying to make a point of five. I guessed his chip rack contained three or four dollars of quarters and a couple of ones. Maybe he was just killing time, too.



I walked to the opposite end of the table and bought ten dollars in chips, mostly quarters. As my chips were being counted out, I noticed that only the three dealers manned the table. The boxman ? the fourth member and boss of the crew ? was absent. The lack of action probably didn?t require his presence.

For the next ten minutes my fellow shooter and I took turns passing the dice back and forth. We were both betting ?pass? and risking a half dollar each. He?d throw three or four numbers with no repeats, and then seven out. I?d do the same. The cubes were ice cold.

Out of the corner of my eye I noticed a figure approaching the table. I turned my head for a direct look. What I saw was not a pleasant sight. To say the newcomer was disheveled would be a gross understatement. I figured him to be in his late sixties, but he could have been much older, or much younger, for that matter. There was nothing remarkable about his height or build, but his appearance is indelibly etched in my mind. From his head to his feet he looked dirty. The salt and pepper hair was long and uncombed. He hadn?t used a razor in quite some time. His pullover shirt may have been white once, now it was gray and stained ? with what I dared not guess. His blue jeans were tattered, and looked as though they could stand up by themselves. I just knew he?d carry an unpleasant odor.

His shoulders were stooped, as though he carried the weight of the world on them. Here is a man who life has beaten into submission, I thought smugly. Here is a loser.

To my horror, this hideous apparition headed straight toward me. As he neared, I moved further around the end of the table until I was nudging the dealer. I could go no further. He stopped next to me, so close we were almost touching. My hunch had been right: he stunk. I briefly thought about moving to another position, and then discarded the idea. Who was he to make me move? To hell with him. I stubbornly decided to stand my ground, foul aroma and all.

My colleague at the other end of the table had just sevened out. The stickman passed the dice bowl in my direction. ?Shoot?? he asked as he passed the bowl in front of the loser. The old man nodded. He reached in his pants pocket, pulled out two crumpled up dollar bills and laid them on the felt in front of him. ?Ones,? he said. Two chips immediately replaced his bills. He put one of them on the pass line.

As his claw-like hand was selecting a pair of dice from the bowl, I put eight of my quarter chips on the ?don?t?. If this clown is going to blow his last two dollars, I might as well bet against him and make a dollar or two, I figured.

His first roll was a twelve. ?Craps dice, line away,? the dealer said. I smiled to myself as the dealer took the old man?s chip. The boxcars had been a ?push? for me. My bet was safe. I left the chips where they were.

His next three tosses were an eleven, sandwiched by a pair of sevens. He had let his bet ride, and now had eight dollars. I had doubled up after each loss and was down fourteen.

The smelly one moved five chips from the table to his rack. I reached for my back pocket and my third buy in. Only this time I wasn?t going to fool around with a lousy sawbuck. ?Give me forty ones,? I said to the dealer as my pair of twenties hit the table.

Over the next forty minutes I watched this man make fifteen passes and throw a whole bunch of numbers. As his bankroll increased, it became obvious he had a money management system. He kept four bets working, his pass line and three ?comes?. He took full odds on each. He?d ?press? a bet on occasion, but made sure to take down sufficient profits.

Several minutes into the roll a small crowd formed around the table to watch the action. The boxman returned. Perched on the edge of his chair, he watched the shooter like a hawk. Later, the pit boss also made an appearance. But by that time I was just a spectator, my chip rack and wallet long since empty.

I heard the boxman explain the streak to his boss. ?Considering the roll this guy is on, we haven?t been hurt too bad. The other guy is only betting half-dollars, and he (nodding toward me) was a non-believer. He offset some of the loss.?

After he finally sevened out, the old man spoke the only words he?d uttered since he ordered his chips. ?Color me up,? he said, as he shoved his considerable pile of winnings toward the dealer.

As I was watching my nemesis shuffle off to the cashier?s cage with several hundred dollars in chips, my wife grabbed my arm. ?Hi,? she said. ?What have you been up to??

?I guess you could say I?ve been in school.? I kept the emotion out of my voice, even though I was still smarting from the beating I?d taken.

?And what did you learn?? she asked, puzzled.

After a few seconds of thought, I answered her. ?A few things that wouldn?t interest you, like the proper way to bet a hot hand. But there are two things I hope I won?t forget. Never bet on emotion, and looks don?t make a loser.?





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