Walking with a Vegas Ghost
Part Five
(Click here to read Part 1, here to read Part 2, here to read Part 3 or here to read Part 4)

“When are we gonna get together to do that one-craps-hand-per-casino thing again?  They keep me on the Strip, and I wanna know when you’re gonna sign my Immigration and Parole papers so I can play Downtown?” implored Mel.  It had been several weeks since we finished our nostalgic trip down the Strip to re-visit some old casino memories, as well as take home some new-found casino profit.

Mel’s next day off from the challenges, comforts, and curses of his job as a casino-executive was two days away, and he was in the mood to put some serious playing time in at the tables.  “I’m shakin’ it kind of rough, I need to get on the other side of the table, man.  If assholes could fly, this resort where I work would be the world’s busiest airport,” he added.  I was currently staying at the Golden Nugget, and I thought that was just about as good of a place as any to start.  He had another idea.  “Let’s meet at Gaughan’s Plaza, then we can make one big circuit of Downtown, without having to back-track,” he said, and I readily agreed.

 Gaughan’s PLAZA Hotel
 

Being the polite sort of person that I am, I asked how his wife was when we met up later that week.  “Oh, I’m in beaucoup trouble, my friend!  I’m sitting quietly reading the LV Review-Journal three nights ago, when she walks up behind me and whacks me on the head with the rest of the paper that she’s rolled up like a big fly-swatter. "What was that for?" I asked, and she says, "That was for the piece of paper in your pants pocket with the name MaryLou written on it.”  I say, “What are you talking about, MaryLou was the name of a horse that I bet on the other day.”   "Oh honey”, she says, “I'm sorry, I should have known there was a good explanation."  Mel continues, “So last night I’m watching the ballgame on TV when she walks up and hits me on the head again.  This time she thumps me real good with three or four closed-fist whacks.  When I shake it off, I ask, "What the hell was that for?"  So she says "Your F#%&-ing horse called for you this afternoon!"  Mel shook his head, and added, “She’s a fiery one alright, and jealous as hell, even though I’m more than twice her age.”  I just looked down at the menu in the Plaza Diner.  Even though I already knew what I was ordering, I didn’t want to make eye contact with Mel in case I said something that he’d regret later.

The “Pound’o’Pig” is a long-time special at this restaurant-designers low-budget idea of a poodle-skirt and bobby-socks ’50’s-style Malt Shop.  A thick slab of ham, hash-browns, eggs, toast, juice and coffee for the year 2000 price of $2.99 was a decent deal, and I consumed it happily. 

I asked Mel how Jackie Gaughan got started in the gaming business.  “Well with some of his army pay after the war, and with the backing and blessing of his uncle, he bought a tiny interest in the Old Boulder Club.  It was a sawdust joint that stood where Binion’s Horseshoe is today.  Every place was a saw-dust joint in those days.  He was a bit of a business-man’s gambler.  He grew up as a runner for his uncle’s bookie business back in Omaha.  By the time he was eight, he was sprinting from bar to bar with the betting sheets for sports, and then scurrying back to make the pick-ups for the horse races.  He understood gambling from a very early age, and he was probably one of the best line-makers by the time he was fifteen years old.  Those boys knew that he had a special talent that was custom-made for this town.  By that I mean that he liked the risk-taking, but he was always seeing it from a business-calculation point of view.  It was easy for him when he put a dollar sign at the end of a question, instead of a question mark!  So he’s takes that little share of the Boulder Club, and he leverages it to buy a stake in the Flamingo.  Now remember, Ben Siegel didn’t build this town, he just showed them how to install carpet and valet parking!  So Gaughan gets a small piece of the only carpet-joint in town, then the sports and race book side of the business immediately booms.  This guy understood sports betting and he understood food, and how to give good food value and good play value.  It doesn’t matter if you go to Roberta’s at the El Cortez, or the Center Stage restaurant under the dome upstairs, you get GOOD value.  And now one of his sons, Micheal, is carrying on the legacy with his Coast Resorts with places like Barbary and Gold Coast and Orleans and Suncoast and even the McCarran airport slot concession.  He’s as talented as his old man.”

I asked how the Flamingo investment turned out for Gaughan.   “Oh, it took him about ten years to get all of his profit out of the Flamingo, but when he did, he went on a buying and building binge.  All the properties in “Glitter Gulch” as it was called at the time, were going for rock-bottom prices.  So he teams up with Mel Exber, who was a fairly decent ball player back in the ‘50’s, and they build the Las Vegas Club together.  From there he buys the Cortez and the Western, then in ’71, he gets together with Sam Boyd and builds this place, the Union Plaza.  Now you gotta remember that both Jackie and Sam can’t get any bank financing, so they get an open-payment, no-interest loan from Union Pacific Railway to build the thing.  They had nothing to lose but their reputations, and for those two guys, that meant more than any piece of paper.” 

We headed for the dice pit, after I left a healthy tip for a decidedly unhealthy meal.  I said, “I think Jackie has a cholesterol-machine in the basement where he manufactures the stuff.”  Mel nodded his head in agreement, as I could feel the plaque building up in my arteries already.

The casino shift-manager “Big John” had kindly supplied the breakfast comp the previous day when I told him who I was bringing by.   John said to make sure to stop by and say hello, because Mel was the one who gave him his first job at the Sahara, back when it was called Club Bingo.  The reunion of John and Mel had been made all the sweeter because we were the only two people playing on the craps table that morning. 

They reminisced and traded jokes, while I put together a superb hand.  It was one of the very few times that I didn’t count my actual rolls.  I was so wrapped up with the stories, that I was just mechanically tossing the dice, collecting on bets, and trying to hear every detail of their past exploits.  By the end of the hand, we both had grown our initial $500 dollar “slices-of-bread” meager buy-in, into two full and hearty “loaves-of-bread” that filled two complete double-rail sections on the table.  Nothing says, “Good Morning” to the Mad Professor, better than a $2740 win.

When I started writing this article, I asked Mel if I could repeat some of those stories. He said it was okay with him, if it was okay with “Big John”.  Unfortunately when I called, John felt that nearly every story could compromise his current job, as well as his sheriff’s card for casino licensing purposes.  I have consented not to publish that particular material.

Mel was in a good mood, and I was pleased that our bankroll got off to such a good start.  As I waited for the traffic-light, I thought about all the talk about “muscle-memory” where you put your “throw” on auto-pilot just like a professional golfer puts his swing on auto-pilot for consistency.  Almost all of my tosses at the Plaza had been done that way, as if by rote, as I listened to Mel and John talk.  I made, collected and increased my bets and threw the dice, all as if time was somehow passing in slow-motion.  It was an interesting experience. 

Usually I can get into an almost trance-like zen-style state where I can block everything out.  In this case, I was taking EVERYTHING in!  I was letting my sub-conscious rule my throws as I listened to the conversation.  Interesting stuff that I knew I would give further consideration to later on, as we stepped into the:

GOLDEN GATE CASINO

If you’ve read my articles, you are aware that I loathe this place for shooting craps.  Their land-barge-sized tables are the biggest that I’ve ever seen, and Precision-Shooting is nearly impossible, at least for me.   

Mel wanted to say hello to another friend who works the dice-pit here.  Since I wasn’t planning to shoot, much less play, I told Mel that the empty table was ALL his.  He gave one of those deep-from-the belly “Hmmrrrphs”, and picked up the dice, set them and gave them a dismissive toss.  They only made it just past the stickman’s position.  A short-roll Point of 9 was established, and Mel turned to me and said, “These tables are L-O-N-G !!”  I said, “Gee, do you REALLY think so Mel?” 

He changed shooting positions, and sidled up beside the stickman.  To no one in particular he asked, “Are you sure this wasn’t a bowling alley before you turned it into a craps table?  A few tosses later, he repeated his Point then turned to me and whispered, “Get in on this game kid, I think it’s gonna have some legs.”   Mel established a new Point of 10, as I reluctantly and cautiously put up $30 Place bets on the 6 & 8, with the intention of regressing them down to $12 each after one hit.  But Mel came right back with a 6, and I collected but didn’t regress, in the hopes that he actually knew what he was talking about. 

Two throws later, he hit the 6 again, and followed it up with three more “payers” in a row, so my Pressing of the 6 & 8 became quite aggressive.  I may not have ever been able to string together anything resembling a good hand here, but Mel sure seemed to know how to do it.  I watched his rolls.  They sure SEEMED random enough for me.  Although he was hitting the outer edge of the Pass Line with the dice consistently on every throw, they still had more than two feet to tumble before they hit the wall.  Whether it was random or precision didn’t seem to matter to Mel, and for the moment it didn’t really matter to me, either. 

By this time, his Asian Pit Manager friend had joined us at the table.  He and Mel were kibitzing so much, that Mel was only tossing the dice about once every three or four minutes.  With just he and I as players, the pace was v-e-r-y slow, but still enjoyable.   It took the better part of an hour to get in another seventeen tosses.  Mel never made his second Point of 10, but we both reached the $300 table maximum on our 6 & 8 Place bets about halfway through.  Mel also asked if I would bet for the dealers, because he considered it bad-luck for himself to bet for them when he was throwing.  He promised to reveal the basis for that “fact, NOT superstition”, (his words) later on, and I made a mental note to remind him. 

I considered Mel’s hand a happy, but rare anomaly.  I intentionally did not include the revenue made from this session into my “Master of All…Well, Slave to Some” article, because it wasn’t generated during one of my own hands.  In that article, I chronicle what my own tossing has produced on some of the most difficult tables, including these, which I have encountered in ten or so years of Precision-Shooting.

When we were going to color out, his Pit friend asked me if I was going to shoot.   I said I never had any “luck” at their tables.  He offered to buy us breakfast, but still being full from mass quantities of saturated-fat at the Plaza, we settled for a coffee at their snack bar called the Bay City Diner.  We first cashed out at the cage, which is precisely three feet and four inches from the craps table.

Over coffee, we discussed how one set of tables can frustrate and confound one shooter (ME), and yield to someone else’s luck or skill (MEL).   Mel talked about the history of this casino and the Sal Sagev (“Las Vegas” backwards), and how the entire neighborhood was once a bunch of casinos, bordellos, whiskey joints, and run-down hotels.  “So you see, some things DO remain the same!” smiled Mel.   I added that I got a real sense of nostalgia when I walked through the GG, and I could picture how it was during the early 1900’s.  Of course the old sepia-brown framed photos on the wall assisted my brain in harking back to that era.  We nodded our appreciation to Mel’s friend as we exited there, and headed across the way to the:

LAS VEGAS CLUB