Hit Me

This must have been the case last weekend when I was in Vegas for a bachelor party. Admittedly, we were staying at the high end Venetian–Sheldon Adelson’s $1.5 billion tribute to Venice, complete with indoor canals and gondolas, a replica of St. Mark’s square, painted ceilings, and the Campanile Tower–built right on top of the Sands. (I thought this a terrible insult to Frank Sinatra and his Rat Pack, but, as a cabdriver pointed out, “Sure it was still a happening place in the late ’70s and early ’80s, but when they started selling hot dogs on the casino floor, it just had to go.”) Nevertheless, cruising around with my gambling cohorts, it was a bit unnerving not to find an affordable blackjack table. But as my friend Rushford observed, “You end up betting $10 at the $5 tables anyway.” Good point, I guess.

So we hunkered down at a $10 table where a bespectacled Asian gentleman was serving as the anchor. (In blackjack, the anchor is the last person to be dealt cards before the dealer. His decision whether to hit or stay directly impacts not only the dealer’s hand but often the fate of the entire table.) But the man kept fidgeting with his chips. Every time I was dealt the first card, he quickly yanked back a couple of his black chips, each worth $100. The dealer scolded him the first couple of times and he seemed to relax. But soon he was at it again. The dealer then called the pit boss who issued a stern warning.

Defiantly, the man threw down four $100 bills. When the dealer asked him what he did for a living, he mumbled something inaudible. After a few more hands, he went back to his old tricks again. The pit boss was summoned once more, and this time the guy left abruptly. “That man was really pushing it,” the dealer said. “He knew what was going on and every camera was watching him.” I looked up at those black eyes in the sky and thought they were probably watching me too.

The next day we were back at the same table–but since it was Saturday the minimum was raised to $15. For a while, it was just me and Rushford against a female dealer named Song. After a while, Rushford took too many hits, so he decided to stand down and wait it out, making it a showdown between me and Song. “Keep it going, c’mon, double-down!” she barked. She was whipping out the cards faster than I had time to count them. But amazingly, I was up $200. Then two new players sat down. One was a Mexican named Roque. “You know, like ‘Rocky V’?” he said. Sure, “Rocky V,” where the champ loses all of his money, his house, and his car, and the whole family moves in with Uncle Paulie. Just great. The other man was a heavy-set Russian. He was the new anchor.

And this anchor was loaded too–he laid down something between $700 and $800. But he was getting smacked with lousy cards: 12s, 14s, and 16s while the dealer was showing 10s and higher. (When this is the case, one assumes the dealer’s hidden card is another 10 or higher. In other words, assume the dealer has a 20. Even though you have a 16, you are supposed to hit since you’ve got nothing to lose.) The Russian played like a pro but got pummeled by a series of tens that busted his hand. (If none of this makes sense, go here for a basic intro.)

After several more disasters, the Russian bet it all–about $500. His cards? Two aces. “Ay, caramba!” yelled Roque. The dealer showed a six–meaning, in all likelihood, the dealer probably had a 16 (about an 85 percent chance). She would be forced to hit on a 16, and chances are she’d bust with a 26. For those who don’t know, this was the worst possible scenario: The Russian was sitting on a 12. He needed to split those aces. But he already bet everything he had on the table.

“You don’t have any more?” asked Song. He shook his head, and now the pit boss returned. “Can I borrow?” he asked, a bit embarrassed. He couldn’t–he wasn’t big enough to receive a marker. Then the Russian turned to Roque and me: “Do you have money I can borrow?”

“No money! No money!” said Roque as he gestured forcefully to his tiny pile of chips. My pile was even tinier. So the Russian asked for permission to leave and retrieve more cash. Roque and I both didn’t mind (he was sitting on a 19 and I had a 20). So the Russian disappeared for a good fifteen minutes.

When he returned, he immediately laid down another $500 and split his aces. It was the moment we were all waiting for. Would it all be in vain? Would he be dealt 2s and 3s, or even worse, another ace? There was a moment of silence as everyone (including the pit boss and, no doubt, the eye in the sky) stared intently at his cards: One King. One Queen. Instant blackjacks for both his hands. Song turned her card over. She had 16. Next card–a Jack. She got 26 and a bust. Everyone else won. We congratulated the Russian for gutting it out, but he had had enough. He gathered up his winnings and said, “I needed that! I lost $15,000 yesterday.”

Rushford and I finally ended up at another table with Georgina, a dealer from Budapest. Georgina dealt us some horrific hands. She showed an ace on one hand and asked if anyone was buying insurance–if you believe she has a 21, you ask for insurance and basically win with the dealer. But that’s assuming the card underneath is a 10. (Almost no one buys insurance. Players often say “insurance is for losers,” or “it’s playing the Dark Side” by hoping the dealer wins. Any way you cut it, it’s bad juju.) Sure enough, Georgina had 21, instant blackjack. And it happened again on four out of the next eight hands. Things got so bad, she actually told me to stay out a hand.

I then turned to Mel, a pit boss who resembled a svelte Al Roker, and asked him for a marker. “No problem, sir, how much?” “How about 10?” “No problem,” he said, as he jokingly reached into a drawer. Because he’s a good fella, Mel gave me and my friend comps for dinner at the Grand Lux Cafe. And at the rate I was going, I needed the free meal.

Rushford and I took some daring bets, along with my other friend Buck, who never, ever seems to lose. But at the end of the day, I simply ran out of chips. I won’t disclose the amount, lest someone refer me to Gamblers Anonymous–brochures for compulsive gambling are actually in the casino, right next to the ATM. Entitled “When It’s No Longer Fun,” the brochure poses questions such as, “Have you ever lied about your losses?” (I’m not lying–I’m just not telling you) and “Is gambling no longer fun?” (Only when I’m losing.)

In “Casino,” author Nick Pileggi says that “Las Vegas has become an adult theme park, a place where parents can take their kids and have a little fun themselves. While the kids play cardboard pirate at the Treasure Island casino, or joust with knights at the Excalibur, Mommy and Daddy can drop the mortgage money and Junior’s college tuition on the poker slots.”

I wouldn’t go as far as Pileggi, but I agree with his premise. There’s a lot to do there besides gambling. There’s the roller coaster at New York, New York, the Big Shot at the Stratosphere Tower, and trendy nightclubs and bars (two of the best, the Velvet Lounge and V Bar, are right in the Venetian). As we left the tables that night, we ran into Wayne Newton, dressed in a tux, looking more tanned than ever, and with a full head of jet-black hair. He stopped for a few moments as we wished him well, shook hands, and raised drinks in his honor. Wayne looked like he was having a good time. So were we.

How can you not love Vegas?

Victorino Matus is an assistant managing editor at The Weekly Standard.