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The Last Casino by Ralph S Delligatti
Tuesday, October 15, 2013
Rated "PG" by the Author.
A story about a client who was probably one of the most famous eccentrics of our time.
A short story from one of the chapters in my book, "The last Casino"
One day I was in my office while working the graveyard shift (2:00 a.m. to 10:00 a.m.), when I got a phone call from the Assistant Shift Manager. “Steve,” he said. “You’d better come down here. We’ve got a guy who wants to talk to someone about raising the limits on the crap game.”“Did he say how much he wants to bet?”“No, I didn’t get that far with him. I want you to handle this one. You’ve got to see this guy.” Okay, I’ll be right down.” I went downstairs into the casino proper and as I approached them, I noticed that the man in question looked like he had just fallen off a box car. His hair was long, gray and unkempt. He had on a worn, tattered pair of sneakers and he was carrying an old, battered piece of luggage. I knew better than to judge anyone’s financial status by their looks. I had seen many a millionaire who looked as if he didn’t have two cents to rub together.I walked over to the man and introduced myself, extending my hand, which he ignored. I handed him my card and said, “How can I help you, sir?” “I want to know how much I can bet on your crap game.” His voice was gravelly and hoarse and his jet-black eyes under scraggly brows showed no trace of emotion, friendly or otherwise. We had a stock answer for that question, which I immediately stated. “That depends upon whether you are planning to play for cash or want to open a line of credit.” “I don’t need any damned credit." He shoved the decrepit suitcase at me and I picked it up by the handle. “We’ll take this over to the cashier’s cage and you can watch them as they count it up.” I walked toward the cage with this strange, scruffy man following me. “Okay, but it won’t take too long, will it?” He seemed overly anxious. “No, sir.It won’t take long at all.” When we got to the cage, I handed the bag over to the head cashier and told him to keep it in plain sight when he opened it and to make certain the gentleman could see every move he was making. “Don’t worry about that!” “I know what’s in there.” I didn’t care whether he knew or not. I had to protect us from a possible claim of theft. Later, if he decided to accuse us of stealing, we wouldn’t have any recourse if we had not allowed him to watch the entire counting process. The head cashier opened the bag and a compressed pile of paper money rose up like bread dough that had too much yeast in it. The bag was jammed full of $100 bills, crammed and stuffed tightly together, then crushed down by the lid when it was closed. It looked like a Caesar salad. There were no two bills stacked together, no neat packs of bills. They were all just thrown into the suitcase and packed down, like in a trash compactor. The head cashier took one look and very wisely called two other cashiers to assist him. They brought the money out in front of the cage where they counted it right in front of the customer. The total came to $164,000. In 1969, that was a lot of money! The man told me all he bet was the “pass” line or the “don’t pass” line, with odds. I told him we would deal a $5,000 limit to that kind of action and he agreed. We headed towards the crap table, but before we could get there, he suddenly stopped walking and said, “There’s one other thing we have to get straight before I play.” I thought to myself, “Oh, shit, here it comes.” The strange man looked over his shoulders then back at me. “You have to make sure no one touches me. I don’t want any bodily contact with anybody. I don’t want the dealers to hand me the chips. And, I don’t want the cocktail waitress tapping me on the shoulder asking me if I want a drink. I don’t want anyone near me while I’m gambling. Is that understood?” “Sure, that’s no problem.” And then I understood why he had ignored my handshake. I signaled for three security guards to approach and told them to rope off one end of the crap game and then to stand guard, not allowing anyone within five feet of the guy. What ensued was a strange sight, even in Las Vegas. As this ratty-looking fellow played craps, security guards surrounded him with arms folded across their chests, looking like they were guarding Fort Knox. Everything went well, and our peculiar customer gambled for a few hours and lost somewhere around $65,000. “Would you like to have some breakfast?” I asked him as he was obviously getting ready to leave. “All I ever eat for breakfast are fresh raspberries. Do you have ‘em fresh?” I knew we didn’t, but said, “I’ll call back to the kitchen and find out.” We didn’t, of course, and I apologized. He said, “Don’t worry. I’ll be back soon and if you get some, we’ll have breakfast together.” “That’s a deal.” I had security escort him out to his car, then I informed the restaurant that I wanted fresh raspberries flown in every day from California until further notice. I was going to be ready for the next time this eccentric returned for some action. Two days later, he returned. Same song, second verse, only this time we counted out $170,000 in rumpled bills. We set up the ropes and the guards took their places around his seat. He played and lost again, this time to the tune of $50,000. “Well, Steve, have you got any fresh raspberries?” He turned to look at me as he prepared to leave the crap table. “Does a bear live in the woods?” He laughed and we started toward the restaurant. I had instructed security to stay close to him at all times, so as to keep people from approaching him and risking accidental bodily contact. They followed these instructions to the letter and he seemed comfortable with the arrangement. We sat in my private booth and the waitress placed a huge bowl of raspberries in front of him. He spooned them into a serving bowl, then looked around for the sugar. We used the standard sugar packets, which were held in a porcelain holder in the center of each table. He looked at me with an almost panicky expression and said, “Is that all the sugar you’ve got?” “No, there’s plenty more in the kitchen.” “No, I mean, don’t you have bagged sugar? I can’t eat that packet junk.” For a second I was stumped, then I got up and explained the problem to our waitress. “Go back in the kitchen and fill a bowl with sugar for our guest.” She looked puzzled. “Mr. Debella, I think all we have back there are those packets. The chef locks up the big bags when they close the bakery.” I leaned forward and, staring meaningfully into her eyes, I said, “Then get some help and open up a bunch of packets! If the customer asks you whether or not the sugar came loose that way, tell him you got it out of a bag, okay?” “Leave it to me.” She smiled and hurried back to the kitchen. In a few minutes, she returned to our table with a giant bowl of sugar. Our guest was happy. He emptied the entire bowl of sugar over the top of the raspberries and ate nearly all of the sweetened fruit. I had never seen anything like that before --- or since. When he finished eating, he said, “Thanks a lot, Steve. That was great. I’ll be back in a few days and we’ll do it again.” Then he and his entourage of security guards disappeared out the door. A few days later, he returned. It was close to 4:00 a.m. and he said, “Steve, I’m tired. Have you got a room where I can take a nap?” “Absolutely.” I turned and told two security guards to escort him to our best suite and stand outside his door until he was ready to come back into the casino. Later, the security guards told me when they let him into the suite, he looked it over, then turned to them and said, “I can’t sleep in here. Get one of those pillows, a blanket, and a sheet and follow me.” The guards didn’t hesitate. I had told them in no uncertain terms, “If he tells you to jump out the window, kiss your ass goodbye and holler Geronimo.” Back down inside the casino, the man led the guards to the busiest slot area in the room. He walked up and down the slot aisles, finally finding a spot he liked. “Spread out the sheet. Give me the pillow and cover me with the blanket. And, whatever you do, don’t let anybody step on me.” He slept there, on the floor, in the middle of the noisy slot machine area, one security guard at his feet and one positioned near his head. After a few hours he awoke refreshed and began his play at the crap game. When he was finished, he said, “Steve, come with me. I want you to see my new car.” I assumed it would be a top-of-the-line Rolls Royce or some kind of fancy limousine. I followed him outside and was astonished when he walked up to a small, exotic looking sports car. It had a strange appearance because the paint job was a flat black, with a dull matte finish, not glossy. The strangeness was enhanced by a two-foot wide stripe of fluorescent bright orange sweeping up from the back bumper, up over the trunk lid, over the top of the car, then down across the top of the hood. “That’s a…a different looking paint job,” I remarked, trying to sound nonjudgmental. “You’re damned right. I don’t want some big truck driving over the top of me at night. You can see me for miles with this luminescent stripe.” I told him good night and walked back into the casino, shaking my head at the baffling quirks of eccentric personalities. On one of his next visits, he wore a pair of spectacularly handmade boots. They were crafted of the finest lizard or snake, gleaming in shades of green and gold. During a break in one of his crap games, he was seated with one ankle propped on the other knee and the boot leather shone in the light. A passing floorman said, “God, those are beautiful!” and stretched out his hand to stroke the supple leather. The strange man jumped as if he had been struck by lightning. He ran out the door, screaming over and over, “If they touch me, I’ll die! If they touch me, I’ll die!” He came to the Ponderosa a few more times after that and we had many lengthy conversations during those times. His interests leaned towards patriotic subjects, such as the Olympics, the space program and the astronauts.
He never talked about himself and never told us his true name. After about three months, he stopped dropping in and we never saw him again. During that ninety-day period, it was estimated that he had lost approximately six million dollars – in cash – to three casinos. We guessed this mysterious, millionaire ragamuffin was probably Howard Hughes, but we never knew for certain.
I guessed Howard Hughes right away, but he always preferred '55 Chevys with young Mormon drivers. Assuming this is a true story, the truth is stranger than fiction.
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A short story from one of the chapters in my book, "The last Casino"
