Actually, her full name was the Westward Ho. Other Vegas visitors could gamble at the Bellagio or Venetian. For blackjack I preferred the Ho, which was the closest thing the Strip had to a grind joint.
The Ho survived, although maybe not thrived, for year after year without much change in the shadow of the venerable Stardust on the north end of Las Vegas Boulevard. After Y2K she was, along with the New Frontier, Sahara, Barbary Coast and Imperial Palace, among only a handful of downscale hotel-casinos existing on the Strip while all around them Steve Wynn and Sheldon Adelson were building the palaces that most of America now identifies with Las Vegas.
No one, least of all me, knew in April 2004 that the Ho had only 19 months to live. I just knew it had decent rules and low bet minimums at the 21 tables, and the people who worked there were OK to the customers. All good. So I settled in at a $5 table, planning to kill a few hours before heading over to the Stardust sportsbook for the afternoon NBA playoffs. I had no idea that I was about to enjoy my best-ever blackjack run.
I was joined at the table by three lesbians, all softball coaches from Ohio who were staying at the Hilton and wanted to be able to tell everyone that they had played blackjack in Las Vegas. [I assumed they were lesbians when two of them started making out after each blackjack, and the third groused about her girlfriend’s flight being delayed.]
It was evident early on that the ladies didn’t have much of an idea about the game, as they agonized over obvious hands (hit or stand on 10/8 vs. dealer’s 7, for example). But they did teach me something that even many experienced players never learn – that in the long term how others at the table play their hands is irrelevant to how you do.
I had no idea that the coaches’ lack of knowledge and poor play would lead to my winningest blackjack session ever. They would hit their 13s and 14s against dealer bust cards, taking a high card that should have been mine. They would hold on 15 vs. a dealer face card or ace, and I would pull their 5 or 6 and sit with a 20. They always took insurance. Playing progression (bumping my bet up $5 every time I won, hoping for at least one streak).
I couldn’t lose. Splits, doubles. Didn’t matter. Life was a frothy mix of 19s, 20s, blackjacks and Heinekens. My meager $50 break-in soon swelled to several hundred, and I kept cashing in red for green, green for black. The feeding frenzy continued for two and a half to three hours, until Lesbian #3 had to pick up her girlfriend at the airport, and Lesbians 1 and 2 headed back to the Hilton for whatever.
I hit the cage with $797 ($747 profit; remember it clearly because of the 747 airplane), smitten more than ever with the Ho and still shaking my head at the ladies’ PDAs.
Unfortunately the Ho was torn down the next year, part of a now-abandoned plan to build Echelon Place where the Ho and Stardust once stood. Today you can get a Big Mac if you visit 2900 Las Vegas Boulevard South.
I thought of that day recently when Jason Logan, one of my editors, emailed me a story about the Tropicana in Atlantic City having had a losing month at the blackjack tables. That happens as often as a monsoon in Syria, so it got everyone’s attention. The only possible explanation was that a high roller came in and got lucky, because over 30 or 31 days of play the numbers figure to produce what they usually produce for the house.
Knowing that the house will probably grind you down doesn’t stop hard-core blackjack players. I’ve played at least one hand at every Vegas Strip casino, all 11 downtown casinos, many of the city’s neighborhood casinos, most casinos along Boulder Highway, both Connecticut godzillas (Foxwoods and Mohegan Sun), several in Atlantic City, and two in Canada (Nova Scotia and New Brunswick). They are all unique, and at the same time all the same.
Most sessions are soon forgotten in the fog of gambling war. Some, though, make an impression.
A dealer at the MGM in Vegas once told me that Pete Rose, playing at more than $1,000 a hand, got a fellow dealer fired after Rose complained about being short-changed on a payoff (the dealer was quietly hired back the next day).
At the Monte Carlo, one dealer told me that she had started dispensing cards because God had told her that He wanted her to go into that line of work. I’m sure she hears “Jesus Christ!” a lot when she pulls a 4 or 5 on her 16.
Also at the Monte Carlo, in December 2003 I played blackjack on a table adjacent to a roulette table, and one of the players at the wheel was actor Ben Stiller. He was there making the movie “Dodgeball: A True Underdog Story.” No one bothered him.
Talkative dealers are sometimes informative. The brother-in-law of legendary Vegas comedian Shecky Green dealt cards for me at the now-defunct Sahara. Shecky, he reported, was still alive but living in a nursing facility.
A female dealer at the Flamingo described, in detail, how a drunken player once urinated on her foot under the table.
At the Imperial Palace a Filipino dealer advised me to get money down on an up-and-coming boxer with a funny name. I’ve cashed on Manny Pacquiao every fight since.
In 2010 I made my annual excursion to one of the tiniest casinos in Las Vegas – the Longhorn, about 10 miles off the Strip on Boulder Highway. Not much changes year to year at the Longhorn, including the terrific rules (for example, double on three cards if you want). In no place else in Las Vegas can you order a hamburger in the restaurant, and the waitress will come to your BJ table and let you know when it’s ready.
Every year I had been making the trek to the Longhorn, and I recognize everyone there even if they don’t know me. And every time I go I seem to get a stone-faced dealer named Clemente, who speaks only when spoken to. One day I made small talk with him, and he opened up. Turned out dealing blackjack is Clemente’s retirement job, and when he was younger he was a band leader at old Dunes (where the Bellagio is now located).
Clemente told me about the time he was finishing up and one of the customers asked if a friend of his could sing a song. Tired, Clemente declined, but when the patron offered $100, he quickly changed his mind.
The singer turned out to be Frank Sinatra, and Clemente politely turned down the money but agreed to have the band stay on. He doesn’t remember what song Sinatra belted out, but still has a photo of him with the Chairman of the Board.
Blackjack at the Connecticut casinos is, for some reason, nowhere near as much fun as it is in Vegas. But there are moments.
Shortly after I started playing, about a decade ago, I made the 90-minute drive to Mohegan Sun, a huge facility dwarfed in size only by Foxwoods. The two are in the woods of in southeastern Connecticut, only seven miles apart. The $5 tables opened at 11 a.m., and for once I was able to play alone at the third base seat. At least until a tour bus from New York emptied players into the casino, and four Jewish women in their 50s and 60s joined me at the table.
Although it was clear that they could speak English, they seemed to prefer Yiddish, and the conversation grew more animated by the minute, sometimes four of them talking all at once. I just smiled, grateful for the fact that even though I was losing, with five players at the table I was losing at a slower rate than I would have going head-to-head against the dealer, and with at least some entertainment.
During a shuffle I finally broke in and asked what the ladies were talking about.
Basic strategy?
“No,” said the one at first base. “Mostly we’re just talking about you.”
In a subsequent story I’ll talk about my complete failure at counting cards.
