An Inside Look at Casinos

Before we leap to conclusions based wholly upon the Abrams Report, let me take you inside a gambling casino for a more intimate view of what enthusiasts experience after they pass through those ornate doors.

   When Resorts International learned of my plans to write a book on gambling trends in America, its management reasoned the author's research ought to include a personal visit where the action is. They invited my wife, Diane, and me to spend four days as their guests on Paradise Island in the Bahamas, and — in the interest of objectivity — we accepted. I will share in this chapter the insights developed during that visit.

   After a one-hour flight from Miami in an amphibian of Chalk's International Airlines, Inc. — also owned by Resorts International — checking in at the exclusive Paradise Club removes any lingering doubts as to what this posh Bahamian tourist attraction is all about. The VIP player whose personal wealth or high-roller status entitles him to such accommodations quickly finds himself

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surrounded by special privileges seldom seen at run-of-the-mill luxury hotels.

   An immaculately groomed concierge, carefully selected on the basis of brains, beauty and — doubtlessly — discretion, accompanied Diane and me to our eleventh floor hideaway. We represented, of course, neither wealth nor status but received our special treatment through the generosity of hosts who prudently asked no questions about what we intended to write.

The Word Here Is "Gamble"

   The focal point on this narrow strip of land just across the channel from Nassau is not the luxury, however, and neither is it the gourmet delights in a dozen different restaurants, the lure of a Professional Golfers' Association golf course, the awesome spread of tennis courts, the submarine rides, the parasailing or the variety of fun and games on the beach. When you walk through the impressive portals of Paradise Island Resort & Casino, you know you have come to gamble.

   Resorts International bills itself as "the most complete island resort in the world," and the claim may not be exaggerated. Everything the visitor needs to make his stay complete is available inside or adjacent to the complex. It is close enough to downtown Nassau to provide whatever souvenirs or adventure the vacationer might require. It is also isolated enough to provide a sense of seclusion and single-minded devotion to the primary purpose that brings him here.

   When Diane and I entered the cavernous 20,000 square feet of gaming delights known as "the casino," we walked first through what seemed acres of slot

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machines — thoroughly modern 25-cent and $1 electronic devices that provide a major portion of the casino's revenue. These are the first, simplest, fastest and most reclusive ways of gambling available to patrons. Many gamblers never get beyond the slots.

Sticking with the Slot Machines

   "It's just me against the machine," one middle-aged lady told us. With a look of grim determination, she fed the insatiable apparatus a diet of quarters from a paper cup generously furnished by the house. She was not contending with a dealer or a croupier — or even with other players.

   That evening she was sticking with the slots that take five quarters at a time — straight across on three lines and two more lines at angles, like bingo. She likes the idea of being able to play the slot machines any time she wants to. "I like to take a shot at 'em right after breakfast," she explained, speaking in a detached way as she inserted her coins and pulled the handle with an authoritative flourish. The slot machine area is always open, day and night, while other games are closed from two in the morning until noon.

   Now and then the lady hit a combination of symbols that returned a few of those quarters and replenished — for the moment, at least — her depleting supply of coins. "But they always get 'em back in the end," she sighed, as she dropped another $1.25 and pulled the lever yet again. She starts each day of fun and games with $25 worth of coins. That day they "lasted quite a bit longer than they usually do — it must be my lucky day." Her $25 stake had provided her with almost half an hour of

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excitement but, as she looked sadly at the dwindling supply of quarters, she realized the fun soon would be over unless she made another trip to the cashier's window.

   "I really ought to quit when the cup is empty," she said somewhat sheepishly, "but somehow I always end up going back for more quarters. This (bleep) thing has been known to pay off as much as $250 at one time — but it always pays it to someone else!" She reckoned her losses at "maybe $100 a day — it's more fun if I don't keep track too closely."

The Hefty Progressive Jackpot

   The progressive $1 slot machines pay off the most generously — taking more, of course, in return. A computerized device registers each $1 slug placed in a selected group of machines and adds 5 percent of that amount to a progressively larger pot. The bonanza will be handed the first person who hits the winning combination of three bells straight across. It is a long, long time between bells. The exact amount in the pot at any given moment is displayed in lighted red digital numbers directly over the machines. There had been no winner for weeks.

   That day the progressive jackpot had swelled to more than $126,000, so Casino Operations Director Dennis O'Brien reduced the 5 percent to only 2 percent. "No point in letting the pot get much bigger," he observed.¹ Each player pictures himself walking out with that 126 grand, so eager investors stumble over one another to deposit their money in the dollar slot machines.

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Intensity at the Blackjack Table

   A few yards away, and still within earshot of the clattering, whizzing and clinking of the slots, are the blackjack tables — the scene of what appears to be the most intense contests in the arena. Here it is each player against the dealer, and there is always the possibility that skill in remembering what cards already have been dealt will increase the player's chances of being hit to a winning 21.

   That "21" is the name and the object of the game, and that's the number dealer and players alike try to reach. After the players place their bets on the green felt cover, the dealer gives two cards — faceup — to each player and two cards — one up and the other down — to himself. Face cards count 10, and other cards count whatever number they show. Aces can count either 1 or 11, whichever is needed at the time. The player counts his numbers and makes swift calculations in his head. He must decide whether to stand on what is showing or draw to increase the total of his cards without exceeding 21.

   If his two faceup cards show a total of, say, 15, then he knows if he draws anything up to a six it will bring him closer to the winning total of 21. On the other hand, if he calls for another "hit" and happens to get a seven or above, he "breaks" and his chips are lost. The inscrutable odds always are against him, but he is here to challenge chance, not bow to reality.

   House rules require only the dealer to draw if he has up to 16 and to stand if he has 17 or above. But because one of the dealer's cards still is facedown, the players don't know what he has and therefore don't know how close to 21 they must come to beat him. The dealer

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completes his hand after the players have called for their hits and either broken or decided to stand.

   If the dealer breaks, then all unbroken players win. If the dealer stands, say, on 18, then anyone who shows more than that wins, and anyone who shows less than that loses. A tie is a standoff — nobody wins. For the dealer to handle all the cards and the variety of players' bets swiftly and accurately requires a sphinx-like concentration and a microchip calculator for a brain. He is paid well, but he is also watched with secret-service intensity by a sharp-eyed pit boss who must answer for any slip-ups on his shift.

Roulette: Favorite Pastime of Aristocrats

   The game that characterizes gambling casinos more than any other is the roulette wheel — long among the favorite pastimes of European aristocracy. Today it has multitudes of enthusiastic devotees among growing numbers of casino sophisticates on this continent as well.

   Roulette's big attraction centers in the spinning wheel, the bobbling ball and the variety of wagers it offers. Add to that the fact that it can provide the excitement of a large payoff on a relatively small wager — often enough, at least, to keep the player's juices flowing in hopes the big win is coming with the next turn of the wheel.

   The 38 numbers, including 0 and 00, that appear around the circumference of the roulette wheel also are stretched out before the player like a hopscotch pattern on a green felt board — along with combinations like "black" or "red," "odd" or "even" and various groupings

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of numbers. The player may choose a single number — which pays 35 to 1, 2 to 6 numbers, 12 numbers or 18 numbers in as many combinations as he has chips to cover. He does this by "straddling" the table numbers with his chips. He can make, as the casino's gaming guidebook puts it, "many other fascinating betting combinations."

Craps, Baccarat and the Wheel of Fortune

   The dice table has such a plethora of rules that newcomers to the casino often are frightened away from the game. Many linger to watch, however, and Diane and I soon were straining our necks with other spectators. We pondered a vast array of betting possibilities on the long sunken craps table, with choices like "pass line," "come" and "don't come," challenging the player to take his choice or to forget the whole thing. There are "hardways," "one-roll bets," "horn bets" and "any craps." There are the numbers themselves and the "no call bets" and the "don't pass bar."

   Craps tables are generally regarded the scenes of the fastest action and the most noise in the casino, and the tables at Paradise Island are no exception. If dice had ears, they would hear a repetitious chorus of loud and insistent performance commands — or prayers — with every throw, as players call for a number to fall so they can win their bets. Only one player at a time can throw the dice, but the number of bets that can be placed is almost unlimited. On busy nights, players crowd around the long table, with spectators bringing up the rear.

   The baccarat — pronounced bah-ka-rah — table is in sharp contrast, but we dared not intrude for a closer

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look. Baccarat usually is installed in a remote corner of the casino, and kibitzers are not allowed. While dice throwers, blackjack patrons and roulette players are clad in sport shirts, shorts and blue jeans, baccarat players wear jackets and ties — often even formal dresses and tuxedos. The impression is that baccarat boasts the quiet, thoughtful and quality players who move in casino circles with more aplomb than ordinary tourists can muster.

   The least complicated of all the casino games is the Big Six Wheel — informally called the "Wheel of Fortune." The player puts his money on the number of his choice any time before the wheel stops turning. Numbers circle the wheel with various odds up to 40 to 1 on "joker" or "paradise." The higher the odds, the fewer the chances that the wheel will stop on that number. Only one such slot is provided on the wheel's perimeter for a 40-to-1 win, with considerably less than a 1-in-40 chance that the pointer will stop there.

"Casino Owners Never Gamble"

   In order to turn a profit — which is, of course, their reason for existence — casinos must operate on scientifically determined and easily controlled odds formulas. Given enough time and play, the games provide their owners — though not, on purpose, the players — with a generous return on their investment. A former casino owner told me, "Casino owners never gamble. We know we'll get our 15 percent no matter who gets lucky or who folds."

   Now and then someone takes home a sizable pot, but that never frightens casino managers. They know

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they will get their money back — if not from him, then from someone else. What is called "luck" involves only the occasional win while the numbers are adjusting themselves. For every big winner, there are losers who drop even more. Losers return to recoup their losses — only to lose again. Winners often end up handing their money back to the casino in a futile effort to win even more. The owners know they can count on greed to even the score.

   When a player gets truly involved in wagering, his perceptions undergo a mystical and radical change. The money invested in chips no longer symbolizes to him what it symbolizes to nongamblers. Whether he can afford it or not, he will shove a thousand dollars worth of wheel chips onto the roulette board, watch them evaporate into thin air and shrug off a loss that would cause acute anxiety for someone not under the hypnosis of the game.

Money Is a Stewardship Responsibility

   To most people, money signifies confidence, security, promise and well-being, not only for themselves but also for those who depend upon them for the things money will buy. As Christians, we see in money specific stewardship responsibility by which we declare ourselves involved in what God is doing on Planet Earth. We work hard to get money, plan carefully how to use it efficiently and try to put aside as much of it as possible against the unforeseen demands sure to tap us on the shoulder a few furlongs down the road.

   We grumble over unexpected expenses and complain when people charge us more than what strikes us as fair.

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We agonize over the unwelcome task of balancing bank statements and celebrate when the miscalculation this month is in our favor. We rejoice in bargains and chortle over those rare strokes of good fortune which put a little unexpected cash in our pockets. We see in $5, $10 and $20 bills symbols of how much effort it took to acquire that purchasing power, and how it can grow and serve us and our Lord, if we treat it with respect and appreciation. Seldom, however, are we privileged to so much as hold a $50 or $100 bill in our hands.

Money: the Stuff That Keeps the Action Going

   That is not true, however, of high-rollers at casino gaming tables. Money means something else to them — at least while they are handing $100 bills to the cashier or shoving their chips toward the croupier at the roulette table. What the money symbolizes metamorphoses when it enters the casino. It no longer signifies confidence, security, promise or well-being, and it certainly has no connection with the work or the will of God. Gambling dollars no longer represent stewardship responsibility, purchasing power or the future meeting of creature needs. Money and chips, to the gambler, are merely the stuff which keeps the action going — like make-believe hotels, railroads and utilities in a Monopoly game. As long as a little of the fantasy remains, the game can and must go on.

   "Yes, greed plays an important part in keeping people coming back to our tables," Dennis O'Brien acknowledged.² In fact, keeping them betting and losing

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and coming back to lose again has been the name of the casino game since "Bugsy" Siegel in 1943 persuaded his crime syndicate he could transform Las Vegas into a legal oasis for organized crime and a source of incredible bundles of the stuff that keeps the action going.

An Uncomfortable Alliance

   It took an uncomfortable alliance between this eastern mobster and the straight-laced Mormons of southern Nevada to make it happen, but by 1945 Siegel had his Flamingo in operation in the largely unnoticed seat of Clark County — until then distinguished primarily by its native Americans and its copper mines.

   Operating then out of Beverly Hills, California, the cagey Siegel figured he could count on huge profits from his legalized games, but he also knew it would take more than dice and roulette wheels to lure customers away from Reno's combined attractions of gaming rooms and quick divorces. He accomplished that by providing the most beautiful and least chaste women, the most luxurious accommodations, the finest food and wines and the most celebrated Hollywood entertainers — all at such reasonable prices few could ignore them. It didn't matter what the frills cost; profits at the gaming tables would more than cover the loss.

   Siegel may have forgotten, however, that he was using someone else's money, and his shadowy backers were increasingly irritated with his high-handed ways. When the mob gets irritated, it has a disturbing tendency to eliminate the cause of that exasperation. In due time, Siegel was targeted for a "hit," with the single stipulation

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that the "icing" should take place somewhere other than in Las Vegas. The gambling mecca's reputation as a peaceful town must be protected at all costs — and it was. Siegel was gunned down in his mistress's Beverly Hills mansion in 1947. He should have stayed at home.

   Siegel's death, in fact, created an air of intrigue for Las Vegas which doubtless attracted thousands of customers to the casinos. Today some tourists still visit Las Vegas in hopes of rubbing shoulders with gangsters. The fact is, if they did they probably wouldn't know it. Mafia members don't wear name tags, and they don't necessarily don felt hats, smoke big cigars and speak with Italian accents. Bugsy's Flamingo now is owned by the Hilton Corporation.

Inadequate Control of the Games

   Until Siegel opened his Flamingo, gaming control in Las Vegas had been the responsibility of local and county officials. The 1931 state law that legalized gambling had established county license fees based on the number of games operated, and assigned county sheriffs, district attorneys and committees of county commissioners as licensing authorities.

   It soon became evident, however, that such controls were inadequate, particularly in the light of the cunning and the lack of scruples among the people who were involved in the industry. A new 1945 Nevada law, then, moved this authority to the state, requiring licenses from the state tax commission and levying a tax of 1 percent of gross earnings.

   When mob figure Frank Costello was shot to death

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in New York 10 years later, and figures for gaming revenue at the Tropicana Hotel were found in his bloodsoaked pocket, it became clear that state-imposed controls still had failed to screen out unsavory hidden interests and that no amount of legislation could ensure the exclusion of undesirables from a share in casino profits.

   Only two years earlier the Nevada Tax Commission had found a flaw in the ownership records of the Thunderbird Hotel in Las Vegas, and the state had brought suit to suspend the casino's license. The Attorney General contended that Jake Lansky, brother of alleged underworld financial genius Meyer Lansky, was one of the hidden owners. Lansky had made a huge loan to the owners of record to finance hotel construction, and the state saw in that loan a not very subtle effort to mask his interest as part owner.

   The state lost the case. Nevada's Supreme Court declined to uphold the license suspension order, and Lansky and the Thunderbird went their merry way. Defense lawyers presented a convoluted argument to prove that the hotel and the casino were separate entities, and the court ruled that Lansky — clearly ineligible for casino involvement because of his documented crime connections — did not actually participate in the gambling enterprise.

The Sticky Fingers of the Mob

   Nevada and New Jersey continually restudy and strengthen their casino control apparatus to guard against the involvement of organized crime, yet the effectiveness of such controls inevitably is questionable.

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Too many dollars are at stake and too few scruples intervene to permit measures sufficient to keep the nimble fingers of the mob out of the cookie jar.

   The length and dexterity of those fingers were confirmed during the summer of 1983 in Atlantic City's so called "wiener war," where the front line was drawn along the venerable boardwalk. Competing peddlers in the city's $6 million-a-year hot dog business bruised heads, bloodied noses and overturned each others' carts in violent confrontations at some of the lucrative vending spots in front of the casinos.

   State police undercover agents posed as vendors to investigate. The outcome was the indictment of a dozen men identified with an effort by an allegedly mob-connected company called Island Vets, to take over Hot Digity Dogs, Inc., one of the few local business ventures still prospering. Among those named in the indictment was Edward Casale of Margate, New Jersey, identified by state police as an alleged enforcer for "Little Nicky" Scarfo, reputed boss of the Philadelphia-Atlantic City organized crime family.

   The mobsters had been extorting up to $5,000 a week from Hot Digity Dogs. When legitimate vendors resisted, they got their heads cracked to remind them who the real bosses were.

"Keep Your Filthy Hands out of Atlantic City"

   The incident was an ironic reminder of the day in 1976 when then Governor of New Jersey Brendan T. Byrne stood on the Atlantic City boardwalk and defiantly declared, "Organized crime is not welcome. I warn them, keep your filthy hands out of Atlantic City."³ The casino law

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he signed and celebrated that day was called the toughest in the world. The gambling industry in New Jersey is policed by 100 federal law enforcement agents, 126 state police and 750 state lawyers, accountants and inspectors. But, though unwelcome and threatened, the mob has managed serious inroads into the controversial new Atlantic City industry, lured by the enormous profits it generates.

   "The state government can't control a huge cash industry like this," said New Jersey's Democratic Congressman, Robert C. Torricelli. "It's like saying Seattle can control Boeing. The industry ends up controlling the state. We were naive to think we could keep out organized crime," he acknowledges. "Now we recognize that the price of legalized gambling is that we become the focus of attention for undesirable elements."⁴

Raiding the Slot Machines

   Between 1978 and 1983, those undesirables stole from Nevada casinos alone an estimated $80 million, according to James Avance, Chairman of the Nevada Gaming Control Board. What annoys the gaming control people is that during those four key years the state was cheated out of more than $4.6 million it would have collected in taxes on those additional profits. The IRS lost a similar sum.

   Nevada's 400 casinos operate more than 90,000 slot machines, and there is no way to tell how many of these were ripped off — or still are being outwitted. "It could have involved much more than the $20 million per year we have estimated," Avance says. "No one really knows."⁵

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   This particular skullduggery came to light quite accidentally on the afternoon of August 19, 1983, when a casino patron named Constantine G. Econopoulos hit a $1.7 million jackpot on the progressive dollar slot machines at Harrah's Hotel and Casino in Lake Tahoe. The happy Greek became an instant celebrity, and his picture — standing next to the winning machine — was a highlight of that evening's TV news in the San Francisco Bay area where he lived. He held in his hand the first installment on his killing: a Harrah's check for $200,000.

The Police Also Were Tuned In

   Unfortunately for Econopoulos, however, the San Francisco police were watching TV that evening, and an alert detective recognized the instant millionaire as a convicted felon who had been the guest of the state on two occasions over a 12-year period on burglary raps.

   Meanwhile, Harrah's had installed Econopoulos in a luxurious suite as its guest while Nevada agents began a routine check of the slot machine that had provided his bonanza. This particular check, however, proved very unroutine. The agents found that the supposedly tamper-proof machine and its encased microchip computer heart had been meddled with.

   Harrah's promptly stopped payment on the check and the no-longer-overjoyed Greek was taken into custody. It took a while, but in due time the pieces fell into place. Members of his gang had stood casually around the machine to block casino surveillance cameras while a "mechanic" opened and reset the machine, programming it to give up the jackpot under conditions they controlled.

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Econopoulos was merely the "claimer" who stepped forward to collect the jackpot — a performance for which he was promised 20 percent of the action. Now casinos are pondering how many millions other entrepreneurs have diverted from their cash flow without the losses being discovered.

Declining Profits in the Industry

   The fact is, with profits declining, 10 percent of Nevada's casinos have gone bankrupt in recent years. The competition is awesome. Las Vegas has more than 50 casinos and some 50,000 hotel rooms — not to mention another 350 or so gambling centers in other parts of Nevada. "We no longer have a monopoly," observes Las Vegas banker E. Parry Thomas. The threat comes largely from Atlantic City. "Atlantic City has one thing we will never have," Thomas points out. "That is 60 million people only half a gasoline tank away."⁶

   Comparatively few Atlantic City casinos end up dividing the business — with only 15 casinos and 9,000 rooms. Yet even that advantage is no guarantee of success. Already one Atlantic City casino is bankrupt and others are loudly singing the blues.

   No doubt more of them will go under — particularly in view of the determined efforts of Miami Beach hotel owners to provide even more competition through a county-option legalizing of casinos in Florida. And that isn't likely to stifle other initiatives in New Orleans, Detroit, West Virginia, Ohio and elsewhere. For as long as people are willing to cough up their money in the cause of fun and excitement over the cards, the dice or the roulette wheel, accommodating wealthy investors

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always will be there — happy to become even richer through gamblers' losses.

Opportunities Unlimited for Illegal Profits

   We dare not overlook the significance of casinos in society's frenzied rush toward permissiveness. For many Americans, "casinos" are a synonym for gambling. If there is none within a couple of hours of where you live, be patient — someone probably will remedy that soon enough. Along with lotteries, casinos are the frothy edge of the wave that is washing the gambling craze across our nation.

   Yet casinos differ significantly from lotteries in that the toll they take is far more cruel, and their earnings go primarily to private owners. Lottery profits — however questionable the ethics of the trend — at least benefit some citizens of their sponsoring states. Gambling casinos, on the other hand, channel most of their earnings to already wealthy entrepreneur owners and managers while offering to unscrupulous people in all walks of life almost unlimited opportunity for illegal profiteering.

Points to Ponder

1. Have you ever taken time to think about the urge of humans to gamble? Place most of us in front of a slot machine, and we experience that inexplicable urge to deposit a quarter and pull the handle — even though we know the probability of losing exceeds the possibility of winning.

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Suppose, in no more than three short sentences, you were required to explain why that impulse grips us. What would you write?

2. In a five-way slot machine, winning symbols can line up in one of three rows straight across or in either of two angled rows like a big X, with each way costing an additional quarter. The sales pitch is that this "increases your chance of winning." Does betting five times as much with five times as many chances of winning really make us more likely to win?

3. Would a gambling casino be described best as "a place where people win a lot of money" or "a place where people lose a lot of money"? Where do casinos get the money an occasional winner walks away with? Do they print it, import it from outer space or perhaps dig it up on the beach?

4. Do the people who own casinos know they will always come out ahead, or is there a sense in which they "gamble" like their customers?

5. Don't answer without giving it some serious thought, but, as a Christian, what does money symbolize to you? If you have a $10- or a $20-bill — even a $5 bill will do, hold it in your hand for a while and reflect on what that piece of paper means. Is it really yours, or do you hold it in joint ownership with someone else? What about your husband or wife, your child or parent, your bank or mortgage company or — dare we suggest it — God?

Notes

1. From a personal 2 A.M. interview with the author at Paradise Island Casino, Bahamas.

2. Ibid.

3. Washington Post, January 16, 1984.

4. Ibid.

5. Chicago Tribune, September 19, 1984, sect. 1, p. 4.

6. U.S. News & World Report, May 30, 1983.

Chapter Ten  ||  Table of Contents