Another Wednesday episode from days gone by.
Welcome back pal.
I had dinner with the prestigious Editor-In-Chief the other night, which brings to my mind that it's turkey season. I do have some memories that are treasured because there are fewer and fewer people in this mad, mad, mad world who will ever have them. Such as, how people many have ever plucked a turkey? We'd all gather around the kitchen table and grab a handful of feathers and pluck to our heart's delight, while the smell of fresh-baked mince pie wafted through the house. These days, of course, the yuppie thing to do is to boil the turkey in peanut oil.
Have you ever noticed how, when you're in a really good and creative writing mood, one train of thought just railroads directly into another? Put "turkey" and "peanut" together and, SHAZAM! You have a great lead right into… "Billy Carter," as I promised in my last column.
Now, this is actually the story of several turkeys. In the fall of 1977, as I recall, the Teamsters Union was having a convention at the Aladdin in Vegas. For obvious security reasons, it wasn't well publicized in advance that the guest speaker was to be Billy Carter. Well, the day of his speech arrived, and I was sitting in my office in back of the cashier’s cage when Turkey Number One came running into my office. She was a white cashier... that is to say, all of the color had drained from her face.
"What's wrong?" I ventured to ask. It always makes me queasy to ask an obviously distraught woman what's wrong. You never know what kind of an answer you're going to get. She managed to stutter out that Billy Carter was at her window wanting to set up a line of credit.
"So, where's Pat?" I inquired as to the whereabouts of Turkey Number Two. Pat was the Credit Manager and he was an expert at shucking, ducking and loafing. So, when she told me that Pat had just now left to go to the men's room, I wasn't the least bit surprised. Well, I was the Collection Manager in those days and, besides collecting gambling debts, I also often had the privilege of doing Pat’s job. "So, have him fill out a credit ap, get a copy of his driver's license, and clear his name through Central Credit," I instructed her. "You know the drill."
"I can't."
"Why not?"
"I'm scared." Damned woman was 33 years old and she was being scared out of her wits by a gas station owner! So, I told her to follow me and we galloped out into the cage and her window. There, of course, stood Turkey Number Three.
I knew he was Billy Carter the minute I set eyes on him; he wearing Levi's and the three goons standing behind him were in silk, pin-striped suits, obviously Secret Service types. Those dudes all use the same barber, you know. "Good afternoon, Mr. Carter. I understand you need a line of credit?" He just grinned, like a schoolboy about to have his first sexual encounter. So, I asked him "How much credit would you like?
"Oh, maybe $2,500," he almost squeaked. Sweat was starting to bead up on his eyebrows.
"Okay, sir. Please fill out this brief application and sign it and, while you're doing that, I need to make a copy of your driver's license." The three goons were gazing back at me in obvious disbelief that I was asking Billy Carter for I.D.
Billy himself was somewhat stunned. "No one ever asks me for my driver's license," he responded.
"Well, I am," I looked him square in the eyeballs. So, he reached into his jeans and extracted a brown leather wallet that was so flat and thin that even a flea couldn’t get in. From the wallet, he produced a Georgia driver's license, which reflected his address as being in Plains, Georgia. There was virtually nothing else in his wallet; no cash, no credit cards, no dirty pictures. He reluctantly slid the license across the counter and started to fill out the application form.
After I copied the license and cleared his name with Central Credit, I went back to the counter and told him that his "line" was approved. "But, I wouldn't take it all right now," I suggested. "From what I can see, one of those jackasses standing behind you will probably roll you before you can move three feet.’ At this point, the three gumballs edged closer up to him and sneered at me. Billy certainly seemed to enjoy the moment.
A few minutes after Billy and his entourage vanished into the crowded casino, good old Pat, (Turkey Number Two), walked in and tried to put his magic charm on me. "So, you gave him $2,500 and you didn't ask him how he was going to pay it?" he challenged.
"Naw, I'm not worried about it," I shot back. "If he doesn't pay it, I figure Jimmy's good for it." Just for the record, Billy did pay it. I don't know that he ever put a nickle in a slot machine; I think he just wanted some "flash" money.
Several years later, one of my good friends from Los Angeles was gambling at the Sahara and he lost $10,000 in about an hour at the dice table. I offered to send him and his wife to dinner in the gourmet room, the House of Lords. After I made the reservation and wrote the comp slip, the Casino Manager asked me why I was buying the guy dinner.
"He just lost $10,000" I replied.
"That's the point. He already LOST the $10,000. You don't have to buy him dinner."
And now, for my last turkey story. Accountants have a habit of getting in the way of good business sense. The bean counter at the Sahara had penciled it all out, how he was going to save the joint $75,000 a year. In his brilliance, he had discovered that it cost 12 cents less to serve a draft beer than a bottle of beer and that we gave away so many thousands of beers a year to gamblers. Hence the rule that, from then on, gamblers could only be comped to draft beer.
One of my players, Jerry from Fort Worth, was in town gambling at Binion's. He decided to drop by to see me at the Sahara. Of course, he ended up on the dice table and promptly blew almost $15,000. I'm sure his mouth and throat were very dry at that point; mine would have been. So, he asked for a bottle of Bud. The cocktail waitress politely told him he couldn't have a bottle, but he could have a draft.
Jerry went bonkers. He screamed at the Casino Manager that he wanted a BOTTLE of Bud, and the Casino Manager rebuffed him by saying he couldn't have a bottle, but he could have a draft. One rule of the gambling business is that you never want to tick off a really good player when he still has money in his pocket. Jerry still had about $500 from his $15,000 credit line and he fired up the dice; it only took him about thirty minutes to pay off his markers and get $50,000 ahead. It’s as if the story was written in the wind. He then backed away from the tables and walked straight toward the cashier's cage to cash out.
"Hey, where are you going?" the Casino Manager yelled after him.
"Back to Binion's to get a bottle of Bud." They canceled the draft beer rule about two minutes later.
So much for the turkey season. What’s next? Let's see…. Maybe you'd like to hear about a guy who used to come into town and risk millions of dollars at a time. I'll tell you about him next week. Until then, remember that the livers are yours and I get the tail.
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