On the Brinks

by Sam Millar

  “Tell us where it’s located and there’ll be no smashing, just confiscating.” His name was Murphy, and he looked every part of it. He was in charge of his PMS, and thrived on the vandalism of it.

  The owner of the casino hated the PMS, and his policy towards them was simple: not a cent. Even if they demolish the place, not a red cent.

  When Murphy was told that we hadn’t a clue what he was talking about, he would work himself into a frenzy, turning into a modern-day Thor, his sledgehammer knocking out walls, splitting card tables in half. But no matter how much damage the PMS caused, they could never find the money. All that was left to gratify their anger was to arrest us and place us in the local lock-up for a night or two. Then a judge would fine us – usually a couple of hundred dollars each – and admonish us not to break the law again.

  The casinos operated seven days a week, twenty-four hours a day. Food and liquor were provided free to customers, as was transportation for those who wanted it. The card dealers came from all walks of life, and from various countries, such as Korea, Puerto Rico and Canada. When I started, only a couple were from Ireland. But that would change considerably in the months ahead.

  * * *

  The owner of the casino was an Irish-American by the name of Johnny Mac, a self-made millionaire whose family came from Tyrone. He had done time in prison for killing a man, and was a one-time boss of the Irish Mob that controlled the Bronx and lower Manhattan. An unassuming and soft-spoken man, he was rarely seen in the casino, except at Christmas when he would thank all the dealers generously by handing them envelopes containing significant monetary gifts.

  Mac’s overseer was a man named Ronnie Gibbons, an exboxer from Liverpool who fancied himself with his fists and brain. A copy of Marcus Aurelius’ Meditations was never out of his reach, and he was forever quoting the Stoic philosopher. Ronnie had bumped into Mac at a prestigious health joint in Manhattan, the New York Athletic Club, where he did a regular workout on the punch bag and ropes. Mac was apparently impressed by what he saw.

  “I could use someone like you for my club,” he said, handing Ronnie a business card. “Give me a call.”

  Normally, Ronnie would have torn the card up. He was self-employed and loathed the thought of working for someone – as a slave, he called it. But something told him to pocket the card, as he was well aware of whom he spoke to.

  Ronnie regarded himself as the Ragged Trousered Philanthropist, a modern-day Robin Hood who believed you should take from the rich and give to the poor. Sometimes that philosophy became a bit muddled and he found it hard to distinguish the poor from himself.

  When he first started in the casino he worked not only as bouncer – which was what Mac had wanted him for in the first place – but also as a jack-of-all-trades. If a bathroom needed cleaning and the janitor hadn’t shown up, Ronnie would quickly get to work on it, leaving it spotless. A dead bulb needed replacing? Ronnie was there, stepladder in hand. If a customer called for a drink while the regular barman was busy? Hey presto, Ronnie with a tray full of drinks! There he was again, helping a customer on with her coat. What a guy.

  At least that’s what Mac would think, as Ronnie worked his omnipresence to perfection, fooling everyone except Barney Jameson, Mac’s overseer at the time.

  “There’s somethin’ not right ’bout that guy,” complained Jameson to Mac’s father, John, as they sat counting the winnings from the four-to-twelve-o’clock shift. “And that phoney English accent of his drives me nuts.”

  “He doesn’t drink,” John said, beating down his second large whiskey of the day. “Never trusted a man who didn’t drink. Like the Pope havin’ sex. Just not right.”

  “Listen, both of ya. Ronnie’s here to stay,” Mac said, double-checking his father’s figures on the payout cards. “He’s got lots of potential – especially with his fists. He could become a good asset for the House.”

  The two words Jameson didn’t want to hear: potential and asset.

  “Still, I wouldn’t trust a man who doesn’t drink,” Mac’s father mumbled again.

  A few months later, fate dealt Ronnie a winning hand, in the form of an attempted robbery. The robber, a young man in his teens, was knocked unconscious by Ronnie’s quick reflexes and thinking.

  “Can I pick a winner or not?” Mac said, upon hearing the news.

  A week later, despite the protest of Jameson, Ronnie was elevated to the position of manager. He quickly made his presence felt. His first task was to overhaul security to prevent a reoccurrence of walk-in robbers. After that, he set his sights on the finances of the casino, checking and then double-checking expenses, so that every dollar was accounted for.

  This caused the animosity to grow between him and Jameson.

  “We’ve been paying out too much for liquor,” Ronnie said at a meeting of managers. “The House doesn’t consume half of what we’re being charged.”

  Ronnie spread the receipts on the small oval table in front of Mac.

  Jameson’s brother-in-law supplied the liquor, and Jameson quickly rushed to his defence.

  “The House gets a good deal from the supplier. And anyway, what’s all this we business? Anyone would think you owned the place instead of Mac.”

  It made Jameson sound defensive and he realised it, too late.

  “I’m talking collectively,” explained Ronnie in a calm voice. “The profit and longevity of the House should – must – come first, above everything else.”

  Mac watched, amused. A wise owl, knowing that sooner or later it would come down to this: two roosters fighting for their share of the farmyard.

  “What is your association with Mike Bloom?” Ronnie said. He moved closer to Jameson.

  “Whaddya mean, association? He’s my brother-in-law, as Mac knows and everyone knows. Whaddya tryin’ ta say, son?” hissed Jameson.

  “I’m saying perhaps your in-law is faulty with his figures. It can happen. He probably didn’t mean anything by it – just carelessness, perhaps. I’m sure he’d like to rectify his mistakes, given the chance.”

  “Just whaddya talkin’ ’bout? Whaddya tryin’ ta say?”

  “I estimate his mistakes have cost the House about five grand over the last year alone, and I haven’t even checked the receipts for the year before. Who knows what the final tally will be?”

  “Mac?” Jameson said, incredulously. “Can ya believe this punk? Insultin’ my brother-in-law who is more than good to the House with his prices.”

  Mac said nothing, only watched, fascinated by the silence in the room. Each manager present – eight in all – probably wished he or she were someplace else. Not because of the humiliation of Jameson, but because each wondered if they were next to be scrutinised. Each was running over past deeds in their heads, and not liking what they remembered.

  Before Jameson could say another word, Ronnie hit him full force in the face, knocking him out.

  “Tiny! Come up here, please,” Ronnie said.

  “Yea?” said Tiny, the enormous bouncer, entering the room.

  “Throw this piece of shit in the dumpster outside. From here on in, he’s persona non grata.”

  “Huh?”

  “He’s not allowed near the casino – ever. Okay?”

  With Jameson gone, it was left to Mac’s father to sum it all up while shaking Ronnie’s hand. “Never trusted that man Jameson from the day I met him, Ronnie. Drank too much for my liking. Never trust a man who drinks too much.”

  Ronnie simply smiled. Mac senior would be well worth the watching.

  * * *

  “Where da foick is Nicky, that damn com-u-nest!” continued Bronx Tommy, as he grabbed another tray of chips from the office. “We’re bein’ moidered by those Chinks and Jews, and that little boistard is still missin’!”

  Nicky was the best dealer the casino had. He had lightning-fast fingers, and a mind to match. A great entertainer, he was from Romania and always carried a small pistol beneath his armpit. He was the only one the customers
never got angry with, for obvious reasons.

  Bronx Tommy’s anger was a different matter. His violent life began as his mother’s ended – during parturition. An angry, ugly baby, quipped the nurse, who would rather have seen baby die over mother. By the age of eighteen, Tommy had seen the inside of Attica, Sing Sing and Green Haven. He tried his hand as a heavy for the Irish Mob in Boston, where he was shot twice in the face, losing an eye in the process: “Really annoyin’. Like havin’ a golf ball for an Adam’s apple.” Spotted by Mac as a diamond-in-the-rough, he was hired as bouncer/doorman, bringing with him the acumen of a street survivor with an indispensable loyalty that bordered on fanaticism. If Doc, another one of the pit bosses, was suspicious of foreigners, Tommy was suspicious of everyone – including Doc, whom he suspected of pocketing more than wages and tips.

  “Take it easy, Tommy,” advised Susan, the assistant manager. “You’ll have a heart attack. Nicky’ll be here ASAP.”

  “Don’t talk shit, woman! We’re almost out of black chips. It’s N-R-Key out there! Foickin’ little com-u-nest.”

  “Here, honey,” said Maria, the Puerto Rican barmaid, holding a glass of Johnny Walker Black out to Tommy as he walked closer to the bar.

  Tommy hesitated, weighing the consequences of more whiskey in such a volatile situation, and then quickly disposed of it down his throat. He hated seeing good whiskey go to waste. He hated seeing good whiskey go anywhere except down his throat.

  “That hit the spot, Maria. But no more. This damn ulcer of mine is killin’ me.”

  “I told you to stop feeding him drink,” Doc hissed to Maria, as Tommy returned to the fray in the centre of the room.

  “Su mama traga sobo,” Maria replied. (Your mother eats cum.)

  “What’d you say?” Doc asked suspiciously.

  “I said Tommy’s the boss. No? I do as he says. Not you,” Maria said, dismissing the glaring Doc with a toss of her hair.

  “Maria?” interjected Susan, hoping to calm the situation. “Go and serve a customer.”

  “Te huele la pepa hedionda, yuiebra pichas,” Maria said to Susan. (Your pussy stinks, skinny whore.)

  “I know my pussy stinks, Maria. But please try and refrain from calling me skinny,” Susan replied, smiling ruthlessly back. Then turning to Doc, she said, “You’ve got to stop letting her aggravate you. Just ignore her.”

  “All these spic dealers and waitresses Mac hired aren’t doing much good,” Doc replied. “They’re getting paid twice as much as the other dealers, and for what? So they can give the chips away twice as fast! If I had my way …”

  “Well ya doint, do ya?” said Tommy, standing menacingly behind Doc. “It’s Mac’s call, and he’ll hire and fire anyone he wants.”

  Despite Doc being a pit-boss, Tommy was Mac’s right-hand man and the de facto boss. Rarely did they work the same shift, but when they did it was Gunpowder and Spark, with the inevitable explosion.

  “I’m telling you, those spics are detrimental to the House. It’s madness having them here,” Doc continued.

  Tommy’s good eye glared. “End of discussion. Understand? If ya doint like it, git another job. That can be arranged.”

  To my absolute horror, Tommy suddenly spotted me and waved for me to come down from the second floor and take Table Four.

  As I walked to my doom, the exit sign was beaming, making me hesitate. This was my last chance to escape. I’d been dreading this moment. My initiation into the world of blackjack was about to begin.

  We had been taught at the dealer school over in New Jersey that we were mere robots, card-dealing machines. Show no emotion. It’s not your money. Don’t take victory or defeat personal. When a customer wins you congratulate; when they lose you commiserate. Our one cardinal rule is fraternising. Do not do it. Caught fraternising with a customer and you are out – no questions asked, no excuse accepted.

  I took a deep breath as I walked to the table. No more school. This was the real, ball-crushing event.

  Jim O’Neill, from my own area in Belfast’s New Lodge Road, gave me a friendly pat on the back. “Don’t worry, Sam. It isn’t as bad as a wing-shift in the Blocks.” He smiled.

  Like me, Jim had spent years on the Blanket protest. With that horror now behind him, he had come to America to make a decent life for himself. He was doing pretty well, having worked his way up the managerial tree of promotion – a tree I desperately wanted to join him on. I only hoped that by the time I reached the top of the tree, Jim would have left a few apples for me!

  “I’ll spot ya,” winked Tommy with his good eye, while whispering, “We’re down eighteen G. I’ve a feelin’ ye’re gonna be one of our lucky dealers, kid.”

  Just what I didn’t want to hear. There is a myth amongst pit-bosses of “hot” and “cold” dealers; of dealers who carry some special talisman with them. It’s nonsense, but unfortunately for me, Tommy was a firm believer in it. It was going to take more than having a lucky shamrock shoved up my arse to save this Titanic disaster of a table, and the thought of being down eighteen thousand dollars was not going to help.

  I felt all eyes on me as I tried to shuffle the cards just as I was taught at the croupier school. But the cards felt like rounds of bread in my clumsy fingers. I dropped some on the floor, much to the delight of the customers, who started laughing and hurling abuse at me.

  I began to perspire.

  “Don’t let dem bother ya, kid,” encouraged Tommy. “We’ll wipe those doirty grins off der gubs in a wee while.”

  Every few minutes, Tommy would force his dentures out on to the edge of his tongue, scrutinising them. It was a disgusting habit.

  To my right sat my spotter, Victor, an old hand from Atlantic City. He had told me the spotter is the most important person at the table.

  “A good spotter will nick any potential problems in the bud before they get out of hand. He must be assertive at all times. An honest mistake can make a dealer or customer look bad, so the onus is on the spotter to defuse the situation as quickly and diplomatically as possible without anyone losing face or being called a cheat. Also, watch out for distractions. Dames with their tits hangin’ out all over the place; coffee bein’ spilled on the table – even pricks fakin’ heart attacks. They’ll try every trick in the book, these people. But just keep your eyes on the table. Nice and simple, and you’ll do just fine.”

  It was like having an older brother watching my back.

  Ten to twelve decks of cards are used in each game. At the croupier school, they teach you how to shuffle with the quietness and perfection of a butterfly’s wings. I was making a complete mockery of all I had been taught. Once shuffled, you hold the decks in one hand, stretched towards the customer. Your other hand holds a “cut card” – a clear piece of card-shaped plastic – which you then offer for the customer to cut the block of cards with. The entire block is then placed in the “shoe”, snugly, until the dealer removes them, one at a time, at the speed of light.

  Unfortunately for me, my light had yet to get up to speed.

  “Oh, a virgin? So nervous, little boy. We not hurt.” She was a Korean woman, as were the others at my table. They were all dressed identically, in dark suits and red polo sweaters. They chain-smoked, blowing what they inhaled into my face, stinging my eyes. “You bring us luck, we tip big,” she smiled. Not friendly, just business.

  “I’ll try,” I croaked, my voice rusted with fear.

  “Bad luck, we cut off balls,” said the smallest of the coterie. They thought that was great, all laughing in unison.

  “Ignore ’em, Sam,” advised Victor. “They’re only tryin’ to fuck with your head.”

  I had been warned about Korean gamblers. They are very passionate about gambling, almost religious. If they smelled weakness in a dealer, they would have no qualms about going in for the kill.

  The cards refused to come out of the shoe. I had packed them in too tight.

  Victor leaned over, flicking the cards with his thumb nail, loosening them
. “Nice and easy does it, Sam. Take your time.”

  “C’mon! C’mon! You too fuckin’ slooowwwwwww!” All the Korean women were screaming.

  Slowly but surely, I began. As each game progressed, my confidence became stronger. After four games, some of the chips began to accumulate back in the tray.

  “He no good! Get new dealer,” they shouted. “He deal like old man – fuckin’ sloooooooooooow!”

  I’d been on the table for almost an hour, and was finding it invigorating. I was getting a buzz.

  “Would ya like some refreshments, Samuel, me bucko?” asked Bronx Tommy, all smiles, elevating me from “kid” to first-name terms.

  Eventually, all the chips were back in the tray. The customers now had to buy them back if they wanted to continue. The Korean women quickly removed $100 bills from their expensive handbags and placed them in front of me. I quickly fan-tailed the money in front of Tommy and Victor to verify the amount, before signing my name on the drop-card, then showed it to both men before pushing the bills down into the cash box attached to the table, with the aid of a narrow plunger.

  At any given time, the manager can look at the drop-card and know exactly how much each cash box contains. Normally, when it reaches a couple of thousand dollars, the manager removes the box and replaces it with an empty one. This is done to deter would-be robbers and to prevent the cops getting any of it during a raid. The money is then counted in the safety of the office and in the presence of Mac or his father, just in case someone should have sticky fingers. After that, if the money isn’t “sent home”, it’s hidden in an intricate labyrinth of hide-holes and false props, placed strategically throughout the club. Something as innocuous as a Maxwell House jar could contain thousands of dollars.

  Bronx Tommy had become mesmerised by the reversal of fortune. His glass eye stared at the ceiling, and I swear I saw a tear.

  “Enough! We move,” the Korean boss-lady said. The troupe of women suddenly pushed themselves away from the table.

  “Well done, Samuel me bucko. Take a long break. Ya deserve it,” Tommy said, carrying the filled-to-the-brim money box to the office.