STREETWISE BLACKJACK

Streetwise Blackjack

Takin' it to the Streets

By Peter Ruchman

      I was speaking at a conference last week at one of the largest Strip hotels in the city, or the world for that matter. In between sessions, I ventured over (way over) to the casino, a daunting task in itself. I was reminded of that mild-manner early 20th century flame-thrower Gertrude Stein writing of her hometown Oakland, California, "There is no there there." This place sprawls. You need a road map for the bathroom and if you happen to get lost on the yellow brick road, you may wind up in a $300 restaurant eating armadillo ceviche.

     Rocky the very friendly blackjack dealer informed me that there are 120 blackjack tables in this kingdom. She told me this when the two men sitting at her five dollar game were discussing their play from the night before. It seems that these two men both met with similar experiences, common to almost every player at one time or another. They both encountered the whiners.

      There is a funny thing that happens in the hierarchy of blackjack's social and financial strata. The lowest end, the $1-$10 table minimum games, is the fisherman's net of blackjack. It is the stern trawler dragging the net on the bottom of the ocean's floor, picking up anything and everything, debris and lobsters. All is sorted out on the boat. The low-end tables are a magnet for the passing tourist, the recreational player, the reeling drunks, and a few knowledgeable folks hoping to mingle and play unnoticed. This last group tends to make the least noise. They smile and respond politely, without raising too much of a fuss with the bonehead on third base who has no clue. It is the recreational player who generally reacts to a spectacularly bad participant by lashing out with some form of outrage. Then, depending on the personalities, the once neutral or friendly table turns into a suddenly hostile environment until one of the parties departs. UN peacekeeping forces are often needed. This scenario is repeated hundreds of times each day in every casino.

     Generally speaking, the higher up you go in the water, the more knowledgeable the play. Notice I mentioned the key word, "generally." Just because a player has money, that doesn't make him/her experienced or wise. I've seen some of the worst play come at the high-end tables. But these tables tend to be less crowded and most of the better players simply get up and leave if they are uncomfortable with a terrorist lurking nearby.

     Getting back to Rocky and her friends, the two men were bonding as I sat there, both about 35, from different towns nearby in Michigan. Both shared the same rotten experience the prior night with players who did dumb things. Rocky was talkative, relating that she had been dealing for years, starting downtown at the Golden Nugget, where if you dealt one extra hand on a plus count you were automatically dismissed.

     I found her refreshing as she was talking about plus and minus counts, urging the three of us to up our five dollar bets when the count rose, pausing to let each player add another chip before the cards came out of the eight-deck shoe. I was laying low in the weeds, letting her focus on the two happy campers discussing the finer point of life in the Lower Peninsula and life's simple pleasures in East Lansing.

     I sat in the chair next to third base purposely leaving it open to see what would happen. It was like a lab experiment. Sure enough, the seat attracted all kinds who would stay for four or five hands, get disgusted, then do the same thing somewhere else. Blackjack moths, they flit from table to table, lighting down for a moment before heading for the next flame.

     Unfortunately for our gang of three, every decent plus count resulted in a breath-taking six-card twenty-one for Rocky or an equally nauseating chain of events. It was either that or a blackjack. I shrugged and smiled having been party to this kind of thing more than once before. The Men from Michigan both thanked me for not slamming things, spilling drinks, or swearing as they had seen some of that. I told them it wasn't my style. At least no one asked where I was from. When the one seated the closest to me stood on a three-card six, I blinked. Rocky verbally nudged him, but he stubbornly stuck. I blinked again, wondering why he was complaining about the play of others.

     I stayed through two shuffles from this "old-fashioned" static plastic dealing shoe, the game creeping like a slug, and found I was down five dollars, basically going nowhere, listening to the great debate to my right: Lansing or East Lansing? I needed a lifeline. Rocky was still dispensing motherly warmth and cheerful advice. I was almost ready.

     When a new contestant sat down in the chair between me and Midwesterners, and got two blackjacks and three twenties, to my lousy 13s, 14s, and 15s, I pulled up stakes and headed for greener pastures less claustrophobic. I found it in a dealer staring straight ahead, no one at the table. On a Wednesday afternoon, the House was rockin' but Mark was alone at a five-dollar table. This usually means a smoking gun is lying close by. I sat down and asked. He nodded in the affirmative. My name isn't Friday, but you don't have to be a cop to figure out that fortune hadn't smiled on this spot lately. Three tables down, there was whooping and high-fiving--a distinct contrast to this somber moment.

     I told Mark to deal the cards and he started off with a blackjack to my nineteen. Oooff! He smiled sympathetically as if to say, "See, I warned you!" Ah, but then the worm turned ... With no words spoken and the game moving at a fast clip, playing head-to-head, I was back on familiar turf. For a few moments it felt just like the old days. I imagined that this is what Teddy Ballgame must have felt like in 1963 taking a few swings against a live arm. The contrast between this table and the one I just left like hamburg and filet.

     Four fast winners, a double off a split that worked, a blackjack that was parlayed, stalling on a push with Mark's ten-up against my mournful 9-8 combo, lying on the table like a five-day old salami and American cheese sandwich. Mark flipped the seven, I stood on my bet with the count at plus 4 and the last blackjack sent me home smiling. So maybe there is hope after all. Something to consider.