Casino Connection Nevada

Game Playing

by Roger Gros

The player was truly obnoxious. His self-assuredness was an act. I could tell. His woman sits behind him, seemingly enthralled by his success. But the act was all for her. He wasn’t all that.

But then again, the player is always right. As a baccarat dealer, I knew I was in a special category among dealers. I dealt to the highest of rollers; the ones the casino marketers spent thousands just to entice to play in their joint. So I remained silent.

As I was calling the winning hand (player wins, 7 over 6), the player slides a $500 chip onto the player side. Clearly, a late bet.

“Sir, that bet is a tad late,” I said, proud that I handled the situation diplomatically.

“Pay the player,” came the disembodied voice at the end of the table.

Crap, I thought. It was clearly late. I had already turned over the last card. No way the bet was on time. And to make it worse, I taught this woman how to deal baccarat and she got promoted instead of me.

I looked up. The floorwoman glared back. I clammed up. And the player got paid. What the heck. It wasn’t my money.

I get tapped out. As I head around to the base for my second 20-minute shift, I glance at the floorwoman. She says nothing, avoids my eyes.

I have a full side of the table. I’m one of the best dealers in the house and the “pay two, mark two” procedure doesn’t apply to me. I’m the best. I can pay them all, mark the commissions and not miss a beat. And that’s what I see as I stand in. All bank bets, ranging from $20 to $5,000 (my favorite player).

And of course, the bank wins. I pay the board, mark the commissions. Still pissed about the late bet, but letting it go.

It’s a bank run. Seven or eight hands go to the bank. My entire side is on the run. High-fives, all around. The obnoxious guy is even on the ties, which hit twice at $500 a pop. Four grand each time.

He’s really crowing now. His girl is swooning.

Finally, a player hand. I sweep the board.

He leans back, talking to the floorwoman. She comes over to me, whispering in my ear, telling me to take down his commission.

“But he didn’t pay it,” I complain.

“He says you charged him too much for the entire run. He says he was watching you,” she explains.

“You know I didn’t get it wrong,” I return. “You know I don’t get that stuff wrong.”

“Take it down,” she says, walking away, no more discussion.

I lock up the lammers, with a bit too much attitude, I imagine. She turns away, consulting with the pit boss. He doesn’t look happy.
The player smirks… I’m burning.


The next 20 minutes are pure agony. Another bank run. The player wins. He calls for several racks to hold his winnings Makes it a point to let me know he’s watching. I almost show him each lammer I use to mark his commission, so there’s no doubt that I know that he knows he got over on me. But he’s too busy with the girl.

I’m tapped out, 10 minutes after the floorwoman takes her break. I search for her in the lounge for a confrontation, but she’s nowhere to be found.

We both come back at the same time. I’m determined to handle this as a professional, so I await an explanation. Nothing is forthcoming.

I go back on stick and happily see that my player has been wiped out during my 20-minute absence. He’s asking the floorwoman for another $100,000 marker. The girl is looking the other way.

As the floorwoman hands the slip to the pit clerk, she smiles at me. I smile back.

All is right with the world.