the fourteen phones rang. I had no idea which one.
“So?”
Robbie J snapped and I nearly jumped out of my seat. His hand gripped the receiver so hard his knuckles turned white. He was waiting on me to make a call.
“Who are you on the phone with?”
“Uhm,” I said, and hung up.
I found the ringing phone. It was Tony, prepared with his rundown, calling from a men’s bathroom inside the Stardust casino. The Stardust was the preeminent Las Vegas sports book because itwas the first sports book to post the day’s lines. For professionals like Dinky, these lines—calculated by handicappers but untested by the market—were pure potential. Any mistake, any miscalculation or oversight—maybe the line didn’t take into account the college quarterback who stayed up till two in the morning downing tequila shots—was begging for a smart bettor to take advantage of it.
Gamblers called these virginal lines the early lines and there wasn’t a wiseguy in the country who didn’t want to get down on them. To protect itself from getting hammered by the smart bettors, however, the Stardust managers limited the number of bets they took before they had a chance to adjust their lines. It was a first come, first served setup to bet the early lines and competition became so fierce that some gambling bosses paid homeless people to sleep in the Stardust sports book. The homeless player wasn’t making a bet, he was just staking claim to a position in line until ten to eight, when the regular runner moved in, slipped the bum twenty bucks, and took his place in the line. Eventually, in preparation for the next day’s odds, the homeless players began camping out on the sports book’s purple-and-green-flowered carpet at seven at night. The managers put an end to the situation by incorporating a lottery. Get here at a quarter to eight, guys, they told the runners, and draw a number from a hat.
“Gimme Dinky,” Tony said, and I handed Dink the phone.
The televisions cut to a breaking news story. With September 11 just a month behind us, news flashes and terror alerts had become commonplace. Still, we held our breath and looked to the TVs with apprehension. The anchorman reported that letters laced with anthrax had been discovered in Reno.
“Reno?”
I said. “We better warn Louise.”
“I think Louise is safe at the sports book,” Dink said.
Close-up images of Osama bin Laden in his white turban appeared on the television. Another clip showed him walking along a mountainous brown-gray desert with an AK-47 hanging across his chest.
“Guy’s livin’ in a cave. That must be a real riot,” Robbie J said.He punched a skinny red straw into the foil of his protein-drink box.
“How much is the reward for capturing him?” I asked.
“Twenty-five million,” Robbie J said.
“Think of what we could do with that kind of money!” I said.
“I’d invest in the Yankees to win the World Series,” Dink said.
Bin Laden vanished from the TV screen and in his place appeared Las Vegans who claimed to have served some of the 9/11 hijackers during a trip they made to Vegas earlier that summer. A teenage employee at Hungry Howie’s said the hijackers ordered a pizza from him “with the works, minus the ham.” An Alamo Rent A Car employee explained that he had rented one of the hijackers a brand-new Chevy Malibu, complete with a Triple A discount. At the Olympic Garden, reporters interviewed strippers who had lap-danced for one of the hijackers. “Some big-man terrorist,” said a sarcastic brunette in a push-up bra. “He spent about twenty bucks for a quick dance and didn’t even tip.” When asked what the hijackers looked like, the girls quickly exclaimed, “Cheap!”
How does Sin City appear through the eyes of Islamists? Tonight at seven
.
Louise called from a pay phone outside the Peppermill casino. Her voice shook, not with fear of anthrax, but with elderliness, and she began her rundown. “They have the Seattle Seahawks
“So?”
Robbie J snapped and I nearly jumped out of my seat. His hand gripped the receiver so hard his knuckles turned white. He was waiting on me to make a call.
“Who are you on the phone with?”
“Uhm,” I said, and hung up.
I found the ringing phone. It was Tony, prepared with his rundown, calling from a men’s bathroom inside the Stardust casino. The Stardust was the preeminent Las Vegas sports book because itwas the first sports book to post the day’s lines. For professionals like Dinky, these lines—calculated by handicappers but untested by the market—were pure potential. Any mistake, any miscalculation or oversight—maybe the line didn’t take into account the college quarterback who stayed up till two in the morning downing tequila shots—was begging for a smart bettor to take advantage of it.
Gamblers called these virginal lines the early lines and there wasn’t a wiseguy in the country who didn’t want to get down on them. To protect itself from getting hammered by the smart bettors, however, the Stardust managers limited the number of bets they took before they had a chance to adjust their lines. It was a first come, first served setup to bet the early lines and competition became so fierce that some gambling bosses paid homeless people to sleep in the Stardust sports book. The homeless player wasn’t making a bet, he was just staking claim to a position in line until ten to eight, when the regular runner moved in, slipped the bum twenty bucks, and took his place in the line. Eventually, in preparation for the next day’s odds, the homeless players began camping out on the sports book’s purple-and-green-flowered carpet at seven at night. The managers put an end to the situation by incorporating a lottery. Get here at a quarter to eight, guys, they told the runners, and draw a number from a hat.
“Gimme Dinky,” Tony said, and I handed Dink the phone.
The televisions cut to a breaking news story. With September 11 just a month behind us, news flashes and terror alerts had become commonplace. Still, we held our breath and looked to the TVs with apprehension. The anchorman reported that letters laced with anthrax had been discovered in Reno.
“Reno?”
I said. “We better warn Louise.”
“I think Louise is safe at the sports book,” Dink said.
Close-up images of Osama bin Laden in his white turban appeared on the television. Another clip showed him walking along a mountainous brown-gray desert with an AK-47 hanging across his chest.
“Guy’s livin’ in a cave. That must be a real riot,” Robbie J said.He punched a skinny red straw into the foil of his protein-drink box.
“How much is the reward for capturing him?” I asked.
“Twenty-five million,” Robbie J said.
“Think of what we could do with that kind of money!” I said.
“I’d invest in the Yankees to win the World Series,” Dink said.
Bin Laden vanished from the TV screen and in his place appeared Las Vegans who claimed to have served some of the 9/11 hijackers during a trip they made to Vegas earlier that summer. A teenage employee at Hungry Howie’s said the hijackers ordered a pizza from him “with the works, minus the ham.” An Alamo Rent A Car employee explained that he had rented one of the hijackers a brand-new Chevy Malibu, complete with a Triple A discount. At the Olympic Garden, reporters interviewed strippers who had lap-danced for one of the hijackers. “Some big-man terrorist,” said a sarcastic brunette in a push-up bra. “He spent about twenty bucks for a quick dance and didn’t even tip.” When asked what the hijackers looked like, the girls quickly exclaimed, “Cheap!”
How does Sin City appear through the eyes of Islamists? Tonight at seven
.
Louise called from a pay phone outside the Peppermill casino. Her voice shook, not with fear of anthrax, but with elderliness, and she began her rundown. “They have the Seattle Seahawks
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