Lights of the Bellagio

I leaned toward the table and made my move, tapping the velvet

twice with my finger. The odds were in my favor, the dealer’s three

didn’t stand a chance against my ten of spades and six of clubs. The

dealer laid the four of hearts on the table before me.

“I’ve never seen the lights at the Bellagio,” I said as I waved

my hand over the cards, “I hear they’re amazing.”

The dealer unbuttoned his jacket. His red vest matched the ten of

diamonds as another card floated from the top of the deck.

“You have to see them,” the woman to my left said. “It’s the most

beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” She wore a diamond ring on her hand.

“I’ll try to make time for that,” I said.

I watched the dealer place a seven of spades next to his card. He

reached toward me, the buttons of his shirt scraping the table as he

raked my chips to the rack.

I had been playing all evening at The Orleans casino in Las

Vegas. I had been patient, betting safe and biding my time. That was

about to change. The deck was loaded with face cards and Aces. I was

counting cards.

Blackjack is a game of chance. You have to know the odds, but

odds can change in an instant, leaving you at the mercy of luck. A

skilled player, who can count and is armed with a strong memory can

beat the odds, but counting requires concentration, and juggling the

count with various conversations of late night shows and dinner

buffets on the strip had proven a challenge.

The diamond on the finger of the woman sitting next to me

reflected the lights above the table. She slid one red and white chip

across the velvet. On the television above the bar, the Summer

Olympics were playing. A referee in a striped shirt blew his whistle

and raised a yellow card. I yawned and asked the dealer if he

understood the rules of soccer as I placed a bet, the table minimum.

A pit boss roaming the tables stopped behind the dealer. He

adjusted his tie as he checked each player’s wager. I hit a hand I

should have stood on and bet bigger than I should have with the odds

against me. I was nothing more than a casual tourist to the managers

watching through the cameras hidden in the black orbs on the ceiling.

The count was plus four, the true count eight. Three more hands

and the deck would be shuffled and the count re-set.

A group of oriental men sat around a nearby table playing

baccarat. They raised their arms in the air and chattered in a

language I couldn’t distinguish. To a true Blackjack player, Baccarat

is a game that can’t be beaten with strategy. Nevertheless, everyone

thinks they can beat the odds with luck.

To the true Blackjack player, luck doesn’t exist.

A woman dressed as a court jester circled the poker table to my

right. A dark haired man in a business suit placed an order, slipped a

five dollar bill in her tip jar and said something only she could

hear. As she passed the pit boss, she rolled her eyes.

I doubled down and won twice my original wager. The count dropped

to plus three. Two hands and the deck would be reshuffled. I asked the

dealer to “give me something good” as he dealt the cards. The count

jumped from plus three to plus five with a true count of fifteen-- a

rare occurrence with two aces left in the deck.

The pit boss moved around the table. It was time I took advantage

of the situation. I upped my bet as I turned to the woman with the

diamond ring and asked what time the light show started.

Before she could reply, the pit boss checked his watch and said,

“The next show begins in 15 minutes.” He turned as he spoke and

drifted toward the Baccarat table.

I placed the maximum bet, confident in the count as there were

two aces left in the deck. I bet all my winnings, the house’s money,

as we say, along with three quarters of my bankroll.

As I pushed my chips forward, an older gentleman sat in the seat

across from me. He slumped forward in his chair and turned around. He

was dressed in tan khakis and a plaid button up shirt. He had a wallet

stuffed in his shirt pocket, his hair combed over the crown of his

head. He pulled a hundred dollar bill from the wallet and spoke to

the dealer in a deep voice.

There was something about the look of the man that broke my

concentration and I realized I was all in with no focus. I was

thinking about my grandfather.

I remember my grandfather sitting at the kitchen table,

surrounded by friends, their chips in piles by their hands. The red

and blue chips clacked together when they made their bets and

criticized each hand played. I would wander from the Looney Tunes on

the living room television to stand at the edge of the table, hoping

to learn the game.

Once I was old enough, my grandfather began to teach me the

basics of Blackjack. “We’ll have you ready for Vegas in no time,” he

said.

“Grandpa, that’s far away. I might never get to go. Have you ever

been?”

He swiped the cards from the kitchen table.

“No, but you never know what the future holds. Maybe someday

we’ll go together.”

I collected my chips as he dealt another hand.

“Don’t stare at the cards,” he said. “Ask someone a question or

comment on something else, something unrelated. You have to act

casual, otherwise you’ll appear as if you’re concentrating and

concentrating means counting.”

My grandmother, wearing a green dress with an apron around her

neck, came into the kitchen. She filled the sink with dishwashing

liquid.

My grandfather dealt another card.

I asked my grandmother what she planned to do this week as she

dried a plate with a hand towel.

“I’ll go to evening service on Wednesday, go to the grocery store

on Thursday and pick up the house.”

Smiling, I turned to grandpa and said, “Plus three.”

He patted me on the shoulder and dealt another hand.

“Even if you’re down, don’t be afraid to bet big when the time

comes.”

Grandma slapped the back of his head with a towel. “Roy Anderson,

don’t you dare teach that boy to cheat!”

“Nonsense, Virginia, it’s not cheating if you win.” He winked at

me behind his wireframe glasses. “And remember, never wager more than

you can afford to lose.”

My tower of multi-colored chips sat on the smooth velvet. I had

broken the most basic rule.

“You must be feeling lucky,” the old man said, but I knew better.

I knew I had a definite win with this hand.

Someone lit a cigarette at a nearby table. The chimes of the slot

machines grew louder and the lights more intense.

“I hope this is the right move,” the woman said as she tapped the

table twice.

I was astonished to see her hit a twelve against the dealer’s

four. Her move defied basic strategy. It was even more foolish in this

situation, the deck loaded with face cards. She was sure to bust. The

dealer arched an eyebrow and flicked a card from the deck with his

thumb. The eight of clubs landed in front of her for a total of

twenty.

I was dumbfounded as she exclaimed, “It’s better to be lucky than

good!”

I congratulated her win and focused on my hand. My first card

was the Jack of Diamonds. With the high count, I anticipated at least

one, ten-value card, and two aces remained, increasing my odds of

seeing a blackjack.

I shifted in my chair. The five of hearts rested on top of my hand.

I had fifteen, the worst possible total. The strum of a guitar and the

beat of drums erupted behind me. The singer’s British accent blared

through two black amplifiers: Help me if you can, I’m feelin’down.

I was on tilt. The odds were stacked against me. I’d picked the

perfect moment to play big and wagered more than I could lose even

though I knew the strategy. The dealer had a four and the deck was

weighted with tens. I had one last ace in the hole, luck.

I waved my trembling hand over the cards. The dealer flipped his

hole card. On the table before me lay the King of Diamonds with his

sword through his skull.

I twisted the cap off and slid one of the pills into my palm. A

small glass of milk rested on the counter. I sat beside grandpa at the

kitchen and placed the pill and glass in front of him. Dark spots were

visible through the stringy grey hair he combed over. I looked at the

picture of my grandmother resting on the kitchen counter near the

sink. My grandfather looked at the picture, but I couldn’t tell if he

were remembering his wife or wondering who the woman in the photograph

was.

He reached for the glass of milk, placed the pill in his mouth

and took a drink. Months had passed with only a few incidents, but

they were getting worse. On one occasion, he had forgotten to feed

the cat, on another he couldn’t figure out how to operate the

dishwasher.

I patted him on the back, shuffled the cards, split the deck and

folded it with a rush. I flipped a card across the table and dealt one

to myself. I slid a card face down from the top of the deck. He

narrowed his eyes behind his glasses. He had a total of twelve. He

pushed his whole pile of chips forward.

“I’ll bet the max,” he said.

I looked down at my hand. I had the seven of hearts showing. No

Blackjack player would ever bet the maximum with a twelve against

seven. Always before, he had kept a strict count and knew when the

deck was full of low cards.

I looked up at him.

“Are you sure you want to do that, grandpa?”

He gazed across the table. “What game are we playing?” he asked.

He scratched the bald spot on his head, and adjusted his

wireframe glasses. His wrinkled hands reached for the deck. His

fingers shook, hit the top of the deck, and cards spilled to the table

in every direction. The man who taught me to play it casual was no

longer acting.

I threw my cards in.

The dealer stretched across the table and trapped each stack of

my chips in his hands. They clacked and rattled as he slid them into

the rack. I’d lost everything, the money I’d won, the money I’d

brought to play, my cab fare to the hotel.

“That’s a bad break kid,” the old man said.

I turned from the table toward the casino door and walked past

the gamblers pulling levers at the one arm bandits. The Beatles cover

band drowned out the sound of slot machines. It’s been a hard days

night floated all around me. Two mannequin jokers grinned on each side

of the glass doors. I grasped the door handle and walked out onto the

Boulevard.

I stepped into the flow of people traveling up the street. The

black pyramid of the Egyptian casino Luxor came to a point on my

right. I followed the flow of the crowd further, past the Eiffel

Tower. Red, blue and white lights pointed to the top of the tower

where couples stood looking down on the strip. I passed the roman

coliseum of Caesar’s Palace where an older couple stood admiring

Julius Caesar’s statue, a group of young girls brushing past.

At the Bellagio, I rested against the marble rails surrounding

the pool. The warm desert air filled my lungs. Viva Las Vegas was

playing through the speakers in the railing as a fountain of water

erupted from the jets in the pool, the lights of the Bellagio dancing

in the night sky.