Monthly Archives: June 2014

Cocked Die Dilemma

It was dayshift in the craps pit. This guy had been at the table for a couple of hours. He was a nice enough guy, laughing and joking with the dealers, and other players. His wife had been to the table a couple of times to try and persuade him to go to the beach with herself and the kids, but to no avail. He was in for probably two grand, which he had dropped a couple of hundred at a time. The dice had been very cold.

He was the shooter. He had fifteen on the line with fifty odds. He had all the place bets pressed up to green and black, from an original fifty-two across. It was turning out to be a pretty good roll. Now all he had to do was start collecting money on the bets he’d pressed.

He threw the dice quite hard, one of them bouncing off the wall and landing in the place bet area at the other end of the table. One die was sitting in the field, showing a two  The other die was leaning up against some chips, what we call, a cocked die. From where he was standing all he could see was a four. It was a relatively new stick man, on the floor for just a couple of weeks. He wasn’t quite sure what to call, so he just stood there.

“Six!” The player shouted.

“Seven out!” I yelled, leaning to see the five, on the top surface of the dice.

The dealer on the end of the table where the dice had landed had already started clearing the layout. He was an experienced dealer, and didn’t need anyone to tell him it was a seven. The dealer on my end however, froze.

“It’s a six!” the shooter argued.

“Seven out!” I yelled again, back-handing the base dealer into action. He quickly picked up the pass line. “Dump the bowl!” I ordered the stick-man.

“That’s bullsh*t!” the shooter shouted. “It was a six!” He was red in the face.

I picked up a die, and balanced it against two chips to show him, that although he saw a four, when I pulled the chips from beneath the die, it actually fell flat and the five was on top. He was having none of it.

“That was a f**king six!” he screamed at me.

“Sir, it was a seven.”

“You’re a real f**king bitch! Ya know that?” he apparently did not like my decision.

“I’m just doing my job sir.” I held up my hands.

“You see this? You see this?” He yelled, pointing at his own face. “This is you!”

He then punched himself right in the face.

I’m going to repeat that.

He then punched himself right in the face. Hard!

What????

There have been very few times when I did not know what to say, and this was one of them. My jaw dropped open. This guy actually punched himself in the face, and made-believe it was me. Really?

“Sir you’re right!” the floorman interjected. “She is a real bitch! I’d punch her again if I were you!”

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Hormones a raging!

Nothing brings out the bitch in a woman quite like pregnancy. I was about seven months along, and a little irritable while at work. We worked ten hour shifts on a riverboat in Illinois. There was very little padding under the carpeting, which covered solid steel flooring. By the middle of my shift, my feet, legs, and back would be killing me. I was not a happy camper.

I came back from break to find the relief pit boss, my friend Ronnie, in a debate with a customer. The guy was playing two spots. On one he had a seventeen, on the other he had a sixteen against the dealer’s eight. The dealer said he had waved off, and so she had hit the next hand with a five. Surveillance didn’t have the game on camera, typical. Obviously, once he saw the five, he claimed he had wanted to hit. He wanted that five, it should have been his card. Ronnie was explaining to him that our gaming policy did not allow us to back the card up, and that he could take the next card from the shoe. Ronnie was one of those people who smiled with his whole face. He was probably the most laid back, East Coast Italian, I have ever met. This guy, on the other hand, was a wannabe wise guy, from Chicago. I stood back from the game while Ronnie dealt with the matter. This was his baby!

“I don’t want the next card!” He was raising his voice. “I want the f**king five!”

“Sir, I can’t do that” Ronnie smiled, “but if you want…” He was about to tell him that he could pick up his thirty dollar bet on the hand with the sixteen, when the abrasive customer cut him off.

“Get me the f**king Pit Boss!” he snarled.

“Certainly!” He said, with a huge smile. “Here she is.” He gestured toward me. You little shit!, I thought.

“Get me a real Pit Boss!” Guido spat. “I wanna talk to a man!”

Strike One!

“Well all the real Pit Bosses are off tonight.” I told him. “Sorry, I’m all ya got!” I smiled, but I wanted to spit in his eye.

“Should she even be here?” he asked, as though I couldn’t hear him. He pointed to my enlarged abdomen.

Strike Two!

“Like he just said, we can’t back up the cards Sir, but…” I tried to explain.

“Well that might be how they do it in Australia, or wherever the f**k you’re from!”

Strike Three! Yer out!

“I’m just gonna pick my f**king money up.” He informed me. “This is a f**king misdeal!” He reached for the thirty dollars on the hand that had the seventeen.

“Sir, that hand is not the issue here, put the chips back.” I said firmly. I glanced over to see Ronnie, leant up against the pit stand smiling, no, smirking.

“This is a f**king misdeal!” he shouted. “You have to give me my money back!” I love when players say that.

“This is not a misdeal.” I told him. “Now you can pick your money up…”I paused. He grabbed both his bets. “But if you do, you got no more action!” I leaned into the game grabbed his cards, and threw them in the discard rack. “Deal him out!” I yelled.

“You can’t do that!” He screamed. “That’s not how they do it in Vegas!”

“Well that’s how we do it in Australia, or wherever the f**k I’m from! Get off the game!” Like I’ve said before, my customer relation skills have improved greatly over the years.

“You walked him right into that!” Ronnie’s smile was gone.

“Yep!” I said. I wasn’t going to deny it.

Guido did complain to the shift manager Mike, who allowed him to play again, but only after he made a full apology to me, in front of the dealer and the other players. It killed him to have to eat sh*t pie, served by a female pit boss. Thanks Mike!

RIP Ronnie, miss that smile.

 

 

 

The Dice man cometh

So it’s ten o’clock in the morning, I’m just a little grumpy. I had worked a double shift the day before, finishing at about three-thirty in the morning, and here I am again at ten. I’d had about four hours sleep. They had done me the HUGE favor of allowing me to sit box, because I’d put in fifteen and a half hours the day before, on my feet. They were all heart.

The guys in the craps pit were all talking about some comedian a group of them had flown over to see in Miami.
Andrew Dice Somethingorother. I had never heard of him, meant nothing to me. I ran down the high limit checks in my bankroll, checked my dice, and set them in the bowl before me. I’d had coffee, but probably needed more. I was a little irritable, just plain tired.

My friend Naz, a Turkish born, London floorperson, was standing floor behind me. I’d heard him laughing and joking with a few of the other floormen. He was in a good mood, he’d just got back from Miami. He’d had two days off.

I was putting the high limit chips away, when Naz leaned over the game. He looked at the dice, ready to write the serial number on his paperwork. The normal question he would have asked was;

“What’s your dice number?”
That would normally illicit a quote of the dice number from me, as I picked one out of the bowl to show him. However, what he actually asked was;

“What’s in the bowl bitch?”

“What????”

Like I said, I was a little irritable, rather tired, and ready to rip someone’s face off. It was tough enough being a woman in the dice pit, so if you think you’re gonna call me a bitch and get away with it, think again sunbeam! I stood up from my game, pushed my chair back, and turned to face him.

“Who the f**k are you talking to?”

“Shirley!  It’s Andrew Dice Clay!” He held up his hands. “It’s Andrew Dice Clay! He’s comedian, he’s comedian!” He turned on his heels and grabbed the nearest floorperson he could find.

“Tell her! Tell her!” Naz ordered him.

“He does nursery rhymes.” the floorman informed me, and then quoted the whole “Little Miss Muffet” thing. I wasn’t one hundred percent convinced that I hadn’t been insulted, but I gave Naz the benefit of the doubt. I let him live!

Still luv ya Naz!