Table of Contents:

Excerpt:

    Sam was speechless. He was being offered a job in Las Vegas! A week ago, he was the star of his own television show with a beautiful wife and a high-powered agent and a big house up in the Hollywood hills. Now he was on his way to Las Vegas in a motorhome, sitting next to a complete stranger who wanted to put him to work in a casino!
     "What would I be doing, Vinnie?" he asked. "I don't know anything about gambling."
     "I can teach you everything you need to know by the time we get to Vegas."
     That didn't sound too encouraging to Sam.
     "I own a place called Blackie's," Vinnie went on. "It's real class all the way. Nice carpet, chandeliers, velvet wallpaper. Nothing like those joints where I used to work, back in Chicago."
     "Chicago," Sam repeated absently. "I played the Coliseum there once."
     "Huh?"
     "I mean ... I paid a dollar to see 'em there once," Sam stumbled. Damn it, he had to quit being Sam Durango.
     "To see who?"
     "Chicago. You know, the—musical group."
     "Yeah? Well, I still go back there once a year. To see the boys."
     "Oh, you've got family there?"
     "About the biggest most important family in the Midwest," Vinnie boasted proudly.
     "Hey, that's great," Sam smiled warmly. Vinnie probably took his boys camping and fishing, all the things Sam would do if he had children of his own.
     A few small stores and isolated farmhouses slipped past, then Sam and Vinnie were in Victorville. Sam slowed the motorhome, searching for a garage, but Vinnie waved his hand. "Forget it, Sammy. I'll send somebody out to get the car. Hey, you got any beer in here?"
     "In the refrigerator. And get me a Coke, will yuh?" Sam smiled to himself. Vinnie had just offered him a job, and here was Sam dishing out the orders.
     "Listen, Vinnie, about Las Vegas. Exactly what would I be doing there?"
Vinnie opened his beer and took a long swig. Then he unwrapped a fat cigar, bit off the tip, and lit up. "First things first. Vegas is all on the up and up nowadays. Gambling's controlled by the state. You don't have a record, do you?"
     "Nope, never made one," Sam replied with a smile.
     "You never did any time in the slammer?"
     "Slammer?"
     "You know, the can."
     "About five minutes every morning." He'd like to hear Vinnie ask Buck Beaumont that question.
Vinnie chuckled. "Okay, you're clean. Good. Now here's the situation. I need dealers, and I was thinking I might use you on one of the crap tables."
Sam frowned. "You want me to be a dealer on a crap table?" No wonder Vinnie asked him about the can.
     "Hey, it's easy. In fact, all gambling games are easy. If they were complicated, nobody'd ever play anything, and I'd be out of a job."
     "Well, darn, Vinnie, I've never even seen a crap table. I wouldn't know what to do."
     "Look, it's real simple. You give the shooter the dice, okay?"
     "Okay." So far it sounded all right.
     "If the shooter rolls a two, three, or twelve, he loses. If he rolls a seven or eleven, he wins. If he rolls a four, five, six, eight, nine, or ten, that becomes his point and he has to roll that number again before he rolls another seven. If he does, he wins. If he rolls a seven first, he loses. See? I told you it was simple. Kids play this game in the street, back in Chicago."
     Sam made a face. "I don't know, Vinnie. Maybe I could just drive you around in the motorhome."
     "I'll start you out at forty bucks a day plus meals, and you'll probably make another sixty a day in tokes. What do you say?"
     "Sixty Cokes a day?"
     "Tokes! That's what dealers call tips."
     "Why?"
     "I don't know, Sammy. They just do." Vinnie stubbed out his cigar in the ashtray.      "Do you need a place to stay when we hit Vegas? I can fix you up with a room at the hotel till you get on your feet."
     "Does Blackie's have a parking lot?"
     "Sure, with trees and everything."
     "That's good enough for me, Vinnie. I've got my room right here."
     "So you do," Vinnie smiled. "One thing, though. You're going to need some clothes. Black shirts, black slacks, black shoes. We furnish the white ties and aprons."
     "Aprons?"
     "All the dealers wear aprons. It's house policy."
     "Why?"
     "Well, it keeps everybody honest," Vinnie explained. "A casino is like a bank, Sammy, and we've got to take the same precautions."
     "Oh." Maybe if Sam turned around right now, he could be back at the beach house by nightfall.
     "That's why when you get off the game you always clap your hands," Vinnie said.
     "Come on," Sam laughed. "You're kidding me, right?"
     "I never kid about business, kid. You clap your hands once and turn 'em face up. That shows the boxman you're not stealing anything."
     "Boxman?" Sam echoed wearily.
     "Yeah, he's the one who watches the game."
     "Oh, so he's the boss."
     "I'm the boss. The boxman works for me."
     "Oh, so the boxman watches the game and you watch the boxman."
     "No, the floorman watches the boxman."
     "Oh, and who watches the floorman?"
     "The pit boss."
     "Who watches the pit boss?"
     "The eye in the sky."
     "Eye in the sky?"
     "That's the man upstairs."
     "You mean—God?" Sam whispered, fighting an urge to genuflect.
     "No, no, NO! The man upstairs over the casino. We've got two-way mirrors in the ceiling, and that's where our eye in the sky is. He watches everybody."
     All this was too much for Sam. Boxmen and foremen and pit bulls and pie in the sky. He was beginning to wish he'd left Vinnie Cuhoochi standing on the side of the road back by his black limousine.
     "There she is," Vinnie said suddenly, waving expansively toward the windshield.
     Sam peered through the glass. Down below he could see lights of every color twinkling in the distance. After a hundred miles of sand and cactus, it looked like the bejeweled necklace of some giant goddess, flung carelessly across the sand.
     Sam's arms began to tingle and his breath came out in short ragged bursts. This was the place Lady Luck called home, and he was going there to join her. Valerie's voice rang in his ears, "Las Vegas, that's the town for a guy like you. Las Vegas."
     The buildings loomed closer now and a sign zipped by. "Welcome to Fabulous Las Vegas." Then came the hotels, one after the other. HACIENDA. TROPICANA. DUNES. CAESARS PALACE. FLAMINGO. SANDS. DESERT INN. RIVIERA.
     Famous names blinked from every marquee. The Mills Brothers. The Smothers Brothers. The Ames Brothers. The Everly Brothers. The Righteous Brothers. The Doobie Brothers.
     Off to the left Sam saw a massive whitewashed building with a white canopy and white banners flying. Huge letters across the top spelled out the word WHITEY'S. In front was a tall neon sign. IN PERSON. BETTY WHITE. BARRY WHITE. WHITEY FORD. Underneath the names, in smaller print: White Russians $0.50.
     Directly across the street was an enormous black building with a black-tiled entranceway and black plate-glass windows. A large sign read BLACKIE'S, and underneath it was a lighted marquee. IN PERSON. KAREN BLACK. SHIRLEY TEMPLE BLACK. BLACK SABBATH. In smaller print: Black Russians $0.49.
     "Pull up in front," Vinnie said, tightening his tie and slipping on his jacket.

Description:
     Sam Durango is riding high. He's the star of the TV western "The Vegas Kid," he's married to a glamorous actress, and he lives in a beautiful home in the Hollywood Hills. And then everything goes to hell in a handbasket. When his show is cancelled and his wife leaves him (taking most of his money and the house, while she's at it), Sam finds he has to make his way out in the cold cruel world.
     Along with a ragtag cast of characters—Sam's archrival Buck Beaumont, a couple of escaped cons, a mystery woman, a good-old-boy casino owner, and the world's top poker players—Sam heads to Blackies Casino on Halloween looking to hit the jackpot.

Reviews/Media Mentions:

"Vinson has just the right touch to turn it all into a light, fun romp, one I breezed through in one sitting."
      —John Grochowski, Chicago Sun-Times

"If you are looking for some light, breezy reading on your next long flight, toss a copy of The Vegas Kid into your briefcase. It is a good bet."
     —Casino International