Blackjack Articles
The Long Road to Vegas
By Andrew W Scott
27 March 2005
The things I do…
The things I do for a great BlackJack game.
First, I have to wake up at some ungodly hour. Then,
it's the taxi ride to Melbourne airport being driven
by a driver whose command of the English language
leaves much to be desired and whose name appears to
include six consonants in a row. The next step is
hanging around the airport for a couple of hours which
included negotiating Australian customs with a ridiculously
huge amount of cash on me - "you'll need to fill in
this form, mate."
Finally I embark on the gruelling 14˝ hour flight
from Melbourne to LAX International Airport in the
city of Angels, with the said ridiculously huge amount
of cash in my carry-on luggage. Having arrived what
feels like two weeks after leaving, I wait in a queue
which is at least 300 metres long to get my passport
stamped, to have my biometrically analysable photograph
taken, and to suffer having my fingerprint taken like
a common criminal (every Australian visiting the US
now has to go through this).
What next? Oh yes, now a US Customs Officer with
a mean-looking gun on his hip wants to know why I
am entering the United States with such a large amount
of money on me. That's easy. One word - "Vegas". With
a knowing look the said officer hands me a form headed
"Cash Transaction Report greater than $10,000 - Federal
Government of the United States of America". "Please
fill this out, sir." What is it about the way everyone
calls you "sir" in the US? Do I look like a knight
or something?
Having completed my form and officially entered the
good 'ol US of A, it's now on to LAX airport proper
- one of the largest airports in the world. You think
Sydney airport is busy? Try LAX with its seven (that's
right, seven) terminals. So now I catch the intra-airport
bus to my terminal to catch my domestic flight from
LA to Vegas. This is where things really get tough.
In the post-September 11 United States every passenger,
that's right every passenger gets personally patted
down and their hand luggage searched by hand. Even
little old ladies. Maybe especially little old ladies.
Cold hard CA$H
My inordinately huge amount of cash is neatly rubber-banded
into ten thousand dollar bundles, and then each five
of these bundles are rubber-banded again into lots
of fifty thousand. These $50k bundles are then wrapped
up in a calico bag in my carryon briefcase - the whole
thing looks exactly the same as some bricks wrapped
in a calico bag would (and nearly the same weight!)
As I pass through security to get from LA to LV two
separate officers are attending to me, one searching
my bag and the other patting me down and making me
sit on a chair and perform calisthenics (lift your
left leg sir, lift your right leg sir, put your arms
out sir, now do the hokey pokey and shake it all about!)
The bag is getting too far from me, I'm starting
to lose my line of sight to it. It's time to pipe
up, "excuse me I need to keep a line of sight to my
bag please". Saying this just piques the interest
of the officer searching my bag, a thick-set woman
as black as the many Aces of Spades I am hoping to
see on my side of the BlackJack table when I finally
get to Vegas. She flicks open the calico bag inside
my briefcase and her eyes just about pop out of her
head and roll onto the counter in front of her. An
audible "woah!" escapes her lips as she quickly closes
up the bag, now suddenly full of respect for me as
she takes a special trip to walk around the counter
and personally hand my briefcase to me with both hands.
"You know, sir, next time you can ask for a private
screening." I mumble, "oh, thank you, I didn't know
I could do that." She beams at me, "sure thing, sir",
and then in a lower, more conspiratorial tone "oh,
and you couldn't lend me three bucks could you?" Wink,
wink. I force a little smile and then I'm hurriedly
on my way to departure gate 5 of terminal 1.
Vegas, here I come
I feel like I haven't slept for weeks, so my 45 minute
wait for the flight is well and truly Starbucks-punctuated.
Next, it's onto the plane - no seat allocation, it's
every man for himself so I settle into the first window
seat I can find to enjoy one of the great treats of
life - the view flying into Las Vegas. Just under
an hour after take-off there it is - my good old home
away from home - in the middle of the desert, the
mecca of meccas - Vegas.
The first casino I see is the Stratosphere, built
by the legendary Bob Stupak whose inspiration for
the Stratosphere was none other than Centrepoint Tower
in Sydney. Then, one by one, I can see them - Venetian,
Treasure Island, the Mirage, Caesars Palace, Bellagio
- like a row of old friends all lined up to greet
me. There's the Rio, Harrah's, MGM Grand, Excalibur,
and of course, that jet black shiny mirrored pyramid
- the Luxor. I can even make out a new, unrecognisable
tower - it must be the new Wynn Las Vegas casino due
to open on April 28.
A knowing little smile flickers across my face as
we touch down at Las Vegas' McCarran airport - it's
show time! I instantly transform into my Vegas persona.
I have the mathematical advantage over this town -
but no-one must ever know that. I am now like a spy
in enemy territory - every word, every facial expression,
every glance, every single move is designed to give
the impression that I am simply an every-day, ordinary,
run-of-the-mill high rolling losing gambler. And of
course, the truth is that I am the exact opposite
of that.
I stride off the airplane and straight out of the
gate, and yes, I am in Vegas. How do I know? Because
no less than 10 metres from the doorway separating
the plane's air-bridge from the gate is a bank of
about 100 slot machines, clangering away in their
awful symphony of bells and whistles. Some of my fellow
passengers are already unloading their quarters and
dimes into these slots, mathematically amongst the
worst in Vegas. Poor fools. Well, they are what keeps
Vegas going.
Of course, I ignore the slots, striding past them
and onto the tram (yes, yet another form of transport)
which will take me from the gates to the terminal
proper. A three minute tram ride later and I'm headed
down the escalators to the baggage claim, a mass of
humanity huddled around no less than nine baggage
carousels. My limo driver, Bob, is there to meet me.
He grabs my hand and grabs my bags, and within three
minutes I'm in the back of a stretch limo, sipping
bourbon from a heavy crystal tumbler. Ah yes, Vegas.
No hassles here for the high roller. No pesky customs,
no annoying forms to fill out. Vegas.
The limo pulls up to the kerb and bell-boys snap
to attention, ignoring the ordinary cars and taxis.
They see the limo and they know - limo equals high
roller and high roller equals high roller-sized tip!
I slip a green-backed ten dollar bill into Bob's hand
and an equally green-backed five dollar bill into
a bell-boys hand. Next, I'm striding into the huge
hotel lobby knowing that my luggage is being whisked
to my room even before I know my room number. There's
a huge line at reception (they insist on calling it
registration in the US) but that line is not an issue
for me. I waltz straight past and through a discreet
door to the side of registration, marked "Invited
Guests". The hotel staff in here are quicker, better,
prettier - and they are standing at attention, waiting
for me. I have room keys in my hand within two minutes.
A long elevator ride to the top of the building and
a long walk to the very end of the hall later, and
I am in my suite.
I'm in my room!
My first thought - sleep! I haven't slept for well
over 24 hours now and my journey from the door of
my Melbourne home to the door of my Vegas suite has
involved walking, a taxi, two plane flights totalling
nearly 16 hours, a tram journey, a limo ride and then
finally the long walk to my room. Within two minutes,
I've collapsed into bed. This desire for sleep is
what sets the professional apart from the ordinary
gambler. The ordinary gambler's average trip to Vegas
is three days and two nights. He has neither the time
nor the inclination to sleep. He craves the action,
he needs to gamble, and he'll do it no matter how
sleep-deprived he is.
I, on the other hand, will be in town for no less
than three weeks. I, too, am here to gamble, but for
me it isn't really gambling, it's advantage play.
Cold, hard, efficiently planned, advantage play. It's
the difference between the state-produced Russian
Lada and the precision German engineering of the BMW.
And I can't be a precision engineer of BlackJack on
no sleep. I know the casino floor will still be there
in eight hours.
In my next column, I'll tell you what happened after
I woke up those eight hours later, and headed down
to the casino floor…
Until next time, if it's worth doing, it's worth
mastering.
Andrew W Scott
Andrew W Scott is founder and CEO of blackJack-mAsters.com
Professional BlackJack School, a school established
in 1993 to further the education of players of casino
BlackJack in Australia. You can visit the school at
www.blackjack-masters.com
© Andrew W Scott March 2005
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