Jack Sheehan on how card dealing is not as easy as the good dealers make it seem

Sunday, March 11, 2007 | 7:39 a.m.

There's little similarity between the act of pressing shirts and learning to deal blackjack, except that I was instructed how to do both on an ironing board.

The former skill was taught to me by my mother, but not before I'd put the requisite blisters on my fingertips and melted an expensive silk shirt to the consistency of week-old bacon grease. The latter art I learned under the tutelage of my friend Hughie, a floorman in the "21" pit at the Riviera.

(Floormen, for nongamers, are the dapper fellows in flashy sportcoats who patrol the games, keeping an eye out for funny business. They tend to be big on cuff links and pinkie rings, and they typically give off an aura of knowing everything there is to know about life along the Strip.)

But back to my short-lived career as a casino croupier.

It was just over three decades ago that I drifted to Las Vegas from the Pacific Northwest, where a cold winter and an even colder job trail for English teachers and sports writers had pushed me south. My friends Hughie and Catfish, a baccarat dealer at the Flamingo, had phoned me in January and bragged of good income, great weather and wide-open fairways in the desert.

"You can hustle up a couple hundred a week playing golf in Las Vegas," Hughie assured me. Catfish added that if I came to like the fast life, he had strong gaming connections and could get me a job dealing blackjack. What my friends were telling me was that I could be just like them, which they assumed was a pretty good way to be. And when I considered my unemployed, chilled-to-the-bone condition, their pitch sounded pretty good.

I should explain that Las Vegas in 1975 didn't enjoy nearly the reputation it has today as the land of milk and honey and near-certain employment. The county was under half a million population then - in large part run by the mob - and there was a less than strong demand for those specializing in the language arts. Nevertheless, I figured I could continue writing stories and articles in Las Vegas, and that if between scribbling and golf I couldn't muster up enough to pay the rent, I could take the dealing job as a temporary bridge to the next opportunity.

My parents had difficulty understanding my rationale for leaving home. My mother, in particular, was distressed that her only son was trudging off to Sin City, leaving six years of higher education and a master's degree in American literature to lie dormant while he frolicked in what she considered to be the devil's workshop.

"A writer," I explained to her, "has to get out there among the people and get his hands dirty to find material he can write about.

"Melville chased whales, Hemingway fought bulls, and Steinbeck rode the rails," I argued.

Mom gave me a funny look. "So you're comparing yourself to those guys?" she said.

She knew there was no good comeback for that, and after a long pause concluded, "But what can I do? You're a grown man."

When my winnings on Vegas golf courses fell far short of expectations, and my first three short-story submissions were rejected, it was time to put on a dealer's apron and punch the clock.

I had been practicing shuffling cards and "cutting checks" (jargon for stacking chips) on an ironing board at Hughie's home for a few weeks, and he had even arranged for me to practice dealing some live action at a neighborhood bar. I was surprised by the level of anxiety I felt the first time real money was on the line. My hands turned clammy and I went brain-dead.

It's embarrassing to stare blankly at a player's three cards - say queen, trey, and five - and not be able to deduce that they add up to 18. The affliction is called "freezing," and it happened to me a lot in the early going. I was told it happens to every rookie dealer. Small consolation.

The toughest part of dealing blackjack, once you've acquired reasonable dexterity with the cards and chips, is learning to quickly calculate payoffs on blackjacks.

Here's a typical scenario: Let's say you work the graveyard shift and it's 3 a.m. on a busy weekend. Your eyes sting from lingering cigarette smoke, and your back hurts from six hours of leaning over to scrape up cards and make payoffs. You have seven players seated in front of you. Four of them wish you'd speed up the game, while three of them wish you'd slow the hell down. The player on third base - the position at the dealer's far left and the first to receive cards - bets seven red chips, a wager of thirty-five dollars.

He gets a blackjack and immediately flips his cards over. Now, having memorized basic blackjack payoffs to round numbers, you remember that the 3-to-2 reward for a blackjack on $35 is $52.50. You push out a green chip, two red chips beside it, and on top of those you place two silver dollars which you bridge with a 50-cent piece. You pay the money this way so the "eye in the sky," the casino watchman monitoring the games from above, can "read" your payoff and see that no mistakes have been made.

So far, so good. But then the third baseman, deciding against giving you any of the silver for a tip for his "21," bets back all the money in front of him, a total of $87.50. Your worst fears come to life when he hits another blackjack.

While your mind races to calculate a 3-to-2 payoff on $87.50, the lady to his left asks if she can split and resplit face cards; the gentleman next to her wants to take insurance against the ace you're showing on your "up" card; and the man next to him wants to know if you can give him change for a C-note because he's doubling down on "soft 17," an ace and a six. All speak up virtually at the same time. Oh, and then there's the elderly lady on first base who wishes you'd call for a cocktail waitress as she's running a little dry.

Situations like this happen every night to the good people who deal "21" in Las Vegas casinos. It's a job that looks far easier than it is.

Do I miss it? Not for a minute. But I'm glad I had the gig because it gave me a view of Las Vegas from the inside out, from the belly of the beast, if you will.

Also, my recalling it for you now fulfills a promise to my late mother that I'd use my shady past in forging a career as a writer.

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