The Las Vegas Trilogy, Part 2 - The World's Most Evil Blackjack Dealer

Last time, I wrote about the wonders (and frustrations) of experiencing the Las Vegas Strip for the first time. Today, I'll delve into my first real Vegas gambling experience - my inaugural visit to the blackjack table at the Tropicana.

So I'd been studying blackjack for a few months before we actually visited Vegas. At the time, I was an actuarial student (actuaries are the boring folks that crunch numbers for insurance companies, and decide how much people will pay based on how likely they are to cause accidents), so I fancied myself a probabilities guru.

I'd also gotten ahold of a blackjack chart, which showed how you were supposed to play based on your hand, and on the card showing in the dealer's hand. "Insider information" - or so I thought. As it turns out, this strategy is just a great way to feel smart while the dealer is taking your money.

It was a Friday night, so the low-limit tables had pretty much disappeared. There was one $10 table at the Trop, but it was acked with derelicts who looked like they were probably betting next month's child support... so I thought it best to steer clear. Instead, I decided to dive headlong into the excitement of Vegas gambling by taking a spot at a $25 table.

In retrospect, the first ten minutes of blackjack play probably damaged me more than any other gambling experience. I won 13 hands in a row, just about doubling my stack of chips. It looked like the other players at the table were faring similarly well. My wife, not having the stomach for table games, was nonetheless elated to see I was raking in some pretty healthy winnings.

That's when Bernard showed up.

I didn't know this at the time, but there's an old saying that when the pit boss changes dealers at a blackjack table, it's time to get up and leave. As silly as that sounds, I wish I'd known about (and believed in) this saying at that very moment. The affable blonde who had been handing us stacks of chips was switched out for a Malaysian fellow named Bernard. He greeted us, wished us the best of luck, and proceeded to deal the cards.

What followed could only be described as a bloodbath.

Within 5 minutes, I had lost everything I had won. Bernard's propensity for dealing himself blackjack would probably have been publicly documented as legendary, if anyone other than the pit boss had been keeping score. He was the unsung villain of the Tropicana, and despite his unfailing smile, he was on a singular mission - kicking tourist ass.

Ten miserable minutes later, I was staring at a stack of chips that looked more like a low-rise tenement than the majestic skyscraper I had admired just moments before. Even worse, I began to sense a maniacal drive behind Bernard's seemingly innocent eyes, and I got the feeling that my Malaysian adversary was just warming up.

Had the "comped" Jack-and-Cokes not been flowing so freely, I might have had the good sense to cut my losses and go watch the Bellagio fountains instead. My friend Jack Daniels has never been much for rational thinking, though, so I strengthened my resolve, determined to get back what was rightfully mne.

A couple of minutes after that, I was down to one single $25 chip. Bah!

Well, when you're sitting at a blackjack table in Sin City, and you've taken such a sound beating as I, there's really nothing left to lose (well, except your last $25 for the evening). I placed my last bet in a sort of "Hail Mary" flair and waited for the cards to fall.

Me: A ten and a jack. Stay.

As for Bernard? He was showing a six. HA!

I celebrated my phoenix-esque return from the depths of defeat by ordering another round of cocktails for myself and my wife. I knew my stuff, and I was about to be vindicated.

Bernard's face-down card was a three. I made little effort to hide my joy - he was holding an eight, and there was no chance he was going to pull this one off.

He dealt himself a five. Then a two. At fifteen, he was certainly due for a bust. Fortune might be a fickle goddess, but she's not unaware of the bounds of reality.

As it turns out, though, she does have a rather dark sense of humor.

Bernard dealt his final card - a six - and shoulders around the table slumped in disbelief. This little guy couldn't speak English very well, but he could sure pull a 21 from the caverns of nowhere, and leave a table full of tourists wondering why they didn't book a flight to Maui instead.  

After that, there wasn't much left to do except drink. Thankfully, the fine folks at the Excalibur across the street were kind enough to provide a liquor store, so I could go back to my room at the Luxor and lick my wounds in pitiful privacy.

But hey! There's more to come in my blathering chronicles of our first trip to Vegas. So cheer up!