|It was just past 1 a.m. sometime back in 2011, and Chris and I were headed back to Circus Circus. We had just won over two grand during a horse race at the MGM. Needless to say, we were no horse-racing junkies, just lucky SOB’s. After one night at Circus Circus, maneuvering ourselves through lines of adolescent parents with their kids reaching their height, we began to go mad and foolish. So my friend and I decided that since we came into some money, it was time to drink and gamble in a place where “money” was appreciated: The Wynn.It was our first time there, and I prayed to God it would be my last time there, as well. There were no souls in those pedestrians trolling around at 2 a.m.on that cold Sunday morning at the Wynn. Those heartless maggots, which were camouflaged as humans with pinstripe suits, began giving us the willies. Even though Steve Wynn’s retina is losing ground, making his focal point just slightly better than Ray Charles’s, we saw everything very clearly — or was it all just a lingering mirage?Dining at the Wynn in the middle of the night is just as difficult as it is for a dealer and a waitress at that same resort to keep their tips from their hustling supervisors. Even though the restaurant was quite empty, they told us they were expecting a large crowd and we would have to wait. Being a simpleton fool, I asked, “Where’s the large crowd coming from?”The person answered, “From the show — the crowd will be exiting the show once it’s finished.”
“Sounds good,” I said, as I skipped over to the waiting bar to find Chris drowning in his 4-finger Jameson. I guess the bartender overheard me explaining to Chris why we couldn’t eat for another hour or so, because the bartender leaned in, checking for hidden surveillance appliances and sh*t, and told us that the last show was nearly five hours ago. “Those damn swindlers!” I bellowed. We were so hungry and Steve Wynn built this casino floor just like the coliseum: we were the gladiators, fighting for our lives, with no way out… meaning, we had no choice but to stay and wait to be seated.
So naturally, I approached the blackjack table, hoping to spice things up while we waited. I nearly died from shock when it was revealed that the minimum blackjack bet was $100. I swayed my head over to Chris, hoping he would talk some sense into me, but he was too busy trying to count how many straws were in his glass, even though there was only one… that drunk SOB!
The young Barbie dealer was as cold as the night. She never made eye contact, just peeled the cards out, one after another, swiftly slamming my dreadful “16” onto the stern table. She didn’t even need to slide the cards under the magnifying glass to see if she caught a 21; no, she knew; we all knew… and she flipped that ace out just as fast as she took my $100 chip. I was completely upset and distressed, and knew I needed to win my money back.
So I found this sweet older woman — pushing 105 years of age, or at least that’s what it seemed like at the time — and shyly laid down a $100 bill. She said, “How would you like that in chips, dear?”
“Just one… one $100 chip,” I said. I could tell she sympathized with me, and wanted to tell me to run for my life and take the money I had left, but we both knew “Stevie” was listening in. She dealt me a solid 20, which made me ecstatic. But, of course, she lowered her head in shame, revealing the 21. I felt so bad for her. But why would I feel bad? I’m the one that just lost $200 in 20 seconds! Maybe it’s because I could tell she was a slave — a slave to the Wynn Empire. Yeah, I know she didn’t have shackles or bruises on her, but she had shame: trapped behind shiny tables that were made out of Steve Wynn’s heart, solving the mystery of why he operates on money and not compassion.
So, in closing, I tipped her heavily, appreciating her sympathy.
Now, two years later, I’m back in Las Vegas — not as a tourist, but as a resident. I was doing the RadioTribune show at the Las Vegas Tribune building the other day when an apparently seasoned wise man came in. He used to be the president of the Dealers Association, protecting dealers from crooks on the Strip. He passed over a letter he said he wrote to the Justice Department, pleading for the dealers to be allowed to keep ALL their tips.
This information intrigued me, so I followed up with some research. The more I did, the more I realized this wasn’t “new” news. This was old news — hiding its ugly head in the desert sand. And as many of you must know, especially the locals and frequent visitors, that same sticky-fingered Steve Wynn has his greedy little hands deep into the dealers’ tips. Those tips are then dispersed among everyone, regardless of who it is or what that person has done — or hasn’t done; it’s like a modern-day Europe: Socialist-stricken.
Let me close with this, because there is a plethora of reliable information on the web about how the Wynn casino steals the dealers’ money. Wynn was once asked about his new office at the Wynn, and this is what he said: “This office is smaller than the last one I had. I’m not trying to impress people. I want to be ‘close’ to them.”
It’s true; he is close. Very close. Right up to being inside your pocket. So do yourself a favor, and stay far away from the Wynn; and that doesn’t just go for those who deal the cards, but for those who receive them, as well.
— Jacob Stuart