24 Hours of Gambling? You Bet!

WOULD YOU BELIEVE A 24-HOUR GAMBLING SPREE, financed by media moguls for whom cost is no object? Neither would we. But we did give an intrepid young writer $100 tor a whirlwind tour of Dallas gaming, both legal and otherwise. Here’s his report.



9:06 a.m. The Texas Lottery stands at $ 11 million. I walk into the Texaco station feeling lucky. A woman stands in the corner, thumbing Lotto World and furi-ously marking ticket after ticket. She wears dark glass-es. A Capri 120 cigarette is her sole means of obtain-ing oxygen.

Her system consists of taking the first number selected for the past six drawings and subtracting one. “They’re killing them in Germany, darling. I swear to God the government’s losing money,” she says. 1 walk out with two tickets, playing her system and my own. Despite the 1 in 15,890,700 odds, I’m already counting my half of the $ 11 million. (The magasine, by prior agreement, will get the other $5.5 million. They drive a hard bargain.) Meanwhile, I’m two bucks down.



11:36 a.m. Just for backup winnings, I set out to find a bookie. I had gotten a hot tip from the Fat Man that the Seattle Supersonics were a 24-1/2 star pick (25 stars being a sure thing, an if-you-had-to-bet-your-house wager) over the Mavericks. I had been told that if you went to a certain restaurant, sat at the bar and ordered stuffed shrimp, someone would accommodate your wager.

I take my place at the bar. “You got any stuffed shrimp’” I bark over the din of the crowd. Conversations continue, beer keeps flowing. Moments later the bartender sets a platter of shrimp in front of me.

I cut right Co the chase. “You know where I can place a bet?”

“I got a friend that might be able to help,” he says as he dries an already dry glass. “How much you want to bet?”

“$25,” 1 say.

“We only take $50 as a minimum.” It turns out to be $55 prepay ($50 + 10% juice). I get the Supersonics, minus 8 points, and depart with $43.



12:52 p.m. Brent, golf instructor at Hank Haney, agrees to play for money and even lets me name the course. So we stand, putters in hand, at hole I of the putt-putt course at Scotty’s Golf Park. Brent has a sour look on his face, the look of someone who has been had. I play with the real of a 10-year-old and the precision of a physics professor, but on the 18th hole I’m only up $2. “Why don’t we sweeten the deal?” I say with confidence. “Forget the chump change. Let’s play this last one for $20.” Brent smiles smugly as he drops the 20-foot putt, using the wall with an exactitude 1 hadn’t seen until this point. My D stake dwindles to $23.



3:28 p.m. At Trinity Meadows Raceway, I get words of wisdom from Benny, who’s wearing a faux Caesar’s Palace warm-up: “You have to know which horse is going to win.” With that he points at a horse called Yugo Fast, going off at 6 to 1.

“Get it? ” he snorts. “You-go fast.” Though I like a horse called Color Me Speed, I’m just about to bet Yugo Fast, figuring that Benny knows what he is talking about, when I spot him digging in the trash for valid tickets. “Sometimes I’m lucky and I find one,” he crows. I bet $3 on Color Me Speed to win, but Gerry’s Bird beats us both, and on the way out 1 throw away my ticket. I look back in time to see Benny double-check it for me.



7:38 p.m. I’m down to my last $20 and 1 need quick capital. The idea comes to me in five letters-BN-G-O, $10 for 4 cards, a steal. I make my way through the Kool menthol haze to find a seat. “B-9,” says the announcer. The numbers reel in front of me, spread out like atomic weights on a chemistry chart. You have to be Stephen Hawking to keep up with this game. “G-50.” What is this, Bingo or Battleship? “I-16.” I give up. “G-43.” “Bingo!” a woman says unenthusiastically. I have to get out of here ($10 left).



9:50 p.m. The Saturday night poker game is a tradition, and the buy-in is only $10-my last $10. The evening, as always, starts friendly with games of five-card draw and seven-card stud. Single-digit pots, everyone loquacious. Then Keven says those six words that make a friendly poker game serious: “Three cards gut, match the pot.” I am dealt two tens with the pot at $120. I go in, win, and cash out to the chagrin of Tim, whose losings account for much of my winnings.



1:53 a.m. I hear on the car radio that I’ve won my basketball bet! Including my poker winnings, I am up about $225. The secret to being a good gambler is knowing when to quit…so I find myself in South Dallas playing craps on a pool table. The air is thick with parfum-de-coeur and obscenities. I start out hot, but a frost quickly settles over the table and I’m soon left without enough to cover the $25 minimum.

The sun is coming up, and upon leaving, 1 am approached by a man asking for a little help. I make one last bet. ’I’ll bet you can’t guess how much money I have in my pocket,” I say. “You win, you get it all; you lose, you give me a quarter.”

He thinks a moment. “I bet you it’s more than I got,” he says. I’ve got $11.73, he’s got $3.52. I buy him breakfast and pledge never to gamble again. Oh, by the way: I also missed the lottery. Sorry, guys.