Mystery Shopper

I was at the Barstow Card Casino (where else?) one day when Big Denny asked me a question.

"Hey, Maxey, ya ever hears about an outfit called 'Misery Shopper'?"

I searched my memory. "I think you might mean 'Mystery Shopper.' I read someplace it's a company you hire to send out an undercover shopper to your restaurant or store or whatever. Then they send you a report on what the shopper found: how courteously he was treated, how knowledgeable the workers were, that sort of thing. It's mostly a checkup on your employees."

"Yeah, yeah, dat's it. I been worryin' if all my boys been doin' dere job right, an' somebody told me about dis place. Maybe I'll give dem a try."

A couple of weeks later I passed through Barstow again and stopped by the casino.

"Hey look, Maxey, I just got da report from dat shopper joint. Would ya like ta read it?"

"Sure," I said, curious if they could find anything good to say about his crooked dump. I began reading and discovered that the complaints went far beyond my worst imaginings. Here's how it read:

I arrived at Big Denny's Barstow Card Casino at 5:38 p.m. As I pulled into the parking lot, an attendant suggested I avail myself of their valet parking service. When I replied that self-parking would be fine, he warned me that by doing so, I was exposing myself to the risk of having my tires slashed. When I asked who would do such a thing, he just smirked and assured me that valet parking was complimentary. Taking no chances, I handed him my keys and approached the casino's front entrance.

As I was about to walk in, a burly security guard blocked my passage. "Hold it, buddy," he said. "First we gotta check you out ta make sure you're clean." He began patting me down the way they do street-corner crime suspects. After I was thoroughly patted, up as well as down, he waved me in.

I was appalled at the condition of the establishment. The walls were blackened by decades of dirt, the carpet was filthy and threadbare, the chairs all needed upholstering, the lighting was quite inadequate, and the air was filled with the distinct odor of animal manure because, I later learned, of the second floor being rented out as a cow barn.

I made my way to the sign-up board for a low-limit game of hold'em. The boardperson told me there was a long waiting list, but if I slipped him $10 he would put me first up. I pointed out that there wasn't any list, and he said he had it memorized. I took out my wallet and discovered that about $100 was missing. That brute who patted me down – could he … ? Knowing I couldn't prove anything, I dismissed it from my mind and paid the boardperson extortionist his bribe money.

"Whaddaya know, a seat just opened up," he grinned. He directed me to a table with four empty seats. Playing were a few locals in overalls and two shifty-looking characters who had all the chips. The first thing I noticed when I sat down was that the table felt was soiled and torn. The second thing I noticed was that the two sharpies were obviously playing partners. Time and again they would get one of the farmers in the middle, raising and reraising until the river card, when one of them would fold without having to show his cards. And from the way they were gesturing with their hands, only the very densest of opponents could fail to see they were signaling. The farmers obviously fell into that category. The second time they put such a squeeze play on me, I called for a floorman and gave him a detailed explanation of what was happening.

"Larry and Harry?" he said in surprise. "Hey, these are two of our best customers, buddy. You make any more accusations like that, you might have a little accident."

I soon realized that it didn't matter how much money these goons were stealing, because the dealer was stealing twice as much. He raked (or was it "raped") the pot every time a card was dealt. Sometimes the chips were dropped into the collection box; more often, they found their way into his bulging shirt pocket.

I was starting to get faint. Perhaps if I ate something, I thought, I'd feel better. "How's the food here?" I asked one of the farmers.

"Cain't rightly say," he replied. "Don't know anybody around here who's been willin' ta eat that slop. Last one was Billy Haugsteder, an' he ain't got outta the hospital yet."

I decided to pass on the food. You had best find a mystery shopper braver or stupider than I for that assignment. Instead, I called for a cocktail waitress. After a while, I heard a voice saying, "For you there is something maybe I can get, dollink?"

I looked up to see an ancient, wrinkled creature in a costume far skimpier than any normal person would have liked to see. She was grasping a cocktail tray and her name badge read "Aunt Sophie." I ordered a scotch, Johnny Walker, black label, and Perrier water. About 45 minutes later, she returned with a bourbon and Coke in a glass that was all ice and very little booze. "That'll be eight dollars, dollink," Aunt Sophie informed me. Too dazed to protest the wrong drink or exorbitant price, I handed her a twenty, and she began to walk away. "Hey, where's my change?" I yelled.

"Change, dollink? Your mother, she didn't teach you it's not nice not to tip?" she replied in a huff.

I had had enough of this accursed place. I bolted out the door and had the parking attendant get my automobile. "Nice car," he said. "That'll be $15, mister."

"Fifteen bucks?" I screamed. "I thought you said that parking was complimentary."

"Well, I just paid you a compliment, didn't I?" he responded.

I drove off in a daze, vowing that this would be my last involvement as a mystery shopper. I couldn't think of anything else that could have happened to me at that hideous establishment. Then, after driving for an hour, I realized that my radio was missing.

"Wow, that's some report, Denny," I said. "What will you do now, fire your whole staff?"

Big Denny was beaming. "Fire dem? Naw, I'm gonna give dem all a raise. Dey been doin' jus' like I taught 'em."