Jimmy Hoffa Visits Barstow

Even in this supposed age of enlightenment, we still find ourselves surrounded by a host of unsolved mysteries. Chief among these are the Loch Ness monster, UFOs, Big Foot (no, it's not Mike Paulle), why Barry Shulman hasn't given me a raise yet, and the disappearance of Jimmy Hoffa.

James Riddle "Jimmy" Hoffa, for those who don't know, was the controversial president of the powerful International Brotherhood of Teamsters union, a man who wielded considerable influence until he was sentenced to prison for attempted bribery of a grand juror. After serving nearly 10 years, he was pardoned by President Nixon and then tried to regain control of the union. Hoffa reputedly had mob ties, and was said to have mysteriously disappeared from the parking lot of a restaurant in Michigan where he was supposed to meet with two Mafia leaders. He was eventually declared dead, but his body has never been found.

Various urban folklore tales have had his remains interred in Giants Stadium, the Florida Everglades, a New Jersey landfill, a Central Sanitation shredder, and in cement under freeways, bridges, and buildings all the way from Michigan to Tijuana. None of that is true, because I recently learned where Hoffa is really buried - under Big Denny's Barstow Card Casino!

I made this horrifying discovery recently while playing blackjack at the casino. Yes, I know that blackjack against the house is illegal in non-Indian casinos in California, but Denny managed to get an exemption on a technicality. He pointed out that blackjack at his casino wasn't a game of chance, because nobody had any chance of winning there.

I confirmed this while being dealt out of a four-deck shoe, which should have contained 16 aces. Instead, I counted some 20 bullets coming out, all of them of course going to the dealer. And this was before he even got halfway through the shoe and shuffled. Anyway, the betting limit was only 10 cents, about all the local farmers could afford, and I was playing simply for amusement, rather than with the expectation of actually winning anything.

"Do you enjoy working here?" I asked the dealer after he had dealt himself five consecutive blackjacks.

"Not really," he said uneasily. "This place is kinda spooky. It's haunted, if you know what I mean."

"Oh really," I smiled. "And who's the ghost? Anyone I know?"

"Jimmy Hoffa. He's down under the building."

Suddenly realizing what he had said, the dealer looked around fearfully. "Hey, please don't tell anyone I told you this, OK buddy?"

"I won't mention this to a soul," I promised, tipping him with the last dime chip I had left.

Moments later I was in Big Denny's office. "Guess what?" I smirked. "Your blackjack dealer just told me that Jimmy Hoffa's buried here. That would make a great column."

Big Denny's eyes narrowed menacingly. "Yeah, an' I hear Jimmy's real lonesome down dere. How'd ya like ta keep him company, along wit' dat dealer?"

"Oh, you know how I kid around," I said nervously. "But tell me. How in the world did he end up here? The story is that he got rubbed out somewhere near Detroit."

"Nah, dat ain't true. What actual happened was one day da bum came by dis place and tried ta get all da workers here ta join his union. Dat's somet'in' I couldn't let dem do, only on account of how I make so little dough from dis joint dat I couldn't afford to pay all dem minimal wages. So I told him to beat it, an' when he t'reatened ta bring some of his goons in, I sat on his head ta teach him a lesson. I guess I musta sat too long, 'cause ... "

"I know, I know," I shuddered. "Once again, the end is near from Denny's rear. But why did you leave him here? Why didn't you just throw him out in the desert like all the other poor souls you've given head massages to over the years?"

"Oh, I couldn't do dat, Maxey. He was a real important guy, an' dat woulda been disrespectful, so I showed him da courtesy of puttin' him under dis classy joint. Ya t'ink da jerk would show his appreciation in return? No way. Instead, he comes back as a ghost and starts hauntin' da place. Every night he runs around yellin' stuff like, 'Join da union! Join da union!' Da guests in da hotel can't hardly get no sleep now."

"Considering the lumpy mattresses, the bedbugs and cockroaches, and the drunken singing from the bar, I'm surprised they get any sleep at all up there," I pointed out.

"Yeah, well it ain't exactly da Waldorf Hysteria," he admitted.

"Look, Denny," I said. "Maybe you can get some publicity out of all this. Put in a Jimmy Hoffa museum, or have a Jimmy Hoffa poker tournament, that sort of thing. And doing something nice for him that way might help to quiet him down, too."

"Sure, an' have da cops come in here an' pinch my ass."

"Oh, don't worry about it. The statute of limitations has run out by now."

"Da statue of imitations?"

I patiently explained what it meant, that after a certain number of years, a person could no longer be prosecuted for various offenses. Of course, I neglected to mention that murder cases have no time limit.

Well, the big guy went for it. He now plans to change the name of his bar to the "Teamsters Lounge," run a Jimmy Hoffa tournament on Labor Day, and put up a little marker near the last resting place of the Teamsters chief - as soon as he can remember what part of the casino he has him stashed under. I know it isn't much compensation for poor Jimmy after having his head flattened, but to paraphrase the old saying, "Hoffa loaf is better than none."

Oh, just one other thing. Union organizers are still not permitted on the premises.

Max Shapiro, a lifelong poker player and former newspaper reporter with several writing awards to his credit, has been writing a humor column for Card Player ever since it was launched 20 years ago. His early columns were collected in his book, Read 'em and Laugh.