Bring on the Stewards

In a Gaming Today column a few issues ago, Oklahoma Johnny Hale recalled the famous quote from Willie Sutton, who enjoyed a long and storied career as a bank robber in the '20s, '30s, and '40s. When asked why he kept on robbing banks, Sutton replied, "Because that's where the money is."

Well, should anyone ask why I write about OK Johnny so much, my reply would be the same: Because that's where the material is. OK Johnny, simply put, provides me with more raw material than Dirty Wally, Big Denny, and John Bonetti combined.

However, in the above-mentioned column, Oklahoma Johnny proposed an idea with which I finally can agree and not satirize: bringing in stewards to monitor poker tournaments. His logic is flawless. First, he devoted several paragraphs testifying to the honesty and integrity of poker players, whom he said he would trust more than a doctor, lawyer, preacher, teacher, the president (which president – Nixon?), and even Mr. Rogers. Then he said that tournament players need a police squad to watch them.

OK, perhaps I missed something, but it sounds reasonable to me. Then, Johnny continued, he wouldn't trust casinos and tournament directors to interpret the rules they put in place, but instead called for outside, independent stewards to be brought in. His logic was that if a tournament director ruled against a high-limit player, the casino might lose his business, but the player couldn't blame the casino if the contrary decision came from an independent referee.

You learn something new every day. I always thought that decisions and interpretations of rules were supposed to be based on what was correct and fair rather than who the player happened to be or how big he played. But again, maybe I missed something. After all, OK Johnny knows more about these things than I do.

Now, who's going to pay for all of this? Hale had the answer to this, too. The players wouldn't mind, he assures us, having money taken out of the prize pool to pay for the stewards.

Uh-huh.

All right, let's assume that the players did support bringing in outside referees. How much would it cost? Well, of course, you would need a steward/referee at each table, because how could he possibly make a ruling if he didn't witness what happened firsthand? I guess $200 a day would be reasonable pay for someone who had memorized all the casino's tournament rules, and was astute and experienced enough to then make instant, informed judgments in any type of dispute. Of course, there's also the matter of transportation, food, lodging, and similar expenses. Let's be very conservative and estimate the total salary and expenses at $300 a day. Therefore, in a $100 buy-in hold'em tournament with nine players to a table, the prize pool would be $900 a table, and they would have to take out a measly one-third of the prize pool to pay for a steward at each table.

What player could possibly object to such an arrangement?

Not long after, I was visiting with Big Denny and described Hale's idea. "Why don't you try using stewards at the Barstow Card Casino?" I suggested. "Some of the decisions your floormen make are sometimes a bit … debatable," I said, as diplomatically as I could.

I knew I wasn't diplomatic enough when Denny grabbed my neck and lifted me a foot off the ground.

"Bring in some mugs ta tell me how ta run my joint?" he yelled. "Don't ya know dat's unconstitutionary, Maxey?"

But then an idea struck him. "Ya know, Maxey, maybe dere might be some money in dis fer us. Why don't you an' me form a business ta farm out dese stewards ta casinos?"

"I don't know," I said, relieved to be lowered to the ground again. "Where would we find these people?"

"Aw, don't worry none about dat. I got some friends who been havin' a hard time findin' work only because of dere police records. Dey spent a lotta time playin' poker in da pen, so dey knows all about dat stuff."

"Sure, why not?" I said doubtfully. "Where should we try first?"

"Well, I seen an ad in Card Player for dis new joint called da Cucamonga Card Club. Dere goin' ta have dere first tournament next week. Let's go down an' talk ta dem."

Cucamonga is a quiet town about 40 miles east of Los Angeles, and the Cucamonga Card Club turned out to be a friendly little cardroom with some 10 tables. We had a meeting set up with the manager, and I went into my prepared pitch, explaining how their patrons would feel more comfortable with outside stewards keeping an eye on things. The manager listened attentively, then politely declined.

"Ya gotta be more persuasive den dat, Maxey," Big Denny sneered. "Allow me ta make a presentation." He slipped on a pair of brass knuckles, turned to the ashen-faced manager, and asked, "How'd ya like ta be presented wit' dis in yer kisser?"

"Good point," said the manager. "How much will this cost?"

"Aw, don't worry about dat," Big Denny assured him. "I'll give ya a bill afterwards an' ya kin take it outta da prize pool."

As the tournament was about to start, a minivan pulled up and disgorged 10 of the toughest-looking gorillas I had ever eyed. "Hey, my boys is here," Denny grinned. "OK, guys, I'm gonna show ya to yer tables. Now, do a good job an' I don't wanna see no rough stuff, only unless it's absolutely necessary."

As the brutes took their stations at each table, the players stared at them with a mixture of curiosity and fear. A half-hour into the tournament, the first dispute arose. A player had accidentally put in an extra chip when calling a bet, and there was confusion over whether it should be ruled a raise. The players called for the steward, but he wasn't in sight. Big Denny ambled up. "Aw, Lefty musta gone out fer a smoke," he explained. "Why don'cha jus' flip a coin?"

Later, another argument broke out at a different table. A dealer had accidentally dealt an extra card to a player, there had been no action, and everyone at the table was calling for a misdeal – except for one player who had been dealt pocket aces. "It isn't fair," he fumed. "This is the first decent hand I've had all night."

The steward, whose name was Butch, leaned over and whispered in the protesting player's ear: "How much is it worth ta ya?"

The player slipped a $5 bill into Butch's hand. After pretending to consult a rulebook, Butch made his decision: "Dis guy wit' da extra card is got a hand what's dead. Da rest of ya keep playin'."

And so it went. Finally, a steward by the name of Knuckles made a decision so outrageous and obviously wrong that the player on the losing end screamed his head off. "This bozo doesn't have a clue and I want a second opinion!" he demanded.

"OK," Knuckles replied. "Let's get an opinion from Betsy here." With that, he pulled out a .38-caliber pistol and pumped three slugs into the complainant.

"Seat open," he announced.

For some reason, nobody disputed the stewards after that, no matter which way the decision went. The tournament, a lot more subdued now, finally ended, and the shaken manager asked Big Denny what the fee came to.

"Let's see," the big guy pondered. "Da prize pool, as I unnerstan' it, came ta nine grand. As a special intraductary offer, I'm only gonna take 12 percent, which comes ta … " He tried to make the calculations, but finally gave up. "Aw, let's just round it ta t'ree grand."

The manager gulped, but peeled off 30 bills and started to walk off.

"Not so fast," Big Denny yelled, grabbing his collar. "Dere's also da cost of travel, housin', an' food. Annuder two grand should do it," he said, grabbing a handful of bills from the manager.

Big Denny shook the manager's hand, said how much he enjoyed their professional relationship, and urged him to let him know when they had their next tournament. As he walked out with his entourage of hoods, Denny smiled at me. "Ya know, Maxey, dat Oklahoma Johnny's a pretty smart guy. Try ta write somet'in' nice about him fer a change, will ya?"