When Las Vegas Casino Hosts Had Clout
The Good Old Days were not restricted to the ’70s and ’80s of horse racing, though those two decades serve as a sweet example. There was a time in Las Vegas when who you knew mattered as much as what you bet. Don’t get me wrong, how much you bet certainly opened doors. But as I always say, it’s not who you know, it’s who knows you.
Some may think Past The Wire expanding into sports wagering is a new concept for us, or that our expertise doesn’t run as deep there as it does with horses. That assumption could not be further from the truth.
I generally don’t like to use names in these stories. This time, I think it’ll be just fine.
It had to be the early 2000s, and the date is easy to pin down, because it was the year the Seattle Seahawks won the NFC, then lost the Super Bowl to the Pittsburgh Steelers on some questionable calls. Shaun Alexander, their powerhouse running back, went down with an injury, which didn’t help. They could have won anyway. Didn’t matter to me.
Earlier that year and this was before online sportsbooks, two friends, two weeks apart, went to Las Vegas ahead of the NFL season. I asked each of them for a favor. I gave each one $1,000 cash and asked them to bet the Seahawks to win the NFC. Both gladly did, at different casinos, and the price I got at each was 10-1.
When the first game of that season kicked off, I had both tickets in my hand. It’s not only who knows you, it’s also how you carry yourself. The Seahawks won the NFC, lost the Super Bowl, and I had a built-in reason for a trip to Vegas.
Neither ticket was bought at Wynn, but the property was relatively new, the second tower wasn’t even built yet and for me, it was the place to stay. I figured a solid week was enough time to enjoy the town, unwind from the flight, collect my $22,000, and have some fun in the casino. I booked the Parlor Suite, maybe $500–600 a night back then, though I honestly don’t remember the exact number but it had a private massage room, and that sounded great.
My last trip to Vegas before that, I’d stayed in a bungalow at Mandalay Bay, on that man-made fake beach, with Charlie Sheen in the one next door. That story is not for these pages.
Not to be redundant, but this was an era when a casino host, a manager, even a pit boss, still carried real clout. Computers and betting cards existed, sure, but the power still belonged to the people. Steve Wynn owned the place at the time, and on my first morning there I saw him at the gym. He may have even lived at the hotel, I’m not sure. He was finishing his workout, talking to the guy at the front desk, and I was walking in, waiting to ask that same guy a question. Steve looked over at me, never said who he was, and asked, friendly as could be: “Hi, I hope you’re enjoying your stay. I like to make sure everyone has a wonderful time here, is everything going well for you?”
My memory went, on the spot, to the old Frank Sinatra commercial, some of you will know it, some won’t. I went in character. Almost gruff, quick, direct, rushed: “Yeah, yeah, everything’s fine. Just see to it I have fresh towels every morning.”
He beamed. Lit up. Hugged me. “You remember that,” he said. “Of course. That was beautiful. Anything and I mean anything you need, let me know.” I told you about the towels was my response. I left after a week on a first-name basis with Steve Wynn. When I left the hotel to go anywhere that week, I didn’t walk, I didn’t take a cab, I rode in a white Rolls-Royce with a chauffeur. The license plate read WYNN1.
I played a little poker, shot some craps, but I spent most of my time in the Wynn horse racing room or sportsbook, it was the same place. At the time it was run by John Avello, a sharp oddsmaker who already had a strong reputation in the gambling world. He understood horses, too, and while most of Vegas didn’t yet take horseplayers seriously, John was ahead of the curve, at least as much as he could be.
I sat in the sportsbook, watching and betting horses. I don’t drink when I gamble, and I don’t do buffets although the one at Wynn had a world-class reputation at the time, and I did happen to see it, and it looked the part. My wagering handle was already slowing down by then, but it was still respectable. Respectable enough to be noticed.
A friend called and asked when I was coming home. “When the $22K runs out,” I said. “Maybe a day. Maybe a year.”
After two days, John Avello came over and sat down next to me and introduced himself. He asked why it seemed I preferred horses over the other games. Easy answer for me. We had an enjoyable conversation, and after a few minutes John took out his business card, wrote his cell number on it, and slid it across the table toward me along with some free drink and buffet passes. I looked down. I picked up the card, crossed out his cell number, wrote in mine, and slid the card and passes back across to his side of the table.
“Thank you,” I said. “I appreciate the offer, but I don’t drink or do buffets. I’d be happy to buy you lunch instead. And if you ever need anything, anything at all, you have my number. Call me.” He lit up the same way Steve Wynn had. “Nobody, and I mean nobody has ever done that to me,” he said. “They usually ask for more passes by tomorrow.” A classic, he called it. It was a fun moment to share, and we were both just being who we were.
After talking and joking some more, I did tell John one thing he could do for me. Every morning, I said, the Wall Street Journal was outside my door. I’d prefer the Daily Racing Form, if possible. Every morning after that, the DRF was printed and hanging in a bag from my doorknob in the Parlor Suite.
It’s not who you know. It’s who knows you. It always has been.
Many years have passed. Both Steve Wynn and John Avello have moved on. They may not even recall the encounters, they’ve had far more of them than I have. But for me, it was a fun one.
It pays to remember:
