IT’S BEEN OVER A YEAR since my last trip to Sin City, which featured high-stakes blackjack, Wayne Newton, and a bachelor party for a friend who later broke off his engagement (what a deal for him!). But it’s been an even longer spell since my last visit to that shining city by the sea known as Atlantic City. Not that it’s far–from Washington, DC, it is only a three-and-a-half hour drive. Having grown up on the Jersey shore, I lived
only an hour north of the action–or at least what my friends and I thought was action until we hit Las Vegas. Suddenly, Atlantic City looked like the county fair and Vegas was DisneyWorld. The casinos were larger and more decadent, and yet the table minimums were a lot lower. (You can still play $1 blackjack and craps at some casinos in Vegas; the minimums in Atlantic City are mostly $10.) As far as attractions go, there isn’t much of a comparison. There’s no Siegfried and Roy or Celine Dion in AC. (On this trip I did see a billboard for Huey Lewis and the News.) It’s only claim to fame is the boardwalk–thinly sliced pizza, saltwater taffy, Kohr Brothers’ frozen custard, and that armless woman who played the organ with her tongue. Atlantic City’s key advantage is proximity to cities like New York, Baltimore, and Philadelphia. As David Johnston of the Philadelphia Inquirer pointed out, after the first Jersey casino (Resorts International) opened in 1978, “suddenly one in four Americans lived within a six-hour drive of a blackjack table.”
It’s important to remember how and why casinos came to Atlantic City in the first place. As Sally Denton and Roger Morris explain in “The Money and the Power,” the victory of the gambling lobby in a 1976 referendum “was the capstone of what one writer described as decades of political agitation and pressure by organized crime families in New York, New Jersey, and Pennsylvania, who expected, as in Las Vegas, not only a take from the casinos, but to dominate all the collateral business from construction, transportation, food, liquor, entertainment, and every other service.”
Over the years, however, mob control in Vegas and Atlantic City faded as corporations backed by junk bonds took over. In the late 1970s, junk bond king Michael Milken put up $160 million in ready cash for magnate Steve Wynn to build his first Jersey casino–the Golden Nugget. Wynn sold the Nugget in 1987 and returned to Las Vegas to eventually build the Mirage, Treasure Island, and Bellagio. He is now setting his sights on building the largest casino in history–le Reve, to open in 2005. Not a bad run for a former slots and keno manager.
In the meantime, Wynn’s rivals, MGM and Boyd Gaming, have turned their focus back to Atlantic City, which, over the years became dominated by another magnate, Donald Trump (Trump Plaza, Trump Marina, Trump Taj Mahal). The result is the billion-dollar Borgata Hotel Casino & Spa. At 43 stories high, it is the tallest building in all of New Jersey. BusinessWeek recently asked, “Will Atlantic City ever be able to shake its image as a dropoff point for busloads of day-tripping grandmas?” The Borgata bets “yes.” In fact, you won’t even see those buses headed to the new casino–located in the marina, “away from all the riff-raff that come off the boardwalk,” as one tourist told me. With few exceptions you must be 18 years or older to enter the Borgata, unless you are a registered hotel guest. And only registered guests are allowed to bring strollers. (What about walkers?)
AMID ALL THIS HYPE, I wound up in Atlantic City last week. The towering Borgata was only partially visible–its top floors obscured by the ocean fog–and that was as close as I got to it since I was visiting with preferred guests of Harrah’s, whose roots date back to the 1930s. Despite a multimillion-dollar renovation (clearly spurred by the Borgata’s debut), Harrah’s only offered eight blackjack tables, all with $10 minimum-$500 maximums. Every seat was filled and I noticed antsy players mulling around, stalking, peering over other players’ shoulders, all waiting for someone to cash out. I was ready to sneak into a seat myself until I noticed something odd about the table: It was lowered. It turned out to be the handicap-accessible table and many of the players were elderly and wheelchair bound. One woman in green polyester was slumped over the felt, as if each hand could be her last. Sensing bad jou-jou, I looked elsewhere.
Half an hour later I found a better table with some serious players. I watched over their shoulders to see if they hit and stayed at the right times. I sat down with my $100 and saw it quickly dwindle to $50. The dealer kept pulling aces and face cards. And if that wasn’t bad enough, a woman in her 70s who looked better off at the nickel slots took over the newly vacated anchor seat. Did she know what she was doing? Did she understand how much responsibility the last player carries? She did. I watched her hit on 16s and hold on 12s at all the right moments. During the shuffle, the dealer let her cut the cards. “Let’s have a good cut,” I said. “Whatever,” she replied, with a shrug.
Finally I hit a hot streak and broke back into the black. I only left when a newcomer started making lousy judgments, annoying the table and even prompting a dirty look from the dealer.
A few minutes later I found myself at a different table and in a much different position. The only spot open was the anchor seat. Some of the players were quiet, one Asian couple played as a team, and one man was betting heavy. As an anchor, I knew that if the dealer was showing a 7, I had to assume the card underneath was a 10. In other words, assume he has 17 and so, even with a 16, hit. Only twice did I falter, allowing the dealer to win and costing the table. “Sorry,” I said, and the other players nodded understandingly.
In the end, I bet it all–all $20 that is. The dealer was showing an 8, so I figured he had an 18. What did I have? Sixteen. “I’ll be done in a minute,” I joked. “Have a little more hope,” said the heavy bettor, “more like two minutes.” When it came my turn, the man to my right leaned in and said under his breath, “I know you know what you have to do, but I’m not gonna tell you what to do.” I had to fall on my sword. I announced to the table that I would take my hit and wished them all good luck. My next card was a 5. I had 21–bringing on cheers and high-fives all around.
I cashed out, feeling like a big winner, even though I lost small–a grand total of $40. It’s a small price to pay for a night at the shining city by the sea.
Victorino Matus is an assistant managing editor at The Weekly Standard.
