In the days of old, there were actually times when the shift boss was about the only person in the casino who could write comps. In those days, the fact that the shift boss could write a comp for anything in the casino was known as "the power of the pen." He didn't ask you for a card, didn't ask how many points you had or how long you were playing; you'd ask, he'd give you a yes or no and that was that. He usually knew who you were and how much you were stuck or ahead.

Usually the comps came to the better players without asking. The floor men weren't there just to mark down hundred dollar bills dropped in the box, but also to keep their eyes on the big play and, when a player asked the floor men for a comp, they knew just who had what coming and would tell the boss just what they were doing on the tables, if he didn't already know, and what comps were earned for that play. Often in the larger casinos the pit boss in each pit was, for the most part, considered the boss of their section and the shift boss frequently gave them the power of the pen. If it wasn't abused, they could wield great power. It wasn't just the writing of a dinner ticket for the couple from Oklahoma who lost $300-$400 at just the right time to quell their grief of their newly- discovered poverty. Or the guy from L.A. with the gold chains and Rolex watch and high maintenance girlfriend who's blowing through his wad (along with a couple grams of coke), trying to get this girl into bed for a couple thousand bucks. (And you question legalized prostitution?), so when he asks for a room and dinner, the pit boss, knowing this guy was going home broke on Sunday no matter what he did now - probably alone too - would get a small break and a ticket just to help him to get laid. (You legalize prostitution in Clark County and the casinos can supply the girl, and the guy doesn't have to stress that he might or might not get laid or wonder if he'll get dumped half way through the trip. He's happy, she's happy, the casino's happy. The professional girls know how to entertain men; it's their job, not like trying some secretary from the bank.) And if he did, this would put this guy in good to the casino. Now in the future, he'd bring all his dates there trying to impress them by the fact that he could order up anything for free since he had "connections" in the pit. Sure he had connections. Anyone that could lose as much as these guys just to impress some girl would be forever grateful for a $50 room and a $20 meal after losing a couple thousand bucks.

How easy it all was back then. The guys would come in, shake hands with the shift boss or the pit boss, be called by their first names or even a "Mister" before their last name. A smile, a pat on the back followed by the obligatory "what can I get you?" as he held the comp pad and pen in hand. Early in my gaming career I had the opportunity to wield this power, and although it cost me a job, it was worth the experience. To be drunk with such power is both exciting and dangerous. Like Moses with the tablets, I could wield my power by just the point of my pen and make or destroy mankind with just a dash and a dot of a little ink.

I was only dealing for four months. It was an "Off Strip" casino, which is a nice way of saying it was a break-in joint on the east side of town, the kind of place where every dealer had to start. This was a small place and not too bad, considering it wasn't downtown or in North Vegas. When it came to the graveyard shift, the management was pretty much hands off. Not because they trusted or liked the shift boss and not because we made much money, but because the owner lived in a nice part of town miles from the casino and there was no way you were getting this guy up for anything after 2 a.m. Since the casino dropped to a $100 limit on the shift, not even the greatest card counter could take us for more than a couple hundred before they'd just kick the asshole ("Asshole?" Are you talking to me? -Ed.) out. No reason had to be given either, because casinos are considered a private establishment and in Nevada that means they can let anyone in they want, as well as kick any one out whenever they want, and we could just call a halt to any action that we didn't want to take. The Roulette table was lowered to a 10 cent game, the blackjack tables (3) were lowered to a dollar and craps had a partition they would put half way down the layout and use only half the table so that only one dealer was needed to deal the game. And since it was almost impossible to find a craps dealer on graveyard in that place, you just took what you could get and you had to know that once the guy got to be a decent craps dealer, he'd be gone to a better job and who could blame him?

The shift boss was a really nice guy. He was originally the day-shift boss, but pissed on the wrong people and was grateful to just keep his job. He treated the dealers with respect, but it wasn't hard to see I was quickly becoming his favorite since, we were both from Chicago and I was the only white kid on the shift and we spoke the same language. But his downfall was cocktail waitresses, (hard to believe) and on Wednesday morning at 4 a.m. Wendy would come in from the Flamingo. She was a tall blonde and built like Jessica Rabbit. (She would even use her quote: "I'm not bad, I'm just drawn that way.") Usually by 5 a.m. she was buzzing and would spend most of her time playing blackjack and coming on to Joel, my boss. He would go to the registration desk, get her a room and after she'd get hammered, he'd "see to it" that she got to her room alright and usually return after a half hour or so. We all knew what was going on, but he was the boss, and if I were the boss, I'd be doing the same thing.

Just a week before he told me to show up to work with a sport coat. We only wore black and whites, so I brought a black coat. When I came in to start my shift, he turned to me from the podium and said, "You look just fine. Just stand here and watch the games and mark down any buy-in for $20 or more, mark the table and seat number. That's all you got to do." I didn't know it at the time but this was my first shot at the floor. A week later he told me to show up again with my black jacket. But this time he not only handed me the clip board to mark the action, but he also handed me a pad of paper, but not just any paper, this was a pad of comp slips. I'm telling you, this is like handing someone cash. Holding it is like holding the keys to the casino. Then he hands me "The Pen." But not just any pen. This was a top-of-the-line Scripto pen; this thing could write upside down in butter. The Shuttle crews used these pens. It was like handing me the key to the city. He might as well put a big top hat on my head that said "CASINO MAYOR", for the way it made me feel, having the Power of the Pen while he was gone with his drunk shiksa slut to the Jacuzzi suite for an hour or so.

"You can write for meals in the coffee shop only, and only for two, and only after they go through a couple hundred bucks, but don't ask them, let them ask you."

I'm sure this guy counted the slips and measured the ink in the pen. But only I knew where he was and what he was doing, and he was in no position to tell me how to use THE POWER. Graveyard shift was slow but it wasn't boring. We were located in a local neighborhood (this was years before the other casinos moved off the Strip and into the neighborhoods.) There were mostly dealers, cocktail waitresses, showgirls and strippers in this area. They always had cash back then before the IRS got their grips into them and they loved to drink and gamble.

This one night, three girls from the Jubilee show at Bally's came in to play. There were plenty of guys in the casino but they were playing the machines, drinking at the bar, wherever. When the girls hit the tables, they turned it on and the boys followed. The tables were getting crowded. They were on their second round of drinks when the dealers from a nearby casino got off shift and seven or eight of them came in together with cocktail waitresses and girlfriends in tow.

The place was jamming and the shift boss was upstairs shakin' the sheets and I had all of six months' experience in a casino. My dealers were either break-ins like me or old guys that couldn't give a shit if they won or lost or got cheated or whatever, as long as they made tips. And these guys tipped just fine. The toke boxes were full in an hour and they were filling their second box, everyone was drunk and now they were asking for the joint. They wanted food, premium drinks at the tables (you only got well drinks at our games) and mostly rooms; they all wanted rooms. This is where I should have beeped the shift boss but the hotel manager was nearby and when I talked to him, he assured me he had plenty of rooms, it being a Wednesday and at 4 a.m. he wasn't looking for a rush any time soon.

"I wouldn't call just yet if I were you. Use the pen," he suggested.

"Use the pen," echoed in my head. I took it from my coat pocket. The silver pocket clip gleamed in the lights and it took on an aura of power like the sword Excalibur. I grabbed the comp pad and began writing. Four rooms. I had the cocktail waitresses bring the best booze for these guys. I threw in a bottle of Crown Royal for the party upstairs and breakfast for six, two at a time. One of the girls that dropped $500 took a liking to a particular Budweiser sign over the bar so I had the bartender unplug it and bring it to the pit. In a short time everyone disappeared and the place looked like an ordinary Wednesday morning graveyard shift again. The shift boss finally returned, zipping his pants up as he walked into the pit while dawn broke outside, just barely able to glow through the smoked glass doors.

There were now three people playing blackjack. The lone craps dealer was almost asleep on the table and the roulette dealer was trying to hit on the cocktail waitress, since no one was playing the ten-cent wheel. "Everything go o.k." he asked, "Have any problems?"

"Problems, nope, no problems." I handed back the pen and the pad.

"This stuff has been used, what happened?"

This guy was amazing, he could actually feel there was less ink than two hours ago, and he could tell there were a few slips missing, just by the weight.

"Well there's a bunch of drunk and happy partiers on the fifth floor. Oh yeah, and they're broke, too, so don't expect much more action this morning."

I ran down the drop and we accounted for over $2,600 dropped in the last two hours, more than swing and day shifts combined. He gave me a look and said, "Shit, three grand in the boxes? I don't even want to know what you wrote the comps for."

"Alright" I said, "But remember when they ask where two bottles of Crown Royal and a Budweiser sign went, tell them somebody bought them for three grand."

I quit soon after that for a better job, but the fact was, once I had the power of the pen, I couldn't go back to being just another ordinary dealer. It would have been like Moses giving back the tablets and going to cleaning the Pharaohs' toilets.

-- Ken Pearlman