In 1968, when I was 11 and my brother was 16, he snuck out of the hotel room where my family was staying in Las Vegas to play blackjack in the casino. My family was touring the southwest and west in a U-Haul truck that had been converted into a camper van, which meant we mainly stayed at national parks and in private campgrounds. But every once in a while, we’d stay in a hotel or motel in or near a city.
Las Vegas was one of those stops. It was especially alluring because at that time gambling – which had been legal in Nevada since March 19, 1931 – was illegal in every other state. That situation didn’t officially change until 1976, when New Jersey’s voters decided to allow casinos in Atlantic City.
In honor of the 90th anniversary of legalized gambling in Nevada – and in remembrance of that night in Las Vegas—today’s #stampoftheday offering is a 3-cent stamp, issued in 1951 to commemorate the first permanent settlement by whites in Nevada: a trading post and provisioning station in Genoa, Nevada just east of Lake Tahoe that was established by Mormons to serve wagon trains heading west.
The commonly accepted story is that Nevada made gambling legal as a way to raise revenue during the Great Depression, which hit the state especially hard because its silver mines were in decline and its economy was in shambles. But, that might not be accurate, according to Michael Green, an associate professor of history at the University of Nevada at Las Vegas, who, in yesterday’s Las Vegas Review-Journal said, “It appears really to have been a result of the efforts of a real estate developer from Las Vegas, Tom Carroll, and his attitude was, ‘Give people a reason to visit. They’ll come here. They’ll like it. They’ll invest. They’ll stay. If not, we made a little money.'”
Indeed, legalization wasn’t even big news at the time because illegal gambling had flourished for decades and relatively few casinos opened afterwards – one of them the still-operating Railroad Pass Casino which opened near the site of a massive dam construction project (then known as Boulder Dam, later renamed the Hoover Dam).
Rather, as anyone who has watched “The Godfather 2” knows, legalized gambling didn’t really take off until the 1940s when organized crime figures entered the scene. This isn’t just a movie fiction. In 1945, Benjamin “Bugsy” Segal, who had been part of a group of ruthless Jewish mobsters that ran a group of contract killers under the name Murder, Inc. and later was leader of the West Coast gambling for the crime syndicate organized by Charles “Lucky” Luciano, decided to build a gambling mecca (called the Flamingo Hotel) on desert land just outside the city limits of Las Vegas. Financed with $1.5 million raised from crime families New York, Chicago, Cleveland, and Detroit, the hotel, which ultimately cost $6 million, opened in 1946.
While it initially was a flop, within a year it was very successful. Siegal, however, was murdered, perhaps because he was skimmed profits from the hotel. But the model he created proved to be very powerful. The Flamingo, for example, set the stage for the development “The Strip,” a 3 1/2 mile-long row of 23 casinos lining both sides of Las Vegas Boulevard, all in unincorporated parts of Clark County just outside Las Vegas’ city limits.
By the early 1960s, Las Vegas, which had about 5,000 residents in 1931, was attracting 15 million tourists each year, including the five members of the Luberoff family. I imagine that my parents decided to have a night out to get a break from living in the camper’s close quarters with three kids, two of them teenagers. We were supposed to stay in the room, eat a room-service dinner (I think), watch television and go to sleep.
Neil, being Neil, was having none of this. Not long after my parents left, he left as well and went to a blackjack table at the casino. That’s where my father found him, presumably after my parents (who were not party animals) came back earlier than Neil expected and did not find him in the room. As I heard the story, Neil had won some money and had a decent pile of chips in front of him. I don’t know what words were exchanged but my brother went back to the room, my father took his place at the table. And, although my dad was an excellent poker player, he proceeded to lose whatever Neil had won.
Neil, of course, kept gambling in more ways than one until he lost his life in July 1987, killed when he took one risk too many while renovating a 200-year old farmhouse in central Massachusetts.
Of course each of us takes calculated risks all the time, something that’s become abundantly clear during the pandemic. Just this morning, for example, I stood at the door of Swissbakers in Allston trying to decide if I should or could go inside and, for the first time in a year, buy a cup of coffee and a pastry. (I was in Allston to drop off my laptop because my keyboard was making it clear that it was fed up with heavy-handed typing. I thought as long as I was there, I’d take a short walk and look around.) Then I thought it would be nice for a change to buy breakfast, which I’d eat in the car while I drove home and got to work.
I peered in the door and froze for a second when I saw some people sitting at a table and talking, without masks. But no one else was there and they were far from the counter. With some trepidation, I went in and ordered a coffee and a raspberry-filled berliner. I left, got in the car, took out the pastry to have a bite before I started driving.
In “Dirty Harry,” Clint Eastwood’s character famously asks: “You’ve got to ask yourself one question. Do I feel lucky?” Well, do ya, punk?'”
Although I felt lucky, I wasn’t. I took a bite and wound up with most – but not all – the great tasting raspberry filling in my mouth, where it belonged. But I also wound up with a goodly amount of filling on my face, in my beard, and on my jacket.
There’s going to be a lot of this in the coming months. Each of us will have to again calibrate and recalibrate the risks we are willing to take. Since I’m out of practice, I suspect that on more than one occasion I’m going to end up with some egg as well as some raspberry filling, on my face (but hopefully no COVID virus in my nose). If you see me in that state, cut me some slack.
Be well, stay safe, eat pastries carefully, fight for justice and work for peace.