Double or Nothing: How Two Friends Risked It All to Buy One of Las Vegas' Legendary Casinos (17 page)

So when those parentheses started to appear on the DOR, Tim had to take into account that I didn't have the same lining in my stomach that he had in his. In some way, in the world of gambling, that made Tim less than
Tim
.

He knew he was in a fight with Mr. Royalty every time the guy bobbed and weaved to the craps table. The way that Mr. Royalty was playing, it was like going up against Mike Tyson in his prime.

Mr. Royalty was not coming to play a congenial game. There was a viciousness in the way he played that went way beyond money. He played to hurt. There was a reason for this just as there was a reason somewhere in Mike Tyson's past that led him to want to smash an opponent's nose through the back of his head.

Years before, after a nice run through the casinos, Mr. Royalty suffered a reversal of fortune and went broke. Las Vegas is a small town, and word got around. When he went bust, he tried to negotiate discounts on his markers like a lot of gamblers. But that's something usually done in advance. The casinos had him by the jugular, and they wouldn't allow any discounts after he'd lost. Word is that a lien was placed on his home and that every cent was wrung out of him.

Yeah, Mr. Royalty had lost the money. But it must've done something to his head seeing the same people who'd been treating him like a king to get his action suddenly turn on him like sharks at the scent of blood. I never knew him personally, but I heard enough about him to know that he had a wife and kids. Word was, the wringer the casinos put him through also put the squeeze on his family, too. Apparently, Mr. Royalty never forgot.

A true gambler never goes bust. Everybody else might see him as busted. But
he
never does.
He
sees himself as temporarily out of ammunition. Mr. Royalty was a smart guy. He earned some money, cleared away his debts, and when he came back to the casino floor, it wasn't about table games. It was about payback.

You're gonna act like my friends and then try to put my kids in a cardboard box? Okay, that's how we'll play the game.

The higher the limits, the harder he hit. Once he got The House in the hole, he would corner it without remorse, make it fight by his rules, or else he'd take his business elsewhere. He'd issue ultimatums that the box man couldn't leave to take a piss while he was rolling. Screw the box man! Mr. Royalty wasn't going to have
his
rhythm interrupted by some bastard's prostate. If the box man needed to take a piss, let
him
sit there and swallow the pain.

Like I say, I never met the guy. But when you understand a little of the story beneath the story, you get some insight as to why Mr. Royalty might throw tips in the air to watch people in the casino jump for them as if they were dogs. Pure and simple: He wanted to make every fucking casino in Las Vegas pay.

Tim may have had the numbers on his side against Mr. Royalty. But a part of him was also thinking about the responsibilities of owning a $215 million casino. That part of him was thinking about protecting me. In a boxing ring, a fighter making a simple glance over to a friend was the finger snap a Mike Tyson would need to knock a man's nose through the back of his head. The same applied on the casino floor.

Tim began to have the shittiest feeling in the world that a gambler like
Tim
could possibly feel. He felt like Mike Demman did at two in the morning with two jacks and an $800 pot in front of him.

It was a new feeling, this wavering, and Tim didn't know what to do with it. For the first time in his life as a gambler, Tim found himself frightened. It wasn't the kind of fear that made him
start
drinking. It was the kind of fear that made him
stop
. No more wine and heavy dinners. He began to chug Red Bull energy drinks and smoke cigarette after cigarette.

It was a relief when he got word that Jack Binion was having lunch in one of our restaurants—and he headed over to see him. If there were anybody in the world who could understand what he was going through, it would be the son of Benny Binion.

Jack Binion had seen it all. His last name was synonymous with the word “gamble.” He'd come to Vegas as a little boy, sleeping on the blanket that covered the two million bucks his father had stashed in the back of his Cadillac. And he could tell you stories from a day when a cheater like Shoeshine Nick was
grazed in the neck with a gunshot in an alley to discourage him from ever walking through the doors of The Nugget again. Jack knew what kind of stomach it took to offer a man the chance to bet as much as he wished so long as it was his first bet. He knew what it was like to watch his casino lose every one of its $5,000 chocolate-colored chips to Archie Karas during The Run. He knew what it was like to store Archie's chips in the Horseshoe's security vault, and what it was like to have to ask Archie to cash in some of the chips because there were so many in the vault that there weren't enough on the casino floor. There was one more thing Jack Binion knew. He knew what it was like to watch Archie Karas ultimately lose every chip that he'd won.

Yes, Jack Binion was the right guy to talk to—especially since Mr. Royalty had recently beaten
his
casino out of $2 million.

“It's just impossible for this guy to win like he's winning,” Tim said to Jack. “I don't think he's cheating. You must have checked out the tapes on this guy. Are you a million percent sure that nothing's up? No loaded dice. Nothing.”

“Our best people have looked at it,” Jack said. “He's not doing anything wrong. He's just lucky.”

“Jeeezus, Jack, what the hell? Every time this guy walks through the door he beats us for at least a half million. How far should I let this guy go? Are you going to let him keep playing?”

“Of course, I'm gonna keep letting him play!”

“I don't know. Everybody else, I'm thrilled to see come through the door. This guy, I'm getting scared of. I just don't understand it.”

“Well,” Jack said, “you can only go as far as your bankroll allows you. On a mathematical basis, you let him play. But if you can't afford it, that's another story.”

That was the worst part. Jack could stand by the math. He could tell Tim what it took to stomach The Run. But as he
said good-bye, Tim realized that the essence of the conversation came down to a single question that only he could answer. How big are your balls?

That question swelled larger and larger over the coming days to the point of bursting on the night Mr. Royalty made twenty-two straight passes at the craps table and ran his winnings on us up to $8 million.

If
I
felt like throwing up watching those rolls in the surveillance room, you can only imagine what it felt like to be Tim that night. In some ways, it must've been like being Mike Demman deciding to go in with two jacks, then turning up the dummy cards and finding out he'd lost to two queens. Twenty-two times in a row!

Ironically, the losing roll that ended Mr. Royalty's streak was the knockout punch. That's when Mr. Royalty decided to pull in his chips and simply walk out the door with his two million. We were left stunned like the victims of a hit-and-run.

 

Remember, we were not a corporation with billions in resources. When you lose $8 million to a player in full view of your employees, they're going to talk. They're going to start to wonder how far you'll let the losses go, what'll happen if the losses go too far, and what you'll do if The House starts to fall. They're going to wonder if you're prepared to reach into your own pockets to hold it up.

Tim, Ed, and I knew there was no danger of missing an upcoming $7.5 million interest payment. But if we kept letting Mr. Royalty play, and he beat us for another $7.5 or $15 million, what would we do then? Mr. Royalty could've wiped out our entire fortune if the streak continued. Archie Karas's winning streak lasted for a year.

The next morning, when Tim failed to show up for an exec
utive meeting, I began to think about a strategy going forward, and not only that, but about how The Nugget might evolve. Every successful casino evolves into a clear vision. The volatility in our DOR was demanding that we figure out ours.

Lorenzo and Frank's philosophy was 180 degrees away from Tim's. There was no gamble in their Station Casinos. Their casinos were built for the enjoyment of locals who worked in the industry and lived in Vegas. Station Casinos made money off of every aspect of their business, and their slot machines churned out predictable profits night after night. There was no risk in slot machines. The slots never lost. They never called in sick. They never gave anybody any trouble. They were strong and steady, the foundation of an empire.

Guys like Kirk Kerkorian and Steve Wynn had so many hotels and big players coming in and betting big money that someone like Mr. Royalty could never make a dent in their DOR. Twenty guys could be betting like Mr. Royalty, and it didn't matter. Kerkorian and Wynn had volume on their side. So much volume, their table games had become as predictable as slot machines. That was earned money. While they worked hard for it, they didn't have to sweat it.

A part of Tim wanted to sweat it, needed to sweat it. “Money won,” he'd tell you, “is twice as sweet as money earned.”

He loved the risks that came with deciding player limits, and he loved the tingle that came with watching his risks play out. Exchanging that for a predictable profit might put Tim in a place that he really didn't want to be.

“Do you know what the worst thing there is for a gambler, Tom?” he once told me. “The absolute worst thing. A nuclear war with plagues and famine doesn't compare to what a gambler is really scared of. To a gambler, nothing is worse than being out of action. Because if you're out of action, you might as well be dead.”

The next day, when Tim failed to show up for that morning meeting, the calls started coming.

“Where's Tim?”

“Where's Tim?”

“Where's Tim?”

“Where's Tim?”

“Where's Tim?”

“Where's Tim?”

I had to find him. Along the way, I had to search for myself, too.

 

I found Tim lying in a bed in the Steve Wynn Suite. He looked like a gambler who hadn't slept in a week. He hadn't shaved, and the weight he'd lost was really apparent. There were ashtrays loaded with cigarette butts around the room. More scattered cans of Red Bull. The television was on.

I pulled a chair up next to the bed. After “How you doin'?” we said little. For a long time, we said nothing at all. The strangest part about the silence is how close I began to feel to him. So close that at one point I looked at the fatigue in his face and saw myself.

I remembered a night at Caesars Palace a few years after I'd moved to Vegas. Tim had taught me to gamble, and we were starting to make enough money in our reservation business for me to step out and take a risk.

I got up $10,000 at a blackjack table, went down $5,000, and got back up $10,000. It was big money for me. The energy swirled around me, and I was completely into the game. That was the night when I understood why people travel thousands of miles to come to Las Vegas.

“Hey,” Tim said, “there's a guy singing Sinatra in the lounge. You want to go check him out? We'll get a drink and call it a night.”

“No, no,” I told him. I was down $10,000 at that point, and I wanted it back and more. “I want to stay. I'm feelin' it tonight.”

“Tom, c'mon.”

“No, I'm tellin' you. I'm feelin' it tonight.”

“Don't stay up all night, Tom; We've got to work in the morning.”

“You go. I'm gonna play.”

Tim left, and by five in the morning I'd lost my entire credit limit of $25,000.

When I arrived to work on no sleep, he didn't have to ask a single question.

“You fuckin' dummy,” he said.

It's always easier for somebody else to see the dark side of Vegas when it's on your face than it is with your own eyes. Which is why there's nothing better in Las Vegas than having a partner you can trust.

At one point, I picked up a pillow and tossed it at Tim to lift him out of his funk.

“Look,” I told him, “I don't care about the money. I just don't want to see you like this. I want to see you healthy. Right now, that's all I care about.”

But really, a lot of the time was spent in silence. When you're that close, you don't have to say much anyway.

T
he piano tune that changed everything came a few months later.

Tim had set the ring on his cell phone to play the theme song from the movie
The Sting
. He loved the ragtime piano melody that came to be synonymous with Paul Newman and Robert Redford pulling off an elaborate con. Given everything that would transpire, maybe the tune was fitting. Everything that followed over the next few weeks sure played out like a movie.

The New Year had, just a few days before, rung in 2005. We were taking some time off at Tim's beach house in California to rejuvenate and plan. Funny, that they call these sorts of business vacations retreats even though they're about looking ahead. A few of us were eating lunch at a restaurant when the melody for
The Sting
started to jingle. Tim pulled out his cell phone, said hello, and “Hey, how you doin'?” Then his expression grew serious.
Maybe the seriousness stood out even more than usual because we were as relaxed as we'd been in months.

The dreaded parentheses on our DOR immediately vanished after we'd decided not to give Mr. Royalty the game he'd wanted and pulled back on our risk all around the casino. Mr. Royalty howled and called us pussies when we took away his special limits. That was predictable. But as much as it was a dagger in Tim's heart to watch Mr. Royalty walk away with our $8 million when he knew we had the best of it, there was salve to be found every morning in the climbing numbers on the DOR.

We'd turned our focus away from the million-dollar whales and honed in on the $100,000 gamblers and loyal customers. It wasn't like the porterhouse on Tim's plate had been traded for a ham sandwich. But I knew this would be a huge adjustment for Tim, and I looked for a place where he could channel his energy. Fortunately, there was one. I'd been formulating expansion plans, and I sensed we'd have a blast working on the project together. Not only that, but focusing on these plans might give Tim the chance to turn himself from The Gambler into The Creator. It was like I was asking Tim to shift from being Jack Binion to Steve Wynn. Tim does love architecture, and he threw himself into it.

We commissioned a rendering of a 1,000-room tower and a new showroom, and we looked into buying and leasing adjacent property. We set up three stages of expansion calling for investments of $80 million, $180 million, and ultimately $250 million. Just when I thought Tim
was
morphing into Steve Wynn, he startled me by also taking on the traits of Lorenzo and Frank's dad.

Mr. Fertitta was famous for his inclusiveness. He always made the final decision, but he built his company by letting anyone who worked for him have a say if they had an idea that
could make the company better. Tim started to call meetings with our executives and staff and challenge them to find ways to increase revenues and reduce costs. He pushed people to think differently, and, just like Mr. Fertitta, he inspired great ideas. The senior execs who were so jittery over the parentheses on the DOR became reengaged. I found myself amazed watching Tim become a hybrid of Steve Wynn and Frank Fertitta Jr.

Business was booming, and the future couldn't have looked better when Tim lifted up his second finger to say “excuse me” to everyone at the table and stood to leave.

For a second I wondered if something had happened to a member of his family. But Tim often got calls from The Nugget with questions or problems. On rare occasions, he liked to have those conversations in private where he could think clearly.

The three of us who remained at the table—our assistant, Zach, Ed, and I—watched Tim walk over to an isolated stool at the bar and sit. It was impossible to know what was up, and our conversation slowly returned to the NFL playoffs.

Anyway, the same finger that had gone up to say “excuse me” came down on my shoulder a few minutes later.

“Hey,” Tim said to Ed and me, “I've gotta talk to you guys.”

We walked back to the bar, and I couldn't imagine what was up.

“That was Tilman Fertitta on the phone.”

Tilman Fertitta is a distant cousin to Frank and Lorenzo. He runs a company called Landry's Restaurants Inc.—a big company. There are more than three hundred restaurants under Tilman's wingspan. We'd been in contact with Tilman months earlier when we put The Nugget's smaller property in Laughlin up for sale to raise cash and focus our attention on our operation in Vegas. When a higher bidder entered the picture, Til
man pulled out. The deal eventually dissolved, and we held onto the property. So I wondered why Tilman would be calling now.

“Tilman just offered us $275 million for The Nugget in Vegas.”

That was $55 million more than we'd bought it for after fees less than a year earlier.

“Holy shit!” was all I could say.

“In fact,” Tim said, “he wants to send his private jet and fly us to Houston to meet with him tonight or tomorrow.”

It was as if Tim had just been plugged into a socket and recharged. I felt like I'd stuck my finger into a socket, too. Only I kind of stood there in shock. I wasn't just shocked by the offer. I was also taken back by the electricity coming off Tim. Though I immediately realized that Tim thought it could be a great deal, I didn't have time to process all the reasons why he might've been so amped.

But I should have remembered one of Tim's favorite sayings. “Money won is
twice as sweet
as money earned.” For the last three months of 2004, Tim had been earning his money. The moment he walked back from the bar at lunch, twice-as-sweet Tim was back.

Not only was a deal in play. But in a fraction of an instant, Tim sensed that the number Tilman Fertitta had cast our way—$275 million—meant that we already had the best of it. And that was just the
first
offer. Of course, that number was merely a fishhook for Tilman. We had absolutely no plans to sell The Nugget, and Tilman knew he needed to throw out a number like that to reel us to the table.

“Let's go,” Tim said.

He was all set to dial the phone and have Tilman send his company jet. I wasn't surprised that Tim wanted to talk with
Tilman. You have to listen to an offer like that. But a part of me couldn't get my head around why Tim seemed so eager to sell his dream.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Ed said. His eyes had opened wide at first. But he quickly adjusted to the news. “You're on a retreat here.”

Tim came back with one of his favorite Sinatra lines. “There will be plenty of time to rest when we're dead.” Then he added, “I say we go to Houston!”

“Don't go jumping on a plane right away just because he asked you to,” Ed said. “Tell him that we might be able to come in a couple of days.”

Ed was right. We needed to digest this.

We went to see a movie about Bobby Darin as we had planned. The movie made me realize just how stunned I was. I simply couldn't pay attention to the screen. I sat in my seat trying to make sense of it all. Did I really want to sell The Nugget?

I loved The Nugget. I loved the fact that I could find Kirby Puckett, my grandmother's favorite Minnesota Twin, sitting at a table in one of our restaurants, and that I could go over and say hello, not as an autograph seeker, but as the owner of the hotel who could buy him dinner in gratitude for all the great moments he'd given my family. I loved when Coach K—the guy who coached my heroes as a kid—and his family came by. I loved getting to know Tony and Danny Bennett, and going on stage to sing with the Barenaked Ladies. I loved being able to have the singer who often graced our ballroom, Martin Nievera, serenade my parents at a Hawaiian-themed fortieth anniversary party at 4:04
PM
on 4/04/04. I loved meeting the mayor and confronting the challenge of elevating the atmosphere downtown. I loved turning the place around after the reality show
and showing the writer who called us Home Alone on Fremont Street that we were not alone. Every room was booked. I loved hosting a gala for Andre Agassi's foundation, and seeing the gratitude in his eyes when we made our hotel feel just like his home.

What could I buy with $55 million that was going to be better than all that? Besides, I was just getting over the learning curve and ready to do some serious wingin' and dingin'.

I really needed to talk it out with Tim. The ironies were already starting. Usually, Tim is the one always talking through a movie. The film might be in the middle of the opening credits when Tim would start moaning. “I don't know what the hell's going on in this movie. Does
anybody
know what's going on?” And when a climactic moment was approaching, you could lay 3-1 he'd say, “Watch this! Watch this! I'll bet you he gets it
right here
!” All around, people would be shushing and pleading for quiet. He was at it again during the Bobby Darin story, snapping his fingers to “Mack the Knife” and crooning along.

Only this time,
I
couldn't help myself. “Tim,” I asked during a quiet moment in the film, “do you really think selling is the right thing?”

Tim turned toward me suddenly. “Hey, Tom,” he said in exasperation. “Can I
please
watch the movie?”

As the afternoon turned to evening and we considered the deal's possibilities, I was conflicted, wanting to hit the brakes even as everyone grew more and more excited. Our pal Naaygs joined us for dinner. When we told him about the offer, he was flabbergasted.

“You guys were born under a lucky star. I can't believe it!” he shouted to the heavens. “This is a score! A
score!
There's nothing to think about here. Take the money!”

We talked it over. Then Tim called Tilman back and told
him that we could come to Houston in a couple of days.

“Just let me know when,” Tilman said. “I'll have the plane ready whenever you want it.”

Two days later, Tilman's plane picked us up in California. Having been through the scrutiny of a gaming license investigation, we got a little carried away as we headed east. We began to wonder if the flight crew was listening in on our conversations and if our seats were bugged. It was in this spirit that we produced the comical code name for our mission: Project Goldfish. Gold for The Golden Nugget. Fish for the theme behind Tilman Fertitta's most well-known restaurant, Landry's Seafood House.

Tilman's plane stopped in Las Vegas so that we could get a change of clothes. Also, we knew that if we were going fishing, we didn't want to end up being the fish. It was obvious that Tilman had thrown the $275 million out as bait, so Tim wanted to take along some bait and a fishhook himself. He had our assistant, Zach, go to The Nugget and get the architects' drawings of our expansion plans. This would show that we had huge aspirations and weren't at all eager to sell.

If you were watching all this in a movie, there was a little scene that would play out here to tip off the future. It would be very innocent and flit by in a couple of seconds. A good director would make it very subtle. The scene took place at the airport in Las Vegas. While waiting for us to get that change of clothes, the pilots for Tilman Fertitta's company plane crossed paths with the pilots of Frank and Lorenzo Fertitta's company plane.

Soon we landed in Houston and were picked up by Tilman's chauffeured SUV and dropped off at Tilman's baseball-themed hotel near Minute Maid Park. We met Andre and Perry's lawyer, Todd Wilson, and went out to dinner on our own at a steakhouse nearby called Vic & Anthony's. Tilman's company owned that, too.

The next morning, we went to his office.

After checking in at the reception desk, we walked over to an exhibit in the lobby—a history of Landry's Seafood House. But it was more than a history. It was a shrine to Tilman Fertitta. There were photos of Tilman everywhere. Photos of Tilman on the covers of magazines. Photos of Tilman with politicians. Photos of Tilman breaking ground on new projects. It didn't matter where in the exhibit he appeared, Tilman was always front and center.

I couldn't help but think of how different this was in comparison to Frank and Lorenzo. People always asked Lorenzo why there are no pictures of him with celebrities and dignitaries in his office—and to this day he doesn't quite know how to answer. He just never considered putting them up. Above the desk in Frank's office is a beautiful portrait in oils that could easily be hanging in his home. It's of his dad hugging him and Lorenzo.

The more I looked at the shrine to Tilman, the more I thought about Frank and Lorenzo. One of the images that came to mind was one that I'd never actually seen, but only heard about. The field goal.

Frank is seven years older than Lorenzo and played football at Bishop Gorman. His class had gone undefeated as a junior varsity team when he was a sophomore. But the following year, when Frank and his classmates showed up as juniors for a two-day summer camp to bond with the seniors, there were huge conflicts. The seniors saw their starting jobs in jeopardy and began to freeze out the guys in Frank's class.

The lack of trust split the team apart and led to a terrible season. It was a huge lesson in Frank's life. When his class became seniors, its driving theme was that
nobody
needed to see his name in the newspaper. Everyone would work together to win the state championship. The team churned into the playoffs undefeated.

In the championship game, Bishop Gorman got down 20-0 in the first eight minutes of the game. It was a small Catholic school team playing against a large public school, and Bishop Gorman froze, as the sportscasters say, like a deer in the headlights. But because of the sense of trust on the team, there was no finger pointing, and the team was able to regroup and battle back. At the very last second, Bishop Gorman kicked a field goal to win the game and the title.

If you ever asked Frank about the lessons that guided his family business, the field goal would be one of the first stories he'd tell you. Frank grew up teaching Lorenzo how to play football. Not
once
in his life did he ever get into a fight with his younger brother.