Before leaving Las Vegas

I’ve got got some time to kill before my flight this evening so I grab a taxi and zip down to Fremont Street and head for the San Francisco Shrimp Bar & Deli in the Golden Gate Casino to get a sundae glass full of shrimp cocktail. This is old Vegas—definitely a place my dad visited. Maybe even where he had his big payday. Who knows? The place is full of what looks like locals drinking tall-neck beers. The casino is tiny by the new Vegas standards but the blackjack tables are crowded and there’s a certain buzz in the air that makes me feel good.

So I decide what the hell—I’ll give Vegas my last hundred bucks. Lose it in a joint that has been around forever. Anyway, I’ve got about an hour before I have to head for the airport. And if I stick to the cheap tables, maybe I can hold out that long.

I fork over my money, get my chips, and plop one of them down on the betting circle. Straight off I hit 21. Let it ride. On the next deal I get two eights, split ‘em, get a crappy six and a seven, hold, and…what do you know? The dealer busts.

Ninety minutes later I realize I am late for the airport. But I am also up over a thousand dollars. And I have learned my last lesson in Vegas: I am my father’s son.