The Hottest Game in Town : <i> Pai Gow </i> Injects ‘Action’ and Pathos Into California’s Revived Casinos

THE OLD WOMAN CAREFULLY PICKS HER WAY among the crowded tables of the Bicycle Club card casino in Bell Gardens. She is small and pudgy and wears baggy black pants and a drab green silk jacket. Her watery brown eyes blink owlishly behind thick, round glasses. Her cheeks sag against the corners of her mouth, forming sad, droopy creases. A tan leather purse is slung over her right shoulder. She clutches it tightly.

The purse is heavy with gold--wedding bands, bracelets, chains, watches, earrings, bridgework, cuff links--so say those who have glimpsed inside of it. She is known as Pawn Shop Woman. She offers on-the-spot jewelry loans at 10% interest (called juice ), payable every five days until the jewelry is redeemed--or is forfeited.

A younger woman approaches, whispers and drops a gold chain and bracelet into the hand of the old woman, who hefts it to gauge the weight and nods. The two women go into the restroom.

Another customer, a man in a rumpled dark-blue suit, waits outside. He has been gambling without sleep for two days and has borrowed his limit from casino loan sharks. Only Pawn Shop Woman can help him now. He huddles with the old woman and slips off his watch. The other gamblers pay no attention.

“Everybody owe her juice,” says Mary Wang, 40, a club regular. “Old woman greedy, sister greedy,” Mary mutters. “She give me $200 for solid gold watch I pay a thousand for. She wants $20 juice a week. I say, ‘OK.’ She sees me gambling. She say, ‘Mary, you winning. Pay me $10 extra.’ I say, ‘OK, but you get 10 less when I lose.’ She walk away.”

Mary glances at her wrist. “My watch still in her purse. Already pay $80 juice. Still owe $200.” Mary nods toward a tall, rangy young man in an oversized sports coat and pegged pants. “People don’t pay, maybe hit men--gang members--come by their home. Old woman greedy.”

Mary nudges her acquaintance. “Sister come,” she whispers. The old woman’s sister has arrived. She is younger, chunkier, a bit taller. She is called Pawn Shop, too. They work in shifts. The sisters are from Cambodia; the man and woman who hocked their jewelry are from Vietnam; Mary is Chinese and was born in Vietnam; the “hit man” is Chinese, probably from Taiwan or Hong Kong. The other gamblers, the dealers and the waitresses are a mixture of immigrants and refugees from across Asia.

Their world is a separate section of the Bicycle Club known as the Asian Room. It is their domain; they’re like a close-knit family--unpenetrated by a frustrated law-enforcement system, unmolested by club security, indulged by management. “Whatever goes on over there, as long they keep it among themselves, that’s fine with us,” a casino boss confides. “We don’t even want uniformed security around our Asians . . . particularly our Vietnamese customers . . . uniforms make them nervous. Anything that makes them nervous makes us nervous. You don’t mess with the golden goose.”

And what a golden goose. Asian gamblers--in their quest for “action”--have dramatically and swiftly reversed the fortunes of California’s casinos. Thanks to these immigrants, business has doubled, even tripled in some places. Amounts being wagered nightly at Los Angeles County card clubs--their existence still largely unknown to the general public--now rival the stakes in Las Vegas, Monaco and Macao. The action reaches an intensity unknown to Western culture. The catalyst for this phenomenon is a medieval Chinese dominoes-style game called pai gow , steeped in mysticism and symbolism.

Six card clubs large enough to call themselves casinos flourish in the Los Angeles area. They are open 24 hours and are within a short freeway hop for nearly 1 million potential Asian customers, thousands of whom visit these casinos day and night, week after week. Many, if not most, are hopelessly addicted--the victims of easy access to and cultural approval of gambling. And this widespread obsession has created a thriving casino subculture yet uncharted by white America. It is a world of its own, filled with serious gamblers and the characters who feed off them: Shoeshiners. Black cats. Bombers. Juice collectors.

“Six, seven years ago, you hardly saw any Asians in these places,” says Sgt. Gregory Chapin, head of the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s gambling squad, “and not because there weren’t any around.” The L.A. area, in fact, was home to more than 500,000 Asians by the mid-’80s--the largest concentration in the United States. And bordering that concentration are the poker casinos of Gardena, Huntington Park, Bell Gardens and Commerce.

It was assumed by non-Asians in California that Asians preferred to gamble among themselves in the privacy of underground Chinatown back rooms. Their game of choice was pai gow (pronounced pie gow , as in cow ), played with 32 black tiles shaped and marked like dominoes. Pai gow was considered illegal in California until the mid-’80s. Law enforcement argued, and still argues, that pai gow is a Las Vegas-style casino game like craps, blackjack or roulette--strictly a game of chance where, for example, you bet before you see your hand. Historically, California casino operators believed that they could offer only poker-style games in which you bet after you see your hand, requiring some measure of skill. But California’s archaic gaming statutes, last amended in 1891, were overdue for clarification. More important, traditional poker clubs were declining in popularity. Three of the six casinos in Gardena had closed by 1985. Too many casinos were still fighting over a dwindling non-Asian market. Desperate for new business, clubs then began introducing pai gow . They were promptly raided by Sgt. Chapin and his gambling squad. The clubs went to court. Pai gow won, and a subsequent appeal was settled earlier this month. Asian games are legal now and California authorities are concerned that gang influence is creeping into the card clubs.

Since pai gow is so complicated, casino owners frantically began inventing simplified, faster-paced versions, using playing cards. Chapin, a widely respected gambling-enforcement authority, says that nearly 70 card games were introduced in the mid-’80s. A handful survived. Although conceived in suburban Los Angeles, they were advertised as “Asian games,” with names like “ pai gow poker,” “Asian poker” and “Asian super pan.”

Asians “came out of the woodwork to play,” Chapin recalls. “It was overnight. One day there were 20 (people), the next day, 120. It was unbelievable. Wall-to-wall. Without the Asians, half these clubs would fold.”

“Nobody realized the potential of the Asian market,” says George Hardie, general manager of the Bicycle Club. “It is now the lifeblood of our business.” The club grossed $85 million last year, Hardie says, contrasted with $37 million in 1985, a year after it opened in Bell Gardens. It is the largest--1,960 employees and 170 tables--of California’s 300 or so card casinos. Its chief competitor and the state’s second-largest casino, the Commerce Casino, is just three miles away in neighboring City of Commerce. “Our business has tripled,” says Ron Sarakbi, the Commerce Casino’s general manager. “I’m fascinated by the love of Asian people for gambling and their devotion to it.”

The Bicycle Club and the Commerce Casino have added nearly 50 Asian gaming tables each. Their host cities expect to receive about $10 million each in gaming revenue during their current fiscal year. Both casinos, and others statewide, have started major expansions featuring spacious, more luxurious “Asian rooms.” Asian gamblers, it turns out, understandably didn’t like playing in back rooms, where they risked being cheated and muscled. Players say they had shied away from the California card clubs only because the action had been too slow and the stakes too low. Las Vegas casinos also have added pai gow tables because of the surge in Asian clientele during the ‘80s.

“The amount of money being bet by these Orientals is mind-boggling,” says Mike Caro of Huntington Park, a gaming consultant, former casino boss and author of five books on poker. Adds the Bicycle Club’s Hardie: “Some of the biggest money games anywhere are now in Los Angeles card rooms. I believe this is the highest-limit action in the world on a sustained, day-after-day basis.”

A WINTER STORM POUNDS LOS ANGELES, causing power outages and flooding. The roads are all but deserted. A lone car pulls off Interstate 5 and turns north on Telegraph Road in the City of Commerce. A watery blur of tail lights, headlights and turn signals looms ahead.

There’s a traffic jam at the entrance to the Commerce Casino. The parking attendants are overwhelmed. Drivers lean on their horns. Others abandon their cars and run for the front door. A parking attendant chases them into the casino shouting hoarsely: “Leave your keys!”

The casino is about the size of a football field, and Spartan, perhaps a bit drab, by Las Vegas standards. The front half--nicknamed the American Section--features traditional poker games such as draw, low ball, high/ low, stud and hold-’em. Most players are male, middle-aged and white. Fewer than half of the tables are open. The mood is somber, listless. Players fiddle with chips, stare into space, scratch, stretch, yawn in unison, converse reluctantly and quietly.

In the back of the casino, about 300 noisy, animated gamblers press around the tables. Nearly all are Asians, mostly from China and Vietnam. Most are immigrants or refugees. Their dress is generally casual. They drink sparingly and smoke heavily. No particular age group stands out. About 30% are women, who seem to gamble harder and bet more. From a distance, the players appear lighthearted and festive. They giggle and cackle. But missing are the smiles and good-natured banter that real laughter brings. This laughter has a harsh biting edge--the venting of tension. These are cries of victory.

“Orientals don’t gamble--they attack, “ says “Jimmy,” one of the few whites playing pai gow in the Commerce Casino this stormy night. He goes by that name because he doesn’t want his identity revealed. “There ain’t a white man in the world--damn few, any way--who can gamble straight up against a Chinese. Ain’t got the balls.” He has been playing pai gow for some 18 hours. He started with $1,200. He is now broke.

Midnight passes. The crowd thins to a couple hundred, but the betting is heavier. Black-and-white $100 chips prevail; bets of $500 are common. There’s usually no limit because California casinos do not participate in the betting. Players bet against each other. The casino makes money by charging each player a fee for every hand--usually $1. The ante for the house increases for high-stakes games. In Asian games, the players take turns being the bank, or “house.” The banker puts up a bankroll and the other players bet against it.

“There’s a surge of fresh money about this time,” Jimmy says. “A lot of these people have restaurants, liquor stores, bars . . . they’re closing now. They rush over here and plunk down the day’s receipts.” Jimmy sighs. “ Pai gow is like a drug. Once you learn it, forget about playing anything else.” Jimmy brightens. He offers to teach me pai gow . “We’ll go kum-kum (partners),” he says. First, he needs money. He tries to borrow $100 from other non-Asians. “We get to know each other because there’s nobody else to talk with. They’re all jabbering in Chinese.” Jimmy approaches Al, a potbellied New Yorker in his 60s betting $200, one of the smaller wagers. Al offers to buy Jimmy breakfast instead.

Jimmy moves on to “J. J.,” a beefy black man in coveralls. “Hey, man, I’m stuck bad myself,” J. J. mumbles without looking up. Jimmy mutters: “He always says that.” Jimmy spots Sam, who is short, round and Japanese. Jimmy grins. “So few Japanese come here, Sam’s classed as a non-Asian. “ Sam is playing pai gow . It’s his turn to bank. Jimmy whispers: “Bad luck to hit him up now.” Sam puts up $1,000 in chips and hundred-dollar bills. The other players cover. Sam draws a “monster” hand and beats everybody. He has one more turn as banker. He lets the $2,000 ride. He wins again and again. He stacks $8,500 in a wooden chip rack and heads for an entrance flanked by two security guards. A small neon sign overhead reads: “The Big Room,” a clue to the action inside. Jimmy follows.

“SAM’S GONNA TAKE A SHOT at the big boys,” Jimmy says. “He’s liable to win twenty, thirty thousand. . . . Throw me a couple hundred.” Sam has been gambling in the main casino to build a bankroll worthy of the nightly, high-stakes pai gow game in the Big Room. The players are almost exclusively Chinese and Chinese-Americans. Of all casino games worldwide, pai gow is arguably the most intimidating for non-Chinese--particularly non-Asians. Writes author Syd Helprin in his meticulously researched book, “European and Asian Games”: Pai gow is “probably the most complicated . . . most confusing game the non-Oriental is likely to encounter in any casino anywhere.” By contrast, Helprin adds, the Chinese “seem to relish the challenge posed by pai gow ‘s intricacies.”

Pai gow invites cheating. The two-inch tiles are easy to palm, and to mark, and are often passed around. One tile, for example, can change the worst hand into the best--even more so than a joker or wild card in poker. “ Pai gow is the most dangerous game in the casino today,” says gaming author Caro. Pai gow players counter that the game’s evil reputation is based upon ignorance of the game and of the intimidating way Asians gamble.

Let’s say you’re a non-Asian who sits down at a crowded pai gow table. Your arrival prompts a lull in the conversation. The talking resumes. You understand not a word but it’s you everyone is looking at, nodding at, pointing at--talking about. The chatter stops when the game begins. You sense the intensity, the tension. You see it in the tightness of their faces, in the white knuckles of clenched fists, in the deep draw of a cigarette and the blast of smoke that follows. Everyone is studying you, gauging your expertise, judging how best to psyche you out and destroy your luck. This is serious, you realize.

The tiles are dealt--four to a player. The others handle the tiles with the practice of a lifetime. You try to keep yours from squirting between sweaty fingers. Players on both sides, and spectators peering over your shoulder, shamelessly try to peek at your hand. When you lose, the winner may openly laugh or giggle with glee, and on occasion, lean over and say crisply, clearly and loudly in English: “Thank you very much!”

Meanness is not the intent. It’s strictly business. The winner is trying to destroy your confidence, your composure, and with it, your luck. When you win, the loser is serene, impassive, as if your victory is the silliest of flukes. Inevitably, you lose more often than not, and always, it seems, on your biggest bet.

As you leave the table, the winners loudly dissect your performance. You remind yourself: “Don’t complain if you lose at another man’s game.”

IT IS STANDING ROOM ONLY when Sam enters the Big Room with his rack of $8,500 in chips. The room holds six tables--five for Asian card games, one for pai gow . It is nicely furnished with a small fruit-and-cheese buffet and its own cashier’s cage. This is a sophisticated, moneyed crowd. The dress is stylish--a cocktail-party atmosphere.

The action is intense at the card tables. Jimmy studies the betting and guesses at the money in action per hour. He multiplies the average amount being bet per hand ($6,000), times the average number of hands dealt an hour per table (20) times the number of tables (five). Answer: $600,000--give or take a hundred thousand--will be wagered in the next 60 minutes. Add to that figure the action at the pai gow table.

There are seven players--all Chinese men in their 40s and 50s. A man in a black suit and tie perches on a stool and records personal loans, IOUs and side bets (not against the bank).

Sam studies the action, face blank. Jimmy groans, and whispers, “Look at the chips. All purples ($1,000 chips) and browns ($500 chips). There’s easily a hundred thousand on the table. Not a bet under five grand. If Sam wants to play with the big boys, he’s gotta bet like them. He’s got no staying power. He’s gotta win the first two hands. You can have all the luck in the world and still lose several hands in a row before you catch a streak. Sam’s in over his head.”

“Why doesn’t Sam simply return to the smaller game?” I ask.

“ ‘Cause he’ll lose face,” Jimmy explains, “and right now he’s on a high better than any drugs.” Sam converts 80 $100 chips into eight $1,000 chips. The bank rotates to a tall, plump man wearing a white turtleneck and black slacks. He looks the youngest--late 30s to early 40s--and is treated with obvious deference by the others. No one inquires about his background. No one volunteers.

The philosophy among this crowd is that only “tax investigators” and informants ask such questions, regardless how convincing their explanation or identification. To think otherwise is foolhardy. The tall man tosses a blue $1 chip onto the table and says in Chinese, “Cover all!” This means he will match any bet of any size--not unusual in the Big Room or main casino. About $40,000 in cash and chips are bet by the other players, plus verbal bets recorded by the bookkeeper. Sam’s bet is $4,000.

The pai gow ritual begins. The banker’s eyes glint fiercely. He raises a small, heavy brass bowl. Three dice rattle inside. He slams the bowl onto the green felt once, twice. Then he raises it high above his head, arches his back and pounds the bowl into the green felt table top. The other players seem oblivious. (Most Asian games use brass dice bowls to determine the order of the deal; many players pound them on the tables. Traditional porcelain bowls were tried at first, but the breakage forced the casinos to switch.)

The banker shifts his concentration to the 32 black tiles stacked in a block. Swiftly, expertly, he rearranges the tiles into a shape he believes will bring him luck. In this case, it’s three tiers. From this point on, the game is controlled by a professional dealer, a casino employee. The dealer slides four black tiles to each player. The tiles are synthetic but have a cool, smooth ceramic feel and click together with a satisfying, crisp metallic sound. Peeking at another player’s hand is popular even in high-stakes games, so players scoop up the tiles and cup them so that only the edges show. Then they bring their tiles close to the face to sneak a look.

The tiles are marked with red or white sunken dots like those on dice or dominoes. The dots on each tile are numbered from 2 to 12. The players analyze their tiles and split them into two hands of two tiles each and place them face down next to their bets. Each tile has a specific value, which can change when combined with another tile. Pai gow means make nine. Fundamentally, the players whose tiles total nine, or closest to nine, win.

Now it’s the banker’s turn. The dealer slides the banker his four tiles. The banker passes two tiles to a friend. Both men are standing. They don’t look at the dots. They feel the dots. Each grips a tile face down and slowly rubs a forefinger over the dots. Their faces tighten with concentration, eyes upward.

The table is hushed. Sam and the others strain forward. The banker whispers tersely, face flushed. His friend hisses a reply. They slap their tiles one by one onto the table face up. They separate the four tiles into the two best hands. The banker is playing each player. The dealer begins comparing the banker’s tiles with those of each player. The dealer turns over Sam’s tiles. Sam loses. Jimmy leaves instantly. Outside, he explains, “you never see me in the Big Room, and all of a sudden I follow Sam in, and he loses. If he loses this next time, he can’t blame me.” Minutes later Sam walks out, face impassive, eyes fixed on the exit. He leaves the casino.

“Sam’ll be back in 20 minutes,” Jimmy says. “Soon as he unlocks his (shop) and cleans out the register . . . keeps 50, maybe a hundred in the till . . . Come back . . . blow it on pai gow . . . sleep in the shop . . . work like a dog all day . . . leave 50 in the till . . . gamble what he took in . . . tap the till again . . . Get the picture?”

Jimmy proposes an experiment over breakfast. It’s 3 a.m. The action has slowed and won’t pick up until after lunch. “Go out in the casino and study the faces real good for a good half hour,” Jimmy suggests. “Come back tonight, do it again . . . In a week, you’re gonna see what I see: the same faces every day . . . (or) every other day. They come at different times, but it’s the same bunch. Same thing at the ‘Bike,’ Regency, Normandie, Eldorado, Huntington Park. You’re looking at the biggest collection of gambling addicts--both Asians and round eyes--in the world. Show me another place where all these millions of people are 15 minutes away from this action.” Jimmy’s voice softens. “I’m one of ‘em. I have a sickness. I love the action. Can’t stay away. Winning or losing don’t matter. It’s being in action. When the money’s gone . . . find more . . . come back. Everybody here’s got a sob story. Some’ll talk. Wanna talk. Buy ‘em a meal. Pride don’t exist here . . . or shame.”

“WE REALLY DON’T know much about the Asians,” says Dr. Richard Rosenthal, a Beverly Hills psychiatrist. He specializes in gambling addiction and helped organize the California Council on Compulsive Gambling in 1986. “We do know (gambling) is a tremendous problem in the Asian community,” but he adds that Asians seem reluctant to seek outside help. Rosenthal says that they have a history of keeping to themselves and he sees similarities between Asians and Jews--another group in which gambling is a problem.

“Both cultures place a strong emphasis on success, status, getting ahead,” Rosenthal adds, “and both are concerned with what other people think. But what if you don’t measure up to these expectations no matter how hard you work? Then you need some kind of spectacular success, and money is the solution to all problems. You have three choices: You can steal it, win it gambling, or you can become depressed. . . . The action gives you an illusion of power and control. It’s a way of obscuring helplessness, depression or guilt. A lot of compulsive players say they feel like a different person (when they gamble). (The casino) becomes a social club--more so, I imagine, with the Asian immigrants and displaced persons--refugees. They feel they belong. They’re recognized. People know their names.”

“Gambling is more than a social function for Asians,” says Dr. Stanley Sue, a psychiatrist and director of the National Research Center on Asian-American Mental Health at UCLA. “It allows them to express a lot of emotion. They feel, ‘I can win. I can beat them. I am better. Here I can be victorious.’ ”

Sarakbi of the Commerce Casino says: “It’s their country club. To them (Asians), if you’re a player, you’re respected. To them, winning is progress. It’s not just winning the money; it’s good all around. It’s a family affair. They would rather stay here for days, and they do.” Adds Hardie of the Bicycle Club: “This is like a home for a lot of people.”

A WOMAN WHO CALLS herself Kou Jen perches on a stool at an empty poker table. It’s midafternoon but she nods off to sleep. Her eyes flutter shut, her chin bobs, her neck muscles relax. She pitches forward. I grab her arm. Her eyes pop open. She looks around, momentarily confused.

“Tired,” she says, then smiles sheepishly at the needless explanation. “Gambling three days now. Sleep in car two hours.” Her voice is a whisper. She tries to speak louder but can’t. She is 36, of medium height, and she wears a shapeless beige jumpsuit. She has soft, delicate features and a pale complexion, now gray from fatigue. Her hair is oily and frizzy and pulled straight back into a bun. Her eyes are bloodshot and surrounded by dark puffy lumps. “I look better with makeup,” she says.

She is Chinese and was born in Vietnam. She started gambling in the mid-’80s, shortly after she emigrated. “Me and a girlfriend see the (casino) lights and go in. I know nothing about pai gow . I bet $10, $10--losing, losing every time I come. One day I win all back--$500. I never feel this excitement before. I start coming more and more. Get deeper and deeper. It’s so addictive you cannot stop.”

She plays only pai gow , drawn by the sensation of running her fingers over the dots to see if she wins. “I like to squeeze; it’s exciting to feel them. When first come, I have condo (worth $125,000) . . . partners in restaurant (worth $60,000) . . . gonna marry boyfriend . . . $20,000 in bank. I lose all. Boyfriend can’t stand me gambling. He leave. I stay in girlfriend’s apartment now.”

She calls her situation “horrible.” Each day she scrounges for enough to make a couple of bets, “if I can get $50 or $100, I think maybe tonight I lucky . . . get $20,000. Happen all the time with Asians. Every Asian is (potentially) a big player. A guy with $25 win $110,000 one time.” She is vague on the details. “I just hear about it.”

Kou Jen lights a cigarette and glances to where her friend, Mark, plays pai gow . She’s been unlucky so she doesn’t go near him. Mark starts winning and gives her $50 in chips. Ken Jou stares at the two $25 chips and says: “Fifty dollars means nothing in here. Outside, it’s a week’s groceries.” She shrugs and leaves to gamble.

Mark stays. He is 40 but looks younger despite a hardness in his eyes and in the set of his jaw. He is tall and trim and wears cowboy boots, jeans and a plain white T-shirt with a cigarette pack rolled into one sleeve. Mark says he was born in Canton and entered the United States at age 12. He started gambling in 1974.

“Ruined my marriage. I can’t keep a job even as a dealer. All I want to do is play, play, play. I’ve worked every club in L.A. “ Mark and other dealers say that casino bosses encourage dealers to gamble--even during breaks.

Mark laughs. “Even that wasn’t enough action for me. I was laid off last May ‘cause I would play out of my bank . . . lose my bank.” The casino issues each dealer a tray of chips--commonly a $500 bank--to make change.

Mark says that all hard-core gamblers, himself included, constantly talk about “the big score we’re going to make one day, walk out of the club forever and buy a bar or restaurant--retire.” He looks away. His face tightens. His voice drops. “Of course, we all know that’s a fallacy. We don’t care about winning. We just want to be in action. We play until we drop, or gotta leave--maybe even work for a while--to get more money.” He starts to leave and chuckles, “Gotta go win my restaurant.”

JACK HEUONG drives the rusty old Toyota station wagon past the $1 valet parking at the Bicycle Club and circles the jammed parking lot for nearly 10 minutes before finding a space three blocks from the entrance. The wagon holds all his possessions. He tosses a ratty blanket over them for concealment. Heuong studies his reflection in the glass doors at the front entrance. He is nattily dressed in a light-blue turtleneck, gray sport coat, dark-gray slacks and tasseled loafers. Satisfied, he smoothes his hair and strides briskly in.

A bored guard at his post sees Heuong, stiffens, and snaps: “Evenin’, sir.” Heuong nods curtly. A casino boss spots Heuong and breaks away from a conversation to shake hands. A cocktail waitress waves. Heuong whispers in her ear. She flushes, and giggles, “Oh, you’re sooo bad!”

“All these people know me,” Heuong says proudly. What they know, it turns out, is that Heuong is always dapper and friendly; that whatever his occupation, it has allowed him to visit the club day and night for the past five years; that he frequents the pai gow tables, often in the company of big players--Asian and non-Asian alike; that he never asks for credit or cashes checks, and that he doesn’t associate with known gang members or loan sharks.

“I have no idea what he does, but I can tell you he’s a terrific dancer,” says Lynn, 46, a poker dealer who has danced with Heuong at the Eldorado Card Casino in Gardena. Heuong says that when asked his occupation, he replies: “I’m in public relations. I meet clients in casino.” Heuong grins. “I’m not lying. Just saying it different.”

Heuong spends his days and nights in card casinos because that’s where he makes his living. And Heuong’s frequently in the company of big players because that’s how he makes his living. Heuong is a “shoeshiner,” a professional good-luck charm who lives on tips from gamblers for bringing them winning hands. It’s been his livelihood since 1986. Every casino with an Asian section has shoeshiners, the Asian version of bootblacks who hang around gambling halls and hustle tips by giving “lucky shines” to superstitious players. Heuong estimates that about 40 shoeshiners frequent the Bicycle Club on a 24-hour basis.

Heuong pauses and lights a cigarette. He is of medium height and wiry. His hair is thick, black and manicured, with a pencil line of gray at the roots. He is 55. His nose is pancake flat and splayed across his face--the result of a fall, not a brawl. His eyes are alert and examining. His personality and smile are warm and engaging. He is a nondrinker and heavy smoker.

He lights a second cigarette with the first. He studies the room and points out a “bomber” working the crowd. Bombers steal chips from players, particularly those who are drunk, sleepy or non-Asian.

Heuong brightens. He spots a player with potential. It’s a woman, a regular who has tipped Heuong before. She is Chinese, 40ish, well dressed and attractive. She bets $300. Heuong watches from a distance. “If she already winning,” Heuong explains, “she don’t want--don’t need shoeshiner.” She loses. Heuong sidles over.

He recounts later: “I light her cigarette, tell her she look beautiful today. I tell her she losing ‘cause she put bet in wrong spot. That one bad luck right now. I show her lucky spot. She win. Give me 15 (dollars). Betting 500 now. Win again. Give me 30. I tell her now bet less. Win three times straight not easy. She don’t listen. Bet 600. Lose. She go. Use telephone. I got 45 to gamble.”

Heuong sits down at a low stakes pai gow game where most bets are less than $100. He bets $10, the minimum (plus $1 casino fee). Suddenly, Heuong’s face tightens. Mister Binh--a “black cat”--is coming his way. Black cats are bad luck incarnate--both to themselves and anybody they befriend. Players tip black cats to stay away.

Mister Binh--short, stumpy, unsmiling--bets $10 on Heuong’s hand. A tic appears below Heuong’s eye. He loses. Mister Binh’s broke. Heuong gives him $5, and he leaves.

Heuong bets another $10. Two shoeshiners--Vietnamese in their 30s--scurry over. Heuong wins. He hands them each a $5 chip. They leave. Heuong bets $15, and wins. He gives the dealer a $3 tip, lavish and unnecessary by any standard. A waitress brings him a $1 Coke. He tips her $2. A third shoeshiner appears. Heuong gives him $10. Heuong bets $14 and uses his last dollar for the casino fee. He loses. He spots the two Vietnamese shoeshiners playing Asian poker. The $10 he gave them is now $64. They give him $11. He returns to the pai gow table.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

“Shoeshiners always share money when gambling, winning a little. Give money to friends . . . pay loans . . . tipping waitress,” Heuong explains. “Shoeshiner gamble until lose all. Don’t matter how much he wins. Maybe buy new tires--something like that. But he gamble the rest. If I’m gambling, give you money. You gambling, give me. Then I gamble. These people coming here every day only want to win money to keep gambling. Gamble until lose all. Two, three days no sleep. Don’t care. So, when winning, share. When broke, get money back to keep gambling.”

Heuong pauses. “Americans always asking where Asian people get money to gamble every day. Say everybody must be drug dealers.” He gestures at the crowded tables. “Maybe some are drug dealers, but the others do like shoeshiners--share money. Help each other. Everybody know each other. Like a family. All these people like a family--even shoeshiner.”

Casino bosses generally consider shoeshiners to be parasites and freeloaders. The problem is telling them apart from players. “It’s hard to keep the shoeshiners out,” says Sarakbi of the Commerce Casino. “You tell one to leave and suddenly a player says, ‘No! No! Let him stay!’ And shoeshiners are supposed to be always broke, but sometimes they have a handful of money . . . Who’s the shoeshiner? Who isn’t?”

Jack Heuong trudges across the Commerce Casino parking lot. It is 5 a.m. He’s broke, tired and on edge from a night of coffee and cigarettes. He jams his hands in his pockets. “Think I like being shoeshiner? Standing behind people being cheerleader for them? Hoping to get some little money from them?” He unlocks the car, carefully folds his sport shirt and jacket, and puts on a T-shirt and light jacket. He nods at a pillow and blanket in the right-front seat. “Think I like living in car . . . sleeping in car . . . five years now?”

“So get a job,” I suggest. “Dealer, bartender, waiter.”

Heuong shrugs. “What for? No matter how much I make, gamble all. Work long hours, still broke every day.” He smiles mischievously. “Better off shoeshiner. Always broke, but not have to work.” He slides into the front seat. “Sleep now. Tonight lucky night. Win big. Get new tires.”