stripped all the joy out of it for me.
It's a simple game. The dealer gives everyone two cards face-up, then gives himself one face-down and one face-up. You're not playing against the other players, though, just the dealer.
Whichever one of you gets closest to twenty-one without going over wins whatever you bet. Face cards count as tens. Aces can be used as either one or eleven. If you get twenty-one on the deal, that's Blackjack, and it pays three to two odds, or a hundred and fifty percent of your bet.
When it's your turn, you can either ask the dealer for another card ("Hit me") or stay pat ("Stand"). If you take a hit and go over twenty-one, you bust out and lose your bet.
After you go, the dealer flips over his hole card. If his total is seventeen or more, he stands. Otherwise, he has to take hits until his hand is seventeen or over, or he goes bust.
There are a few other wrinkles. You can split pairs to make two hands and bet on each of them. You can double down on lower hands, which means you double your bet and take one card, but after that you have to stand.
Blackjack offers some of the best odds of any casino game, especially if you pay attention to the cards that have already been played. If you're clever, you can then figure out what's left in the dealer's six-deck shoe and use that to push the odds even farther in your favor.
This is called card counting. It's what Dustin Hoffman's autistic character did in Rain Man . Regular folks use things like plus-minus systems to help them keep track of whether or not a deck's running high on face cards – which favors the player – or low.
There's nothing technically illegal about any of this, but the casinos hate it. If they catch you counting cards, they ask you to leave, then send your photo to every other casino in town to make sure you can't play there either.
We didn't want that.
"We play the same table," I said as we strolled north on Las Vegas Boulevard. "We keep our bets the same. We never vary, and if one of us leaves the table, the other one does too."
"Right," said Bill. "We don't want them picking us out as the latest version of one of the MIT card-counting teams."
The clown sirens of Circus Circus beckoned us on our left, while the flashing lights of the Riviera and the new Thunderbird called to us from across the street. The artdeco tower of Bootleggers shone like a beacon at the end of the block.
"We don't try to change the first cards dealt to us," I said, "just the ones we take as hits. We stand pat on seventeen or higher."
During our practice sessions back in Ann Arbor, we'd tried messing with the cards during the initial deal, but it was too hard to keep track of each set long enough to concentrate on them. At least it was for me.
Bill raised an index finger to correct me. "Unless the dealer is showing a face card or an Ace."
"Right. Then we take a single hit."
Bill checked his expensive watch. I never wore one, preferring to rely on my phone. One less thing to carry.
"It's 9pm," he said. "Just before the shift change in the Blackjack pit at Bootleggers. We play for an hour, and the next time they change dealers after that, we leave."
"How do you know all that?" I asked. "You talk like you grew up in a casino instead of the burbs."
Bill grinned. "That's what the Internet is for. It explains the rules to you."
"And you gotta know the rules to play the game."
Bill shook his head. "To win the game."
Bootleggers had been theme-decorated like something Donald Trump would have come up with if he'd finally realized he was the reincarnation of Al Capone. The main entrance had been built to resemble the red-carpeted front of the glitziest theatre in 1920s Hollywood. The hotel tower behind it stabbed into the night, hundreds of spotlights illuminating its limestone-clad sides and neon-traced corners that curved toward setback after setback in
It's a simple game. The dealer gives everyone two cards face-up, then gives himself one face-down and one face-up. You're not playing against the other players, though, just the dealer.
Whichever one of you gets closest to twenty-one without going over wins whatever you bet. Face cards count as tens. Aces can be used as either one or eleven. If you get twenty-one on the deal, that's Blackjack, and it pays three to two odds, or a hundred and fifty percent of your bet.
When it's your turn, you can either ask the dealer for another card ("Hit me") or stay pat ("Stand"). If you take a hit and go over twenty-one, you bust out and lose your bet.
After you go, the dealer flips over his hole card. If his total is seventeen or more, he stands. Otherwise, he has to take hits until his hand is seventeen or over, or he goes bust.
There are a few other wrinkles. You can split pairs to make two hands and bet on each of them. You can double down on lower hands, which means you double your bet and take one card, but after that you have to stand.
Blackjack offers some of the best odds of any casino game, especially if you pay attention to the cards that have already been played. If you're clever, you can then figure out what's left in the dealer's six-deck shoe and use that to push the odds even farther in your favor.
This is called card counting. It's what Dustin Hoffman's autistic character did in Rain Man . Regular folks use things like plus-minus systems to help them keep track of whether or not a deck's running high on face cards – which favors the player – or low.
There's nothing technically illegal about any of this, but the casinos hate it. If they catch you counting cards, they ask you to leave, then send your photo to every other casino in town to make sure you can't play there either.
We didn't want that.
"We play the same table," I said as we strolled north on Las Vegas Boulevard. "We keep our bets the same. We never vary, and if one of us leaves the table, the other one does too."
"Right," said Bill. "We don't want them picking us out as the latest version of one of the MIT card-counting teams."
The clown sirens of Circus Circus beckoned us on our left, while the flashing lights of the Riviera and the new Thunderbird called to us from across the street. The artdeco tower of Bootleggers shone like a beacon at the end of the block.
"We don't try to change the first cards dealt to us," I said, "just the ones we take as hits. We stand pat on seventeen or higher."
During our practice sessions back in Ann Arbor, we'd tried messing with the cards during the initial deal, but it was too hard to keep track of each set long enough to concentrate on them. At least it was for me.
Bill raised an index finger to correct me. "Unless the dealer is showing a face card or an Ace."
"Right. Then we take a single hit."
Bill checked his expensive watch. I never wore one, preferring to rely on my phone. One less thing to carry.
"It's 9pm," he said. "Just before the shift change in the Blackjack pit at Bootleggers. We play for an hour, and the next time they change dealers after that, we leave."
"How do you know all that?" I asked. "You talk like you grew up in a casino instead of the burbs."
Bill grinned. "That's what the Internet is for. It explains the rules to you."
"And you gotta know the rules to play the game."
Bill shook his head. "To win the game."
Bootleggers had been theme-decorated like something Donald Trump would have come up with if he'd finally realized he was the reincarnation of Al Capone. The main entrance had been built to resemble the red-carpeted front of the glitziest theatre in 1920s Hollywood. The hotel tower behind it stabbed into the night, hundreds of spotlights illuminating its limestone-clad sides and neon-traced corners that curved toward setback after setback in
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