Though Cyr's fortunes hinge on high-stakes action, he himself is not a gambler. Well, not exactly. He is a whale hunter, a sobriquet
for a person who wrangles the industry's biggest players and sets them up to risk millions of dollars at games in which the long-
term odds are hopelessly tilted against them. For this particular weekend, which coincides with the 2003 Super Bowl, Cyr has
flown in 16 big players -- whales in casino parlance -- their 25 guest, and credit lines that total $3 million to the Barona Valley
Ranch Resort and Casino, a posh gambling complex that opened near San Diego last December. If
they all go through their money (far from an impossibility, but an admitted long shot), Cyr, who consults for eight other casinos
in Las Vegas and the Caribbean, will go home with a juicy cut of their losses. "And if they all win," says the strapping and
hyperactive 39-year-old Cyr, "then I go home with nothing." The subject of a forthcoming book called Whale Hunt in the
Desert by Deke Castleman hesitates for a beat and smirks. "But you know that's not going to happen. It'd be impossible."
You can't throw something like this together overnight. In November, when gamblers were still talking about the World
Series, Cyr, who cut his teeth by telemarketing vitamins, was already in sales mode. Working out of his home office in Vegas,
he called 60 of his best players. Speaking cockily, he initiated a series of conversations that began something
like this: "Hey, buddy. It's Steve Cyr. Listen, you better fucking book your flight to San Diego."
Well acquainted with the Cyr spiel, the whale bites: "Why?"
"I got Super Bowl tickets," Cyr says.
This is nothing special. If you're a big players, every casino in Vegas is begging you to come down for the Super Bowl.
The whale tells Cyr as much. "Caesars is gonna take me. I've already talked to them about it."
Undaunted, Cyr turns up the heat. "No, man. This is completely different. We're going to be staying in San Diego, at
the Barona. Tell the wife you're taking her somewhere nice for a change. We'll limo to the game instead of flying in,
put you up in a beautiful villa, and take you out to play golf with a bunch of NFL stars on the best new course in the
state."
Knowing that nobody will seriously commit in November, Cyr lets the idea simmer for a while with his players. Then
he tells the Barona that he'll need 35 to 40 tickets. A couple weeks later he calls his people again. Over the next
two months, Cyr sweet-talks their wives with promises of lavish spa treatments in San Diego, woos the men with
the Barona's deluxe invitations (including balls signed by John Elway and other National Football League greats),
and talks up the Barona as if it's Valhalla with Blackjack.
By late December he's got his lineup of players, but he knows that New Year's Even can change everything. "Let's
say one of my big guys comes to Las Vegas on New Year's Eve and blows $3 million around town. Now, suddenly,
he's snapped," laments Cyr. "He'll want to come to the Super Bowl, but I don't want him here. If he loses here, I'll
be last on his list to get my money. Plus, he'll gamble over his head to try to win back the money to pay the other
casinos. He's what we call a chaser. I don't want chasers here for the Super Bowl."
So Cyr spends the first week of January reviewing credit information from Central Credit, the Equifax of gaming.
He notices that one of his guys went on a bender, doing particular damage to himself at the Venetian's blackjack
tables. Cyr needs to distance himself from the guy. He makes a phone call: "Hey, buddy. I hear you really fired it
up at the Venetian. Yeah, well, there's a problem with the Super Bowl. They've got this weird law in California: if
you owe money to one joint, you can't get credit from any of the places here." Cyr sounds sincerely sorry and
suitably somber, but later reveals, "That's complete bullshit. But it works for me."
Another player, one whom Cyr desperately wants, makes an obscene request: He'd like the casino to send a Gulf-
stream G-3 jet for him and his friends. Private air transport for a dozen people will cost the Barona $75,000.
Initially, the casino balks at this expense. But Cyr goes to bat for his player. "The cost of the G-3 isn't more than
two of this guy's bets. On top of that, it guarantees that he'll show u on Thursday night instead of Friday or
Saturday. Every casino in Vegas is trying to get him in for the Super Bowl. If we're set to fly in him and his
friends, he can' back out." The player, whose $1.5 million line of credit makes him particularly alluring, gets his
G-3.
Just days before kickoff, Cyr is still going back and forth with the customer who's indebted to the Venetian, but
now's he's dangling bait. "I'm telling him that I've got a pair of great seats waiting for him, but he needs to bring us
a cashier's check for 50 grand; then it'll be fine," explains Cyr. "The guys asks me if he can get credit from us by
paying off the Venetian. I tell him that'd be fine as well. The Venetian doesn't know it, but I'm working on getting
them their money."
In debt or not, this gambler is more valued than others, evidenced by a different player who also has a decimated
credit line. "I'm telling him that we weren't able to get any decent seats and I don't want to waste his time. So we'll
take a pass now and do something together in the future." As Cyr might put it: It's complete bullshit, but it works.
It seems as if Steve Cyr was born for the game. The son of a Howard Johnson's hotelier, Cyr grew up in Salina,
Kansas. He had every intention of going into the family business, even gong so far as to attend University of
Nevada -- Las Vegas' hotel management school with that purpose in mind. But while interning at the Barbary
Coast Hotel and Casino on the Strip, Cyr discovered that Vegas was a lot more interesting than Kansas and
decided to stay.
