It is 9:30 on a Friday morning in Las Vegas. In his stocking feet, Steve Cyr is pacing the mauve-carpeted floor of his home office, a shrine to his success, its walls papered with photos of Cyr doing the shake-and-smile with Larry Flynt, Michael Jordan, and Baron Hilton. A photocopy of a $59,000 commission check has been framed, compensation for a record-breaking month’s work at the Atlantis Casino in the Bahamas.
Jutting from Cyr’s square jaw is the mouthpiece of a state-of-the-art-headset. He punches a series of numbers into his telephone keypad and stares down at a sheet of information procured from the online service Central Credit. The casino equivalent of
TRW, Central Credit tracks the credit lines and losses of the biggest, fattest players around the world, a.k.a. whales. Tall,
buff, and wearing a maroon sport shirt tucked into a pair of knife-creased black slacks, the 36-year-old has a dirty job:
As a consultant on the Hard Rock Hotel & Casino payroll, Cyr is charged with blasting all other casinos out of the water.
A tight smile spreads across his face as a voice on the other end of the line answers. It’s male, Middle Eastern, cocky.
"Mr. M.? It’s Steve Cyr. I know you remember me," Cyr says to a man he’s never met in his life. He glances down at the
paper in front of him to get his facts straight: "I was in the pit at Caesars, on New Year’s Eve in ’97. You really fired it up
that night!"
There is no response. That $30,000 reaming was the worst in M.’s twelve years as a gambler. He’ll remember it for the
rest of his life. (Cyr says gamblers like to bond over their losses.)
"When are you gonna be in town again?" Cyr asks, shuffling around his office, punctuating the conversation with
rhythmic jabs and right hooks. "I’m working with the Hard Rock now. I want to buy you dinner. And listen, not only do
I have great seats for Don Henley, but because I’m the man, I’ll take you to meet him after the show.""Actually, I’m
coming next month for the national finals rodeo," says Mr. M. a bit cautiously.
"Wow, the rodeo is fantastic," says Cyr, as enthusiastic as George W. buddy-buddying a rich rancher. "We’ve got
third-row seats, right where the bulls come out."
"You do?" says Mr. M., pawing the dirt.
"Yeah, but, shit," – here comes the lasso – "you’ve got to stay at the Hard Rock to get them."
"I already have commitments at the Mandalay Bay," Mr. M. says, sounding disappointed. "That’s where I like to
gamble."
This is old news. Cyr got M.’s name from a mole working at the Mandalay who heard M. was poised for a visit. Cyr,
a former vitamin salesman whose memoir Whale Hunt in the Desert will be published later this year by Huntington
Press, maintains a network of 40 or so bartenders, dealers, go-go dancers, and hotel clerks. They happily trade
just this sort of privileged information for gifts ranging from fight tickets to limo rides to four-star dinners. Cyr knew
this was exactly what M. would tell him. Thanks to Central Credit, he also knows that M. generally loses
something in the vicinity of $12,000 per visit to Vegas, that he maintains a credit line of $50,000, keeps more
than$100,000 in his checking account, and has never stiffed a casino. In short, a 24-karat customer.
"I can give you 1,000 good reasons why you ought to stay at the Hard Rock," says Cyr. In plain English, $1,000
in free gambling funds. His eyes grazing his cheat sheet, Cyr notes that M. has just turned 40.
"Plus you know that the Hard Rock attracts the best pussy in town. I guarantee you’ll have a blast here."
M. hesitates for a beat, mulling things over. Then he mentions something about not wanting to let down his
friends at the Mandalay. "Don’t worry about them, Mr. M.," Cyr assures. "I’m pals with the guys at the Mandalay.
I can call one of my buddies there and have him straighten everything out for you."
"Fuck it," says M. "I’ll stay with you."
After a few pleasantries, Cyr hangs up, works out the necessary credit clearances, places a quick call to the
Mandalay to cancel M.’s reservation, and smiles. He disconnects himself from the headset and saunters into his
living room, which houses a half-dozen arcade games and a full-size jukebox – no sofas, no coffee table.
Punching up Lenny Kravitz’s "American Woman," he settles in for a dozen aggressive games of pinball on
his Meteor machine.
In the desert, there is war. And it’s guys like Cyr, foot soldiers operating under the benign sobriquet "casino host,"
who make it impossible for the sundazed gamblers and milk-fed tourists who have flooded Sin City this past year
to duck the fusillade off amenities and diversions, the dueling star-endowed restaurants, the deafening nightclubs,
the semi-legal skin trade, the sprawling, no-exit gaming halls, the post-Liberace circuses. What keeps them
coming? Express elevators to high-roller floors at the Mandalay Bay. Waterfalls in the backyards of the Bellagio’s
top suites. The personal attention hose-down ("Last week," says Cyr, "I took a guy’s wife on a $10,000 shopping
spree, buying her shoes, dresses, a Prada bag while her husband sat in the casino and lost $250,000").
Sometimes, for the right players, casinos go beyond what’s officially on the menu – but not for the reasons you’d
think.
