Super-high rollers and their casino hosts are special breeds, as described in this excerpt from Whale Hunt in the Desert: The Secret Las Vegas of Superhost Steve Cyr.
Somewhere along the line, the term whale was inserted into the gambling lexicon to describe the biggest bettors in the casino universe. In the lingo, "whale" denotes the world's richest men and women (but mostly men) who play casino games at the highest allowable stakes.
No one knows for certain how many of these highest of high rollers there are. The largest table-game bet currently taken in Las Vegas is $250,000, but only seven or eight human blue whales can handle that kind of action. the second stratum tops out at $150,000 per hand, a level manageable by up to 50 players worldwide. A hundred more can "fade" $100,000 a hand.
Theirs is a firmament of 35-person entourages, flown in to Las Vegas on business jets, private airliners, or chartered
jumbos. They're shuttled by fleets of stretch limousines -- stocked with Dom Perignon and Beluga caviar -- to places such
as the Mansion at MGM Grand, among the world's most exclusive accommodations. there, concierges, VIP hostesses, casino hosts, casino executives, limo drivers, butlers, and personal chefs cater to their every whim.
Whales can receive as much as $250,000 in free play simply for walking through a casino's door, with the promise of up
to a 20-percent discount on their gambling losses. If they don't feel like partaking in private dinner parties prepared in
person in their 15,000-square-fot penthouse villas by flambe, salad, and pastry chefs, they can strut their stuff into five-
star restaurants and scribble their names on $20,000 dinner and drink tabs.
The casino employee who hunts, harpoons, and harvests the whales is the casino marketing executive, also known as
the player development representative and host. UPwards of 500 hosts ply their trade in Las Vegas. And of them all,
the host among hosts, the manipulator among manipulators, the champion harpooner in the modern day whale hunt in
the desert is a character named Steve Cyr.
Steve Cyr (pronounced seer) is standing at the back of the Joint, the Hard Rock casino's chic concert hall. He's
rocking out to the wailing guitars and pounding drums of a makeshift band consisting of a blackjack high roller and
thee of his musician friends. It's been a dream of this player, Jeff Armstrong, to perform at the Joint, and Cyr sold
the idea to the hard Rock bosses. In return, Armstrong will spend a couple of hours at the tables betting $10,000 a
hand. But for now, he's up onstage, opening for the Fabulous Thunderbirds.
Cyr's cell phone rings. He answers, listens, then speaks to Kristi, a Hilton VIP hostess, about a suite assignment.
"OK, I'm on my way. I'll be there in five minutes. Hold tight." He pauses, then says, "Relax, Kristi! Who's the man,
baby? I'll handle it."
He hurries down toward the stage and gives a thumbs-up to Mr. A. (Unless the two are extremely friendly, a casino
guy addresses his player by the first initial of his last name. Calling him by his first name is too familiar, while using
his full last name could, inadvertently, compromise his privacy.) Cyr signals that he's got to run, but he'll be back
in a while. then he blows through the casino and out the front door, where his silver Trans Am sits at the curb, as if
he's the only car owner who happened to drive to the 600-room Hard Rock that Saturday night. He dukes off a 10-
spot to the parking attendant in the valet cubicle, who hands him his keys. He hops in the car and peels out for
points north.
At the Las Vegas Hilton, Cyr heads down the back hallway that connects the sky Villa elevators to the Hilton's
high-limit pit. He slides through a side door and strolls toward the lone dice table in the far corner of the room, out
of place among all the baccarat and blackjack games. It sounds wrong, too: The crap table cacophony disturbs
the typically tense and tempered air of a high roller room.
Whooping it up at the table are More Cohn and a half-dozen of his dice-shooting cronies. The setup is complete
with a full crap crew -- two dealers, stickman, boxman, and floorman -- and the highest maximums in the dice
universe. Cohn is Cyr's new biggest player, with a $10 million line of casino credit. He's the CEO of a major
California corporation, and he has the gambling gene.
Tonight's his first time playing at the Hilton. Cyr has already met him at the airport with a limo and a $5,000 bottle
of Chateau Lafite Rothschild; ushered him up to the 13,200-square-foot Tuscany Villa; made sure his credit line
was ready at the cage, secured a reservation for eight at Le Montrachet, the Hilton's tres chic French restaurant
at that time (it no longer exists); and had the crap table moved into the high-limit room (the first time such a thing
had ever been done at the Hilton).
The hoopla from the players indicates that the table's hot. Cyr stands back a bit at first and watches as Cohn
tosses the cost of a new Cadillac across the crap layout. The boxman, Mel, signals Cyr with three fingers
pointing up: He's ahead 300 large.
Cyr's mentors, the old-school Las Vegas hosts and operations bosses, taught him that you don't host a sucker
while he's gambling. You don't hang out at the table. You never distract him. You let hi play his game. When he's
through, you can do all the hosting you want. But Cyr has never subscribed to the conventional wisdom. He's
especially irreverent when it comes to the gospel according to the old school. He enjoys hanging around his
players at the games. He gets a thrill out of watching whales make bets the size of an average worker's annual
wage.
By 1994, Jimmy Newman, head honcho at the Hilton, had been marketing to international whales for nearly a
decade. During that time, all he had in his lodging inventory were the nine Classic Suites on the 29th floor. Built in
1986, they were aging and small at 1,200 to 2,000 square feet. Newman desperately needed big villas to
accommodate Asian high rollers, many of whom wanted to come in large groups. And he got them.