TIME: Almanac 1993/TIME Almanac 1993.iso/time/050691/0506170.000

Text File | 1992-08-28 | 5.8 KB | 121 lines

                                                                                AMERICAN SCENE, Page 15

Atlantic City, New Jersey

Chasing the Super Red Sevens


Gambling tournaments get the reels rolling and the bells clanging
as slot-machine madness takes over at Trump Castle

By SUE RAFFETY


    With his fast talk about how to "strategize" a craps
table, his self-designed gold-inlaid ruby belt buckle and a
jet-black Western shirt embroidered with two crimson roses, Ken
Wickham, 63, is the very image of a high-rolling gambler. He
stands 6 ft. 6 in. in his 10-gallon hat that is festooned with
red feathers and a Hopi rain-dance pin for good luck. Wickham
soon lets you know he's no ordinary man: he says he's an
evangelist minister who flew half a dozen missions with the
101st Airborne Division in World War II and played a sergeant
alongside war hero Audie Murphy in the film To Hell and Back.
He has ridden bulls in Oklahoma rodeos, played poker with Clint
Eastwood and tossed dice with Robert Redford and Paul Newman in
Las Vegas.

    All of which makes Wickham just the right man for the job
at hand: a slot-machine tournament at Trump's Castle casino in
Atlantic City. Perhaps no one among the 360 participants is
better equipped for the slot battle than Wickham, who owns a
Jackson, N.J., sewer business whose motto somehow says it all:
"If You Ain't on Our S--- List, You're No Friend of Ours."
Clearly, here's a man who knows a royal flush when he sees one.
But his real game, the one he has sharpened through 20
tournaments during the past four years, is the slots. "My
strategy is to play as fast as I can," says the self-proclaimed
Slot King.

    Wickham leans over and pecks his wife of 42 years, Gladys,
on the cheek. "Wish me luck, honey," he calls, as a uniformed
security guard lines the players up double file and marches them
into the chandeliered casino, where 30 gleaming Super Seven
slot machines are cordoned off behind red velvet ropes.
Sauntering nonchalantly up to his machine, Wickham assumes a
calm, assured stance as he awaits the starting buzzer of Round
1.

    Meanwhile, his rivals nervously shift their feet, twitch
their fingers, rub gold crucifixes, amulets and talismans. Grace
Craighead of Philadelphia quivers with stage fright. "I'm soooo
nervous," she says. "This is my first tournament." Adrenaline
is boiling, shoulders are hunched, fingers poised to punch the
two keys that will spin the slot-machine wheels to winning
numbers and bars, or losing spaces.

    "Five, four, three, two, one. Let's go!" shouts slot-host
Eileen Kasunich as the buzzer sounds. "C'mon, Ken. Bring out
those sevens. Exercise those fingers." Slotters square off with
their machines, tensing their facial muscles as they urgently
press buttons and pull handles. "Everyone acts like he is about
to be run over by a truck," observes writer Barbara Griffing of
New York City. "You sense that the whole world is going to cave
in if they don't get those points."

    Pregame camaraderie vanishes as the player-against-player
battle for cash prizes gets under way. All contestants start the
tournament with 777 "Super" credits per round. Each push or pull
of the one-armed bandit is subtracted from the credit meter, and
every win is added to the kitty meter. Points are totaled after
every round, and the player with the highest score at the end
of the tournament wins the top prize of $40,077. Not a bad
return on an entry fee of $577 -- a real bargain compared with
the $2,000 some other casinos charge for their slot
competitions. "We don't expect to make money off the tournaments
themselves," says Castle president Roger P. Wagner, "but they
bring in the folks for other casino play."

    Unlike poker, this is a game where strategy is not only
unnecessary but totally useless. "It's all probability," says
Lee Isgur, a leading gaming and entertainment analyst at Volpe,
Welty & Co. in San Francisco. Still, players cling to the idea
that their own system will work: playing at a certain time of
day, stroking good-luck charms or punching the buttons at a
certain speed.

    Slots are a booming market in the gambling industry,
accounting for 58.4% or $1.72 billion of gross revenues at
Atlantic City casinos. They are required by law to pay out a
minimum of 83% of what they take in. But the bandits can be
characteristically stubborn, especially if you want them to hit.
Many slotters claim the machines are preset to pay off in the
beginning of a tournament and dry up as time goes by. "Most
people do think that, but first of all it's illegal," says the
casino's slot operations manager, Sandra Dierolf. "All our
machines are closely checked by the Casino Control Commission
and the Division of Gaming Enforcement."

    "You are completely at the mercy of your machine," says
contestant Deloure Mustico, a Trump Castle regular who looks
like a cross between Dolly Parton and Eva Gabor. Not long ago,
as she was on her way to winning a $5,000 jackpot, Mustico heard
the Donald's voice booming behind her: "Are you going to take
all my money, Deloure?" Mustico, who was a Holiday on Ice figure
skater in the late '50s, pushes back her luxuriant blond
coiffure and smiles wistfully. "That was a lovely moment, almost
as much fun as winning the $5,000." She also has fond memories
of the time she chatted with Imelda Marcos as the two played
slots side by side last year at Trump Castle.

    Heading for the finish line, Wickham has scored a mere 275
points in his final round, placing him 252 in a field of 360.
He gives the bandit a kick with his black snakeskin boot. Tilt!
"They put this machine in cold water," he growls. "It's giving
me ice cubes." Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz! The tournament is over. Mr.
Slot King has crapped out.