Motown Mike

One of the most unforgettable characters I ever met in Las Vegas was Motown Mike. I never found out his last name for the simple reason that Mike didn't tell me it. There is an unwritten code that lingers on in the Old West that you never pry into a man's background if he doesn't want you to go there. Since I am a cowboy at heart, even if it's an urban cowboy, I respect that code.

The Las Vegas regulars who hung out at the Fremont and Binion's Horseshoe in downtown Glitter Gulch nicknamed him Motown Mike because he had once worked as an A&R man for Berry Gordy in Detroit. Gordy, of course, was the legendary music man who created The Supremes and other top recording acts who gave the world the Motown Sound.

I met Mike one morning when the temperature was hovering at around 109 degrees outside the Horseshoe where I occupied room 210 on the second row. I had just gone through a painful divorce and Jack Binion, my good friend who with his family owned the Horseshoe, had rented me the room at a price so low I am ashamed to reveal it.

In return for his generosity, I played a lot of poker in the the popular card room downstairs. The poker room at Binion's is famous for several things. It was where Jack's father, the late Benny Binion, started the World Series of Poker. It hosts the Poker Hall of Fame with photos of such legendary poker-playing gamblers as Stu Ungar, Bobby Baldwin, Jack 'Treetop' Strauss, Doyle 'Texas Dolly' Brunson, Amarillo Slim Preston, Puggy Pearson, Bill Smith, Sailor Roberts and many more.

Within walking distance of the card room is the sports room where you can bet on sports or the horses. And just around the corner from that was Benny's public display of $1 million in cash. The collection of $10,000 bills that make up the collection is behind glass, with grim-faced and well-armed security guards standing close by to make sure nobody gets any ideas.

I had just breakfasted at the popular 24-hour restaurant where a cute waitress named Dixie had kept my coffee cup full while I devoured steak, eggs, hash browns and wheat toast. The beef had come from Benny's own cattle ranch. Benny loved being a cowboy and spent as much time at the ranch riding horses and working with the wranglers as he did at his casino, letting his sons and daughter run the downtown resort.

My stomach full, I tipped Dixie, tried to talk her into a date, accepted her polite rejection with a smile, and headed for the horse room. That was where I met Motown Mike.

He was a big black man wearing shades and a cup. Sprawled out in the front row, he was studying a Daily Racing Form. I learned later he had spent the night in that chair because he was broke and didn't have money for a room.

Mike was formidable looking, the kind of guy you wouldn't want to meet in a dark alley at night if you didn't know him. I learned later it was all show. He turned out to be one of the most gentle men I had ever come across, an intellectual who could discuss politics, music, race, religion or whatever else crossed your mind without taking a back seat to anybody.

I picked up my own Daily Racing Form and sat down next to him. After a couple of minutes, Mike Broke the silence.

'The four horse at Santa Anita is a dead cinch,' he said. 'He'll win the race by three lengths easy.'

I glanced at the television screen showing the horses warming up. The four horse was listed at 10-1 odds.

'Those are long odds for a sure thing,' I said.

'Trust me on this one. I know the horse's pedigree backward and forward. He'll break out of the post like he has a Chinese rocket up his a--. The trainer's been holding him back, setting him up for this race. He'll win. Give me a dollar so I can hook him up in an exacta with a long shot. That's my fee for giving you the horse.'

'You're broke?'

Mike smiled. He removed his sunglasses. 'Broke but not busted,' he said. 'The race goes off in two minutes. Are you gonna give me the dollar or not.'

I gave Mike the dollar and hurried to the cashier's window where I bet $10 across the board on the four horse. Exactly as Mike had predicted, the horse broke out of the chute and wired the other eight horses in the race, winning by three lengths.

As I pocketed just under $200, I said, 'Congratulations. You picked a winner. How much did your exacta pay?'

'Nothing,' he said. 'My other horse ran out of the money.'

It took me about three seconds to slip Mike a $20 bill.

'You earned it,' I said.

We shook hands, introduced ourselves, and spent the next four hours playing the horses. As I recall, Mike picked several winners for me and about the same number of losers for himself. He knew the Daily Racing Form like it was his primer in elementary school. If he told me a horse would win by three or four lengths, the animal nearly always came in. But if he said the race would be close, the horse generally ran out of the money.

Motown Mike and I became friends. He was also a poker player, and when he would have a good day at the races, he would sometimes join me in a cash game or tournament. His poker playing ability did not match his horse handicapping skills.

When I won back-to-back poker tournaments one Saturday at The Orleans and the Union Plaza, I treated Mike to a horseback ride at a stable on the scenic road to Mt. Charleston 30 miles north of Las Vegas. That night I picked up the tab for a dinner show at a casino on the Las Vegas Strip.

While we sipped wine and ate prime rib, Mike pointed to one of the dancers in the chorus line. She was gorgeous.

'I used to date her,' he said. 'We lived together for a while.'

During the 90-minute show, he told me things about dancing and music productions that he had learned from Berry Gordy. He kept time with the music, beating a pattern on the table that made the silverware jump. It was incredible and would have touched anybody.

That December the weather turned cold in Las Vegas. The city experienced a rarity, snow, and the temperatures plunged. One night there was a knock at the door. It was Mike.

'I'm sick,' he said. 'I think I might be coming down with walking pneumonia. Would you mind if I crashed here tonight? It's too cold for me to sleep on a park bench.'

I threw a blanket and a pillow on the floor. 'Suit yourself,' I said. 'Would you like a bowl of soup?'

It took three days for Mike to recover. I made sure he had enough to eat. When the fever left, he did the same. I saw him a week or so later in the same place I had first met him. He said only one word.

'Thanks.'

I haven't seen Motown Mike in over two years. I hope he's well and finally hooking up the right horses with his winning choices. If he reads this column, all I can say is this:

Mike, when it comes to horse handicapping, you're the greatest.

Author: Geno Lawrenzi Jr.

(Geno Lawrenzi Jr. is an international journalist, magazine author and ghostwriter. If you have a unique gambling story to share with him, you may qualify for a cash award. Send your story with all the details to glawrenzi@gmail.com ).