Black Mike from Detroit

He said his name was Black Mike from Detroit. I never knew his last name, or if he told it to me, I don't remember it. Last names are never much consequence when you are living in a place like Las Vegas.

Like a lot of divorced men looking for a home port, I had arrived in Las Vegas more by accident than by design. I was actually on my way to Los Angeles to try to talk my way into a screenwriting job at one of the studios. Instead I got sidetracked to Las Vegas by a beautiful Russian woman I had met at the AMTRAK in Pittsburgh, PA.

She was blond, shapely and beautiful. Also mysterious. As I passed her, I smiled and said, 'You look like a spy.'

Her smile dazzled me. 'How did you know,' she said in a perfect Russian accent. 'I just came from a meeting with Putin and the others in Moscow. Shall we discuss it over a drink?'

Actually, it didn't happen quite that way. It would have been nicer and made a better story if it had occurred like that. Let's just say I met a woman of Russian origin who talked me into going to Las Vegas rather than Los Angeles. Her logic made sense, and I found myself Vegas-bound on the Silver Streak.

Something very romantic about rolling across America's steel umbilical cord on an AMTRAK. You feel the heartbeat of the nation, and if you're like me, are drawn close to the earth.

My plans had been made. I would drop my single suitcase with the bellhop at Binion's Horseshoe, get a room and play the horses. I had a system in my head that looked promising and I had to try it.

Several people, all men, were spread out in the sports room at Binion's. The horse and sports betting rooms are located next to the poker room. The same cocktail waitress serves customers in both rooms.

I took a seat next to a large powerfully built black man. He wore a dark colored beret and a beard and goatee.

Poring through a copy of the Daily Racing Form, I began handicapping the races at Santa Anita. The first race was set to go off in six minutes.

Removing his sunglasses, the man in the beret smiled and extended his hand. His grip was powerful.

'Black Mike from Detroit,' he said. 'Used to work with Berry Gordy in MoTown. I was his A&R man. That was a long time ago. Now I handicap horses and I'm the best in the business.'

That was the start of my friendship with Black Mike. I saved his life one night, and on another evening he may have saved mine. Two guys tend to get tight when those things happen.

As I made notes on the first race at Santa Anita, Mike said, 'I already handicapped that race. The six horse'll win it by three lengths. Only question is who's gonna run with him for the exacta?'

We had two minutes to post. 'He'll win the race?'

'By three lengths. At least. You got two bucks for my ticket?' I threw him a couple of bills and ran to the teller. We both got our bets in before the windows closed. I bet the six horse to win and place, while Mike hooked him up with a long shot.

The six won by three and a half lengths. I collected a nice reward for my bet. Mike missed his exacta.

Mike and I would meet almost on a daily basis, usually at the Horseshoe or the Fremont where he like to handicap the horses. Both casinos had a poker room and I would alternate my stay between the horses and a poker game.

One Saturday I played in a poker tournament at the Union Plaza. Mike was on the rail, broke. I bought him a drink. When I made the final table and knew I was in the money, I hurried over to his side.

'You said you were an A&R man for Berry Gordy?'

'At one time. And I was the best.'

'Okay, Mr. Best. We'll see how good you are. I'm going to treat both of us to a night on the town with my poker winnings. Find a good show and get us ringside seats. I'll take care of it.'

Mike used his cell phone and got us the front row seats. It was one of the top shows in Las Vegas and it wasn't cheap, but I had won over $1,200 in the tournament.

We got settled in our seats, our knees nearly touching the lights circling the large stage.

An attractive cocktail waitress took our drink orders. Mike leaned over and whispered, 'You see that dancer pm the left...front row? The tall brunette? I used to date her.'

I stared at Mike, thinking he was joking. He wasn't. He waved at the girl as she settled into her dance routine. She waved back and blew him a kiss.'

'Black Mike from Detroit, let's drink to life, ' I said, lifting my glass.

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 ).