Reno Sweeney

Reno Sweeney was one of the dealers in Reno who "turned me out," trained me, and showed me the ins and outs of being a clerk. We were called "clerks" in those days, the IRS had no classification for us, so we were listed as Clerks on our Income Tax, thus, the term Clerks. If you ever hear that someone working in a casino was a good clerk, you know they are talking about an "old timer."

My first night, I was nervous and apprehensive, told to report to the "post" .... finally someone pointed me in the right direction, said something stupid to the gentleman in the white on white shirt, a gorgeous pair of cuff links, a spotless white necktie, and a watch showing under those starched french cuffs that exposed a circular face ringed with diamonds, very classy. Mark, as it turned out, told me to go shill on number 3. My dumb stare was greeted with a gesture that pointed me in the right direction.

I sheepishly approached the ten foot table, a man on one end, a woman on the other, the woman knew of my innocence reached down into a tube of silver dollars and handed them to me. She knew without looking that she had handed me 20 of them. The table was void of customers at that time, so she told me, "put one there and throw the dice." I did, and that was my introduction in to a world I knew nothing about, but was intrigued by the prospect of learning about.

After an hour or so at the table, "shilling," I was told to take a 30 minute break and report back to Mark. I will never forget my entrance in to the coffee shop that morning, I was "one of them" an employee of a casino, soon, to be a ..... dealer ..... the pride I must have shown walking in, I owned the place, I belonged here. I remember well what I had, a Nevada Club Special .... an 8-inch French Roll, sliced lengthwise in half, piled high with prime rib, the top half placed back on, on to a plate, and covered with a rich broth. How much better could it get.

Mark directed me back to a table, I was escorted "behind" the table, where the dealers stand, I had stepped into ... a mystic realm .... a "stick" was handed to me, "Hi, I'm Reno Sweeney," call the dice .... the rest of the night went by fast, but a blurry fast. I remember entering in to the sunlight next morning, at 11, a beautiful day, someone had given me a "green apron," during my shift, a dealers apron. I carried it proudly so all could see as I made my way up Virginia Street to my car.

"Fitz"

Lincoln Fitzgerald, Fitz, a Nevada pioneer who does not get the credit he deserves for his part in making the state what it is today.

My first glimpse of him was in 1956, April or May. I was just discharged from the Navy and headed to Reno. An ad in the newspaper caught my attention. HIRING DEALERS. I had no idea what that entailed, but I decided to look in to it. Prior to applying, I hears many stories about Fitz, Gangster, Purple Gang in Detroit, he got shot in a mob hit, all scary stuff to me.

I entered the old "back door" of The Nevada Club, admittedly with shaking knees and sweaty palms. I walked through the club to the "cage," the cashiers cage, which was his realm. There was this elderly man, white hair, white shirt and tie, suspenders standing behind the bared window. I have no idea what I said to him, at least I was coherent enough to let him know I wanted a job. He asked me a series of questions, where from, discharged from service, as I recalled he was interested in my Father and Mother, married, children, that sort of thing. Really not a lot of questions.

"Take this down to the police station and when you are done, come back here."

"Yes sir."

The police did a background check, handed me a slip of paper and told me to go back to the club. I did, handed Fitz the slip of paper. He looked at it. "Come back in the morning at three, wear a white shirt and tie."

That was it. I really had no idea what I would be doing at three, but I knew I had a job.

I think Fitz liked me. After I became a "dealer" with training on craps, the wheel and Twenty One, we knew I had "sweaty hands." He wanted to to deal Twenty One, but the sweaty hands were a problem. At the end of one shift, he handed he a bottle of "formaldehyde" and wanted me to take it and soak my hands in it, might help. I did, and it didn't. So, I was relegated to the crap table.

I left him after a year and returned to Ohio for a while, decided I wanted to return, called him on the phone, asked about getting my job back, he told me to come on out, I did, and he sent me to his new club at Lake Tahoe, The Nevada Lodge. Only a select few were chosen for that job, I was one of them.

Fitz trained many of the dealers in Nevada in the early years, some went on to some great jobs in the industry. Many years later, I am till proud to say  that "I turned out as a clerk for Fitz." No one knows what that means though. In those days the IRS had no classification for dealers, so we were listed as clerks.

Fitz was a pioneer in Nevada, he, and some others are responsible for making Nevada what it is today, and I imagine few are familiar with his name. I, for one, will never forget him. In my pocket now is a $5 Nevada Club chip, and one I cherish, is a $20 blue chip from the Chesterfield Club in Detroit, which Fitz was part owner of  before he moved to Reno. Nearby also, a pair of Nevada Club dice.

Thanks, Fitz, as Bob Hope would say, "Aw thanks, for the memories."