Crossroaders were a rare breed, they were unique, intelligent and fearless. There were some "legitimate" players who had the heart of the crossroader. They lived by their wits and the "moves" they had honed. I have seen things that were impossible, accomplished. I learned early on in my days in Nevada, that if I heard, or someone who said they could do something, regardless of how impossible the task was, believe him, or her, because they had probably put in many, many hours of practice, doing it.
They were all good actors and could play whatever part was necessary, and play it well. They were all, "diplomats." They were all, "patient," they would spend hours, days and weeks, perfecting one "move." One I knew rather well always had his hands in motion, generally with a book of matches, carrying it in the palm of his hand. One book of matches would be sitting on a table. He could pick it up and drop the one he was "mucking" in his hand, and it would land exactly where the other one was. Wesley practiced that, incessantly.
Buster was more of a front man, an arranger. He also worked as a boxman and a floorman in the casinos, and I think ended up working in Las Vegas.
I left Nevada and headed for Ohio, years ago, and attended the Millersport Corn Festival. Money flowed freely, for charity, and who was there, Buster and his band of merry men, "knocking over" those little games of chance, dice games, card games, etc., not taking a lot so they were not obvious, but enough to insure a nice "vacation."
I'm sure nothing will ever be written about them, they loved their anonymity. How they did what they did, few know. Some may have left no mark on the world in their leaving, because they were unknown, except to a few, while they lived.
I forget their names, but there were twins who lived in California, had their own airplane. They would fly in to Reno or Vegas, wherever the action was going to be, do their thing, and fly home. One of their last that I was aware, early 60's, they left Vegas with a "bundle of cash." Did their "thing," got on the plane and flew home, all in a days work.
One I knew, "Blondy," lived in Reno, beautiful rented home by a golf course, leased car, lived a very quiet life. When the occasion arose, he was an expert golfer, bowler, pool player, was a marvel with cards, and could do wonders with a pair of dice. A golf tournament in Reno each year, with some local and a few well known pros, would find him in the pro-am, unable to hit the ball. But on Monday, some would stick around with some "heavy" money being wagered. All of a sudden he would "find" his game. He picked up a new golf cart on one occasions, took it home, and battered it, so it looked well used.
I had not been dealing long at the Nevada Club. Early one morning, an old farmer looking type walked up to my table. Asked about the different bets, and made a few "foolish" wagers, which he won. How lucky. He made some more bets, and won. Fitz let out a yell from the "cage." The player took his winnings, cashed in and left. I learned a great lesson. I always felt that Fitz put him up to it, to teach me a lesson. I thought I knew it all.
Buster, Wesley J., the Preacher, Blondy, Don, The Magician and the others I knew are probably all gone by now. They were a rare breed, never to be forgotten, by me, anyway.
