It had been a day and a half since I had tracked down a former UCLA offensive lineman to a dumpy nightclub in New York. The piece I posted in The Weekly Sportsman about Francois Lamoreux's first press conference had caused a bit of a stir in the NSFL front offices. I surmised that my hulking friend would soon be making a splash in the league. My editor told me to keep an eye on Lamoreux as he had heard on the AP wire that teams were shuffling waivers to pull him off the prospect list. When I returned to Little Avignon I was able to prod out of the locals that my French connection had left the state. After a little digging and a generous bribe to an ex-girlfriend working with Delta I found out Lamoreux was headed to Vegas. I caught a redeye from La Guardia to McCarran and took a shuttle to the strip. In the shuttle were mostly geriatrics, ready to deliver their Social Security checks to one of the local one armed bandits. What would they do if they won? I wondered. Not like they'd be around long enough to enjoy the money. Perhaps an extra luxury here and there, one of the flavored cans of Ensure instead of plain, and an extra padded case of Depends. I got out of the shuttle outside of the Bellagio and was struck by the sweltering heat. Well, I suppose when a city is in the middle of the desert the only thing to build is a bunch of casinos. I scurried into the Bellagio lobby and enjoyed the air conditioned foyer. A man dressed in a tacky suit advertised $3 steaks in the restaurant. I'm sure the food was the main attraction for the tourists inside. As a journalist you sometimes mingle with shady people, and the company I had been forced to keep in the name of finding a story was no different. Still, give me an underground bookie over a sleazy Arliss wannabe sports agent any day. A friend of mine working as a bail bondsman had given me the heads up on Lamoreux's location. It was really a process of elimination by finding out all the casinos he had already been banned from. The Luxor gave him the axe for pinching the rear ends of a few too many cocktail waitresses. How many the maximum was, I didn't ask. The MGM Grand caught him counting cards while playing blackjack. When I asked my contact how someone with such a dubious intellectual reputation could do this, he clarified - Lamoreux was apparently so drunk that he would constantly hit even after he had busted. While the Grand was more than happy to take the money of a stupid gambler, the lineman had been increasingly reluctant to return the cards so they could be reshuffled, preferring to count them repeatedly. As his losses to that point had been in the thousands the casino offered to comp him a complimentary deck of cards which he could count all he wanted, but this apparently did not meet to Lamoreux's satisfaction. So my friend had tracked the NSFL's newest prospect to the Bellagio and here I was. The acrid smell of stale cigar smoke lingered in the air on the casino floor and I pushed my way through the ambling gamblers. Lamoreux was a rather large man and he was not hard to spot - he was at the baccarat table, apparently arguing with the croupier. I could hear snippets of the conversation as I approached.
"You swine! You insult the language with your coarse tongue! It is baccarat!"
"That's what I'm saying. Baccarat."
"It it no le back a rat. It is bac a raaa."
"Back a ra?"
Always a charmer. I saw casino security approaching the area with the floor manager squawking at them through their cheap earpieces. I could see that the situation was about to deteriorate so I flagged down Lamoreux and called to him.
"Hey Francois! Do you remember me? Alan McGill, from The Weekly Sportsman. We met in New York."
His eyes registered recognition and narrowed. I'm not sure if it was genuine interest in discussion or disgust with the baccarat dealer's errant pronunciation but he walked over to me. I gestured for him to follow me outside and we exited the casino without incident. Once outside he pulled a pack of Gauloises from his shirt pocket and lit a cigarette. He stared off into the distance until I broke the silence.
"Hey Francois, you're a long way from New York, what are you doing way out here?"
He took a long drag from his cigarette and dropped it on the ground. I suppose the ash tray three feet away from us was too much an imposition. He looked at me and grinned.
"Little man, you think Francois is only here to gamble and party? You would be right! But also Francois has seen the team in this city, le Legion. They show great potential but need Francois to protect their quarterback. Francois will be playing with le Legion starting tomorrow, and we will crush the rest of the teams. It is known to Francois that the Hawks have the worst offensive line in the league and their production of le offensive is lacking. Francois also will not play for the worst team in the NSFL. Who stands before le Legion? Le Otters? They will go the way of the Burgundians who stood against le King Charles VII. Le Baltimore Hawks? It is bird hunting season for Francois. You flashy players say to show Francois the money, when Francois will bury you in francs up to your beady eyes. You do not worry about the impact Francois will make, you just watch game on the morrow with le Yeti. You see Francois in action but do not bring your wife or she will rush the field to make love to Francois. Tell her to wait until after the game and then Francois is available to her."
Always charming. I stopped my tape recorder, believing I had enough quotable material to make my deadline. I would have to tune in to see how Lamoreux would fare, but I knew that if he could play half as well as he could nonsensically speak, the league would have a star player on their hands.
1068 words
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"You swine! You insult the language with your coarse tongue! It is baccarat!"
"That's what I'm saying. Baccarat."
"It it no le back a rat. It is bac a raaa."
"Back a ra?"
Always a charmer. I saw casino security approaching the area with the floor manager squawking at them through their cheap earpieces. I could see that the situation was about to deteriorate so I flagged down Lamoreux and called to him.
"Hey Francois! Do you remember me? Alan McGill, from The Weekly Sportsman. We met in New York."
His eyes registered recognition and narrowed. I'm not sure if it was genuine interest in discussion or disgust with the baccarat dealer's errant pronunciation but he walked over to me. I gestured for him to follow me outside and we exited the casino without incident. Once outside he pulled a pack of Gauloises from his shirt pocket and lit a cigarette. He stared off into the distance until I broke the silence.
"Hey Francois, you're a long way from New York, what are you doing way out here?"
He took a long drag from his cigarette and dropped it on the ground. I suppose the ash tray three feet away from us was too much an imposition. He looked at me and grinned.
"Little man, you think Francois is only here to gamble and party? You would be right! But also Francois has seen the team in this city, le Legion. They show great potential but need Francois to protect their quarterback. Francois will be playing with le Legion starting tomorrow, and we will crush the rest of the teams. It is known to Francois that the Hawks have the worst offensive line in the league and their production of le offensive is lacking. Francois also will not play for the worst team in the NSFL. Who stands before le Legion? Le Otters? They will go the way of the Burgundians who stood against le King Charles VII. Le Baltimore Hawks? It is bird hunting season for Francois. You flashy players say to show Francois the money, when Francois will bury you in francs up to your beady eyes. You do not worry about the impact Francois will make, you just watch game on the morrow with le Yeti. You see Francois in action but do not bring your wife or she will rush the field to make love to Francois. Tell her to wait until after the game and then Francois is available to her."
Always charming. I stopped my tape recorder, believing I had enough quotable material to make my deadline. I would have to tune in to see how Lamoreux would fare, but I knew that if he could play half as well as he could nonsensically speak, the league would have a star player on their hands.
1068 words
GRADED