As a rule, people who think there are "lucky" casinos also believe in lucky numbers, lucky days, lucky charms, and astrology. As for myself, after four decades of casino-hopping I don't believe there is any such thing as a "lucky" casino. I will say that there are two casinos—one in Las Vegas and one in Atlantic City, where I have won consistently: the Sahara in Las Vegas, and Trump Plaza in Atlantic City.

In retrospect, had I just gambled at only these two casinos and then gone directly home, I would be a much richer man today. Too often I took their money and promptly lost it at the next casino.
The Sahara was a money-making machine for me almost from the start. I won there regularly. Oh, I may have walked out and dropped it at the casino next door, but at the Sahara I almost expected to win. Maybe my positive mental attitude helped, for I could do no wrong at the Sahara tables.

One particular visit was a pivotal point with the Sahara and me. 1 had flown to Las Vegas for a weekend. As usual on Sunday night, I worked my way up the Strip to the casino closest to the airport, careful not to cut it too close to departure time.
Safely checked in at McCarran Airport, my hand luggage dumped in a seventy-five-cent rental locker close at hand, I let myself go, and headed directly to the bar for a couple of stiff vod-kas-and-grapefruit juice.

Why not? 1 had $3,600 in winnings, and I was only a few yards away from the boarding gate. But, as Shakespeare so aptly phrased it, "There's many a slip twixt the cup and the lip." The slip here was the dreaded announcement over the PA system that my TWA flight was delayed—for four goddam hours! Now well-oiled, I left the airport bar and returned to the Strip—where 1 taxied straight to the Sahara.

Once there, I won immediately and consistently. It was a snap. With forty-five minutes to go before the new departure time, I picked up my winning chips, another $5,000, and headed directly to the cashier's cage. Counting out all that fresh new Sahara folding money there, I just couldn't resist a parting shot.
"See you next trip," which translated into "Fuck you, Sahara, I'm going straight home with your money."

Suddenly, I felt a huge beefy arm around my shoulders. It was Frank Portnoy, a casino executive whom I had known casually through the years. In general I tend to keep my distance from dealers, pit bosses, and casino executives.