The Count

Ace blackjack player Stuart Ziglin has been beating Missouri casinos at their own game. Now they want to change the rules.

It must've been that poker game. Seven-card hold-'em. Twenty-forty. Should've never sat down. Took him close to six hours to win $350. Could've won triple that in a third the time if he'd had the right cycle in blackjack downstairs. But no, he played hold-'em till the river's surface outside turned from gnarled bark to black emptiness. Then the best blackjack player in the state of Missouri went downstairs and sat down at a six-deck table. Wrong move. Bad cycle, bad cycle. And too late, much too late to start on a Sunday night. Funny, he never gets like this -- feeling old, that is -- till he's out of a casino. Just like he never gets religious till he's in one. What's that they say? The only difference between a preacher and a gambler is that when a gambler prays, the gambler actually means it. Ha. Stuart likes that one, 'cause he's been known to get damned religious sitting at a blackjack table, and, hell, he hasn't ever been no preacher man. He'll preach to his cards, maybe ... yeah, Stuart Ziglin'll preach to his cards, though most people, they don't know nothing 'bout that -- isn't a secret, but no point in bragging about it. Losing that three grand tonight isn't anything to brag about, either. Home's coming up, though -- too tired to think; just wanna push that Arnold out of the way and sink into bed. That's right, just sink into bed.

Think about the numbers tomorrow.

David Terrill

Harrah's Casino in Maryland Heights won't let the best blackjack player in the state of Missouri through its doors, much less play the game; maybe it's how well he knows the numbers. Those blackjack numbers. They used to let him play. He'd be there all the time. Even the Remington "Mountain Man" on his fireplace was inspired by the casino -- Karen bought that sculpture after she saw him admiring it in Harrah's lobby. He's had his fair share of losses at Harrah's. But then he tweaked his system and had more than his fair share of wins. Next thing he knew, he wasn't allowed inside. It was "a business decision," the casino told him, when such business decisions were legal.

Can't really say what Harrah's has against him now, though. Now, when those types of "business decisions" aren't exactly legal anymore. It's not that he's counting cards, they say. But they won't let him in. Now it's on a technicality he thinks is fabricated. He didn't even sue them; a few years back, he did sue Players Island for not letting him play blackjack. And, sure, Players may have been bought out by Harrah's last March, but still ... he doesn't have anything against Harrah's. And the lawsuit never made it to a jury. He would have won it if it did -- that's what his lawyer told him. The lawsuit paid off anyway. They changed the law, the state did. All because of him and his lawsuit. It's right there, spelled out bright and clear, under the Conduct of Gaming: card counting (without any assistance) "shall not be considered cheating" effective Aug. 30, 2000. Official-sounding and everything. But those people at Harrah's, they still won't let him inside.

The man knows his numbers. A card-counter. No, a card-tracker. He's better than a card-counter. Counting cards? It's pie. Takes practice to make good pie, though. "It was over and over and over, working with one deck, working with two decks, and then going to play," Stuart says. "It's a tremendous amount of training, but it's mental, more than anything else. You have to really stay in tune to what you're doing and really want it to happen, and what fuels the fire is winning and that you have the possibility of being rewarded greatly for your efforts."

The essentials of Stuart's efforts: To assign mental values to different groups of cards in the deck and, more important, to allow those assigned values to guide betting strategy. The simplest method: Low cards (twos through sixes) are one; neutral cards (sevens through nines) are zero; high cards (tens and aces) are negative one. Numbers. It's about numbers for Stuart, not luck. The concept: Bet high when the count's high, bet low when the count's low. Nothing to it -- when Stuart's doing the counting. Mix the right numbers with the right amounts of money; make money. The numbers, they say so.

The theory: Blackjack, it's organic. Unlike other casino games, the odds in blackjack are constantly changing as the game progresses. With each card dealt, the composition of the deck changes. And Stuart, he knows only too well that blackjack's changing odds naturally lend themselves to sometimes favoring the player, sometimes the house. For the player, "sometimes" is 14 percent of the time. For the house, it's 86 percent. Stuart, like any trained card counter, capitalizes on the 14 percent with increased bets, thereby turning the standard house edge of about 1.25 percent -- statistically speaking, the casino's guaranteed minimum -- into his own edge of 1.25 percent. It's almost as if they have to pay the best blackjack player in the state of Missouri to play the game. Taking the casino's edge is no insignificant accomplishment. Consider the fact that blackjack players at Harrah's bet $5.6 million in January alone.

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