In the shadows of the Italian Market, in a second-floor walk-up, the old gambler leans on the blackjack table, with an ever-present cigarette in one hand, and his bet in the other.
Under his trademark white Phillies cap, his jowly face is deadpan. John Palumbo is none too happy with those around him.
For one, blackjack isn't his game.
"All you need is one idiot," he explains in a measured voice, to ensure that you and your money soon part.
Palumbo, 75, a lean man with gold jewelry, silver eyeglass frames, and street-gathered wisdom, prefers craps, a game he can control. He made his legend running back-room games in South Philadelphia, until Atlantic City casinos killed the action and "took all the money."
Palumbo went on to teach a generation of A.C. dealers on his dining room table. Then three years ago, with slots coming to Philadelphia, he opened the Casino Dealers Training Center with his sons, Jerome and John Jr., a former Atlantic City box man (who supervises craps tables) and floor boss. Palumbo's gut told him that table games weren't far behind. No one leaves money on the table.
But after he reinvented himself, gaming threatens to wipe him out again.
For now, Palumbo is teaching the art of blackjack to a young, blue-eyed dealer with a buzz cut, who, before coming to his school, made his living climbing trees. Palumbo's goal is to teach him what he's come to know, that when it comes to dealing, procedure is everything.
Palumbo surveys his student's every move: Does he control the chips? Does he remember to call the cards? Does he deal the first player with his left hand? If not, his back is exposed, and the last player could slip in a few tricks. Does he point? Dealers never point. Gamblers are superstitious.
With his chip stack dwindling, Palumbo ups his bet to $175. His first card is a queen; then comes an ace. Win or lose, Palumbo is reticent. Until one of his students does something stupid, like making him drag on his cigarette while he waits to get paid.
"Come on, come on," Palumbo says, banging on the table, while the dealer, 29-year-old Ryan Myers, three weeks into the seven-week course, stands frozen, his eyes skyward, counting the 3-to-2 payout in his head. "You're still a little slow. You're not practicing."
Myers finally divides Palumbo's winnings in a zigzag of three stacks.
"Not at that angle," Palumbo barks. A dealer pays out in a straight line.
Palumbo's dealer training school is at Eighth Street and Passyunk Avenue, across from a patchwork of stores that includes a massage-equipment center, a locksmith, and an auto-repair shop. In the front, there's Palumbo's cluttered office, two blackjack tables, and a poker table. In the back is the craps table.
Five of Palumbo's 13 students have scored next-round interviews at Harrah's Casino in Chester, with hopes of an audition. Others foresee a job at SugarHouse when it opens in Fishtown.
"You need two table games under your belt to get an audition at a casino," Palumbo explains. "If you have craps and blackjack, you have a job. Those are the two most important games on the floor."
Palumbo guarantees his students will pass any audition.
"I know from experience what they look at. They look at your hands, and how you control the checks. You got to have the hands."
He goes on: "I don't care how beautiful you are as a dealer. I don't care how ugly you are as a dealer. People aren't looking at you. They're looking at the cards and the money."
Palumbo appreciates the complexity of the gaming industry. In one conversation, he blames it for crushing the camaraderie and money that flowed between neighborhood gamblers. In another, he talks of huge opportunities the pending casinos offer, a second-wave economy for young people, without fancy degrees, who want to earn a respectable living.
"For a young person, he can come to school, get his two games, and start making 30 grand a year," says Palumbo, who worked 25 years as a union carpenter. "And the casinos give you open buffet, clothes, and the temperature is always right."
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Under his trademark white Phillies cap, his jowly face is deadpan. John Palumbo is none too happy with those around him.
For one, blackjack isn't his game.
"All you need is one idiot," he explains in a measured voice, to ensure that you and your money soon part.
Palumbo, 75, a lean man with gold jewelry, silver eyeglass frames, and street-gathered wisdom, prefers craps, a game he can control. He made his legend running back-room games in South Philadelphia, until Atlantic City casinos killed the action and "took all the money."
Palumbo went on to teach a generation of A.C. dealers on his dining room table. Then three years ago, with slots coming to Philadelphia, he opened the Casino Dealers Training Center with his sons, Jerome and John Jr., a former Atlantic City box man (who supervises craps tables) and floor boss. Palumbo's gut told him that table games weren't far behind. No one leaves money on the table.
But after he reinvented himself, gaming threatens to wipe him out again.
For now, Palumbo is teaching the art of blackjack to a young, blue-eyed dealer with a buzz cut, who, before coming to his school, made his living climbing trees. Palumbo's goal is to teach him what he's come to know, that when it comes to dealing, procedure is everything.
Palumbo surveys his student's every move: Does he control the chips? Does he remember to call the cards? Does he deal the first player with his left hand? If not, his back is exposed, and the last player could slip in a few tricks. Does he point? Dealers never point. Gamblers are superstitious.
With his chip stack dwindling, Palumbo ups his bet to $175. His first card is a queen; then comes an ace. Win or lose, Palumbo is reticent. Until one of his students does something stupid, like making him drag on his cigarette while he waits to get paid.
"Come on, come on," Palumbo says, banging on the table, while the dealer, 29-year-old Ryan Myers, three weeks into the seven-week course, stands frozen, his eyes skyward, counting the 3-to-2 payout in his head. "You're still a little slow. You're not practicing."
Myers finally divides Palumbo's winnings in a zigzag of three stacks.
"Not at that angle," Palumbo barks. A dealer pays out in a straight line.
Palumbo's dealer training school is at Eighth Street and Passyunk Avenue, across from a patchwork of stores that includes a massage-equipment center, a locksmith, and an auto-repair shop. In the front, there's Palumbo's cluttered office, two blackjack tables, and a poker table. In the back is the craps table.
Five of Palumbo's 13 students have scored next-round interviews at Harrah's Casino in Chester, with hopes of an audition. Others foresee a job at SugarHouse when it opens in Fishtown.
"You need two table games under your belt to get an audition at a casino," Palumbo explains. "If you have craps and blackjack, you have a job. Those are the two most important games on the floor."
Palumbo guarantees his students will pass any audition.
"I know from experience what they look at. They look at your hands, and how you control the checks. You got to have the hands."
He goes on: "I don't care how beautiful you are as a dealer. I don't care how ugly you are as a dealer. People aren't looking at you. They're looking at the cards and the money."
Palumbo appreciates the complexity of the gaming industry. In one conversation, he blames it for crushing the camaraderie and money that flowed between neighborhood gamblers. In another, he talks of huge opportunities the pending casinos offer, a second-wave economy for young people, without fancy degrees, who want to earn a respectable living.
"For a young person, he can come to school, get his two games, and start making 30 grand a year," says Palumbo, who worked 25 years as a union carpenter. "And the casinos give you open buffet, clothes, and the temperature is always right."
Read more of this 3 page article here:
