Five For Fighting

Whether it’s $12 million or $5, call in the authorities, there’s a payout in dispute

Joshua Longobardy

But the thing was, that tournament happened to be the World Series of Poker, now a cultural craze with its 8,773 participants buying in at ten grand a seat, and the championship money was no joke: $12 million. The richest prize for any sports or television event to date.

And so the dispute—which was propounded before U.S. District Judge Roger Hunt at the end of December, and which should see a resolution any day now—was not surprising: Not only is there money at stake, which naturally draws contention, but there is also a lot of it, and so of course that contention, in this modern world, would end up in the courts.

Only, in this town, it appears the same thing happens over a sum as small as $5. Sort of.

Four months prior to the WSOP, Sheila Mathews was hanging out at City Limits, a bare-bones joint on the dissolute block of Cheyenne Avenue and North Las Vegas Boulevard, owned and operated by the Doom family—Sherril, Damian, and Stasia. It was a Monday night, and just before 10 o'clock, Mathews told the bartender on duty—Betty Storm—that she had been playing on a slot machine, and that when she tried to cash out it shorted her $5. So can you please give me my money?

To which Storm said, No. You weren't playing, and people who don't wager don't get money around here.

You owe me money, said Mathews.

No, Storm said.

Yes, said Mathews.

No, Storm said. I, in fact, want you to leave.

At which time Mathews called the State Gaming Control Board, because City Limits is a licensed gambling establishment (though on a restricted license that permits at most 15 slots), and thus subject to the regulation of the board. An investigator from the board, Victor Ingram, arrived at 10:20 p.m.

Storm told Ingram she didn't owe anyone any money, because no one was playing that slot.

Which slot machine is in question? Ingram inquired. And just as he was asking for surveillance footage to clear the matter up, City Limits employee Alan Griego approached the scene.

Who are you? Griego said, demanding that Ingram provide his peace officer's identification.

Ingram offered his inspector's badge.

It's not legitimate, Griego said.

Ingram turned the tables asked Griego for his name and job title.

Griego refused to cooperate.

Ingram then tracked down owner Sherril Doom on the phone. He said: Can you or someone in the capacity of management come down to City Limits?

No, Sherril Doom said.

And so Ingram summoned assistance from senior agent Steve Warby, who, as soon as he arrived at City Limits, got Sherril Doom on the phone again, and repeated Ingram's prior request.

And Sherril Doom repeated her No. But she did agree to pay Mathews the $5.

The only problem was, Griego remained immovable:

We're not paying the $5, he said.

By then bartender Betty Storm had taken off. She had left behind her statement as to what had transpired earlier in the night, when the dispute arose.

Would you retrieve the statement from behind he bar? Warby requested of Griego.

No, Griego said.

Then may we go back there and retrieve the statement?

No.

When agent Warby tried to walk his way through the verbal resistance, Griego pushed the bar's silent alarm button and called the police.

Metro arrived. And so did Stasia Doom, who handed the disputed $5 to Mathews.

But the matter didn't end there. Just last month, the Attorney General's office filed a complaint against City Limits.

A tribunal before the Nevada Gaming Commission has been set for the Dooms, not specifically for that disputed $5, but on account of, in essence, two points:

One, that the board took it personally when City Limits associates demonstrated such insolence—and such blatant irreverence—toward investigators, placing Ingram and Warby in an "embarrassing and dangerous situation," according to Michael Somps, a lawyer with AG's office who represents the board in this absurd affair. The second, states Somps, is that the board deems this fiasco over $5 "a failure [on City Limits' part] to exercise discretion and sound judgment, which might reflect on the repute of the State of Nevada and act as a detriment to the development of the gaming industry."

Of course, none of the personal players in these two quarrels—Gold, Leyser, Ingram, Warby, the Dooms—could give direct comment to this story, for in this litigious day and age you can end up in court disputing something even more meager than $5: Yep, your very words, too. As cheap as they might be.

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