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The Prince of Whales

By Deke Castleman

In Las Vegas, casino hosts like STEVE CYR outhustle one another to land the big whales -- guys like LARRY FLYNT, game-show magnate ROGER KING, and KERRY PACKER -- all of whom bet more than one million dollars per trip. KERRY PACKER once tipped a singer in Las Vegas a hundred thousand dollar chip after listening to her for two songs. There is a slang term for big tippers... it's called GEORGE. KERRY PACKER is a super George.

[Editor's Note: In the gambling lexicon, a "whale" is one of the world's wealthiest wagerers. These are casino players who can bet from $50,000 to $250,000 a hand. The casino employee who harpoons the whales is known as the superhost. he's the casino's front man, who makes all the arrangements for these leviathans -- airplane, limo, penthouse, gifts, parties, dinners, shopping sprees, women.]

Most whales are used to running everything and everyone in their lives. They generally get whatever they want whenever they want it. An international marketing executive has to see to it that they only get what they have coming to them in return for their play. He knows that because of the habit of running their own businesses, whales'll run his business too if he lets them. He tries not to let them, but it doesn't always work out that way.

The high roller with the most ferocious reputation for trying to run the business for the casinos where he plays is Kerry Packer. In the casino world, Packer is the Prince of Whales. He isn't Asian. He's Australian. And he's the wealthiest man in the country. Estimates of his fortune range, depending on the day, from $4.5 billion to more than $8 billion. He owns Australia's largest television station, 60 percent of all magazines sold Down Under (including the venerable Women's Weekly, inaugurated in 1933 by Kerry's father, Sir Frank Packer), pieces of Casino Sydney and Melbourne's Crown Casino, and a host of other media, entertainment, gambling, and mutual-fund interests. His holdings have put him into nearly perpetual conflict with the Australian government and other media moguls (his arch-nemesis is Rupert Murdoch).

It's probably apocryphal, but the story of the Packer family's road to riches starts with Kerry's grandfather, who found 10 shillings on the street in Tasmania and parlayed it into a passage to mainland Australia and a big win on a longshot bet on a horse race. From those humble gambling roots, Packer, a tall heavyset man born in 1938 -- who's had a series of heart attacks and a kidney transplant (the kidney was donated by one of his employees, who is now reportedly setup for life) -- has become one of the few true-blue whales in the gambling world. he's easily the biggest player known player.

Ironically, the chairmen, CEOs, and presidents of American casinos who deal with Packer don't consider him a whale in the fully developed sense of the term. He's a quintessential hit-and-run high roller. A U.S. casino rarely gets enough play from him to dig too deeply into his pockets. Unlike most gamblers, low roller and high, for whom love and fever are the great motivators, Packer is aroused by pure sport. Just the thrill of it. Nothing can happen in the casino that will significantly impact his standard of living. If he makes or loses $10 or $20 million in a session, it's inconsequential. But he loves to see the impact his gambling has on the casino bosses. A cutthroat-style businessman, Packer reportedly derives greater satisfaction in victory if he can see his opponent bleeding at the side of the road as he walks off.

He likes to put fear into their hearts. If a boss acts like nothings's a big deal and Packer can do whatever he wants, he doesn't get as much of a charge out of it. He starts perking up when he's told, "No, we can't really let you go that far." That's when he knows he's reached the level where the casino is starting to feel uncomfortable. He keeps pushing until he hears, "No, sorry, we can't do it." And then he pushes some more. He's exorbitantly generous to widows and orphans and front-line casino workers, but he seems to take a perverse pleasure in undressing the bosses.

And always in the back of his mind must be the knowledge that he could actually, single-handedly, bankrupt one of these joints.

The story goes that Packer was flying somewhere -- Singapore, Bangkok, London -- from Sydney, and he called the cage at the Darwin Casino at the northern tip of Australia, which was on his flight path. He asked the cage supervisor how much cash was on hand. When he was given a number, he said no thanks. When the he supervisor asked him how much cash he needed to stop off and play, he quoted three times the number.

The next time Packer called, Darwin had enough cash in the cage and he landed. He played, won, and emptied the cage. He tipped everyone well and took off again, with a little extra walking-around money for his trip. He doesn't go out and buy jewelry with the win. He doesn't celebrate. He just likes the feeling of having free cash on him (who doesn't?) to spend on whatever strikes his fancy.

The stories of his gargantuan wins, losses, and tokes are the stuff of legend.

Packer is rumored to have taken the biggest loss ever in a U.K. casino, losing 11 million pounds (US $16 million in 1999, playing blackjack over a three-week span at Crockfords Casino in Mayfair. (He's less hit-and-run in England, where he lives part-time.)

On March 31, 1992, Packer waltzed into Caesars Palace and began firing it up. At midnight as the books for the fiscal quarter closed, he was up $9 million. It was a loss of 37 cents per share for Caesars World and cut into the company's earnings for the first quarter by a full 50 percent. Between midnight and dawn, Packer lost back the $9 million and then some, and Caesars second-quarter earnings rose with the tide.

In 1995, he showed up at MGM Grand in the wee hours one morning, asking that an entire blackjack pit be cleared of players. He went from table to table, betting six hands at $75,000 a hand. (A $75,000 bet for someone worth $5 billion might equate with a 75-cent bet for someone who earns $50,000 a year. Several "PackerWatch" web sites have a meter that calculates how long it takes him to earn your yearly salary. The $50,000 guy? Twenty-two minutes.) In a couple of hours at MGM, he won a reported $26 million, then cashed in his checks and went his merry way. It's rumored that MGM eventually let him bet $500,000 a hand, so he had to be up more than 50 bets -- a phenomenal hot streak.

According to rumor and myth, Packer's winning streak at the MGM lasted several visits until he was barred for life. Apparently, Kirk Kerkorian, the majority shareholder in MGM Grand, wasn't happy. At the time, he was wheeling and dealing in Chrysler stock and he needed the price of his MGM shares to stay high. The Packer debacle hurt him. Heads rolled; the old management team was terminated and a new one came in.

Terry Lanni, the incoming CEO, dispatched Larry Woolf, one of the outgoing executives and Packer's handler, to London to personally tell him that MGM was no longer interested in his action. Woolf watched Packer play polo for a while, they got back into his BMW and returned to the ranch house, where Woolf broke the news that he'd been 86'd from the Grand. Packer was hurt. He'd been to dinner with Kerkorian several times. "How much can I play?" he asked.

"Nothing," Woolf told him. "You can't play at all."

"For how long?"

"Forever."

"I'm gonna make you walk back to London!" Packer roared.

"It's not my decision," Woolf said. "Don't kill the messenger. When I was there, you were more than welcome. We gave you good limits. But now there's a new management team. They want to reduce their exposure."

Then Woolf eased the blow. "You're just too tough. You know that the only way the casino has a chance to win someone's money is if he plays long enough. In London, during polo season, you go to the casinos every night. They've got a bull's-eye on you. But in Vegas, you play an hour and win a million or two and you're gone. You're not giving them a fair shot."

Though Packer ranted and raved while longer, Woolf believes he was also secretly pleased to hear that he was too touch for the MGM.

Packer is, in fact, a pretty good blackjack player. He's had some tutoring from experts along the way. So he has a hard time finding a joint that'll fade his blackjack action. Casinos will book his big baccarat bets, but they don't want his 21 play. also, he doesn't go off on temper tantrums as much at baccarat as he does at blackjack. At baccarat, you don't have to do anything but choose player or banker. because decision-making comes into play at the blackjack table, he's a lot more volatile when playing 21. Occasionally, he'll even have a problem finding places that will fade the maximum baccarat bets he like to make.

When casino host Steve Cyr was at the Hilton, Packer liked playing there. The bosses not only booked his blackjack action, but they dealt to him at $75,000 a hand and he could spread to multiple hands. One time he had $825,000 out on one round and the dealer busted; it was a $1.65 million swing.

A story has long gone around Las Vegas that in the late 80s, Packer had a $5 million credit line at Caesars. It was large a line as anyone could get at the time, but he still wanted to increase his credit. He got on the phone which the president of Caesars and said, "Look, I can buy this company with petty cash."

The president said, "Great. When you buy the company, you can give yourself any credit line you want. But while we still own it, you'll have to abide by our limits."

Packer is also justly famous for being George. By most accounts, he's the biggest tipper who ever lived. His tokes to dealers and cocktail waitresses typically run in the tens of thousands of dollars, and stories abound about his dropping a few thousand here and a few thousand there into the hands of needy employees.

While playing baccarat at The Mirage shortly after it opened in 1989, Packer made a $100,000 bet for the dealers (and won). After winning the $26 million at MGM Grand, he went around and tipped each dealer on duty $2,500, which added up to $105,000. And once, after bumping a cocktail waitress and causing her to dump a tray of drinks, he asked for her name and address. The next thing she knew, her $130,000 mortgage had been paid off.

He doesn't like his generosity publicized, however. He hates to read about the size of his tokes in the newspaper and has been known to tell his dealers, "If the word gets out about how much I tipped tonight, I'll never leave another dime." In July 2001, Packer was said to have lost $20 million playing baccarat at Bellagio. Still, he toked big. But then he read about it in the Las Vegas Review-Journal. The next time he went in, no one got a thing. He stiffed them all -- while he was winning $9 million. He's obviously a man of his word. Someone talked. He walked.

In 1991, Steve Cyr saw Jimmy Newman, the senior vice president of Hilton corporation, and Guy Hudson, the senior vice president of Hilton credit, running across the casino. These guys were casino gods; they were never in a hurry. And here they were at a full sprint all the way from the front to the back of the joint, looking like they were being chased by demons.

It turned out that early the night before, Kerry Packer had shown up unexpectedly at the Hilton's high-limit pit, but it was closed and wouldn't open for an hour. Packer walked right back out the door and heads rolled. The next night, Packer pulled up again unannounced; warned by the valet manager, Newman and Hudson were in a rush to make sure the room was ready for him. He lost $10 million that night. It was a record at the time -- the first time anyone had lost eight figures in one session. Hilton bean counters couldn't get the size of the loss into the computer, which only accepted up to seven digits.

Engelbert Humperdinck was in the showroom that night. Waiting to see the show was a little girl, in a wheelchair. When Packer walked by, he looked at her. Stopping in his tracks, he left the side of Newman and Hudson, reached into his pocket, and stuck something in her hand.

After getting Packer settled in at a gambling table, Hudson walked by the showroom again. The little girl called him over and asked who that man was.

"He's a good customer of the Hilton's," Hudson replied.

"Do you know what he game me?"

"No it's none of my business anyway."

"He gave me three thousand dollars and I'd like to thank him."

"Honey, he gave it to you because he's a nice guy and he wants you to have it. You thanked him by just accepting it. Now go and enjoy the show and when I see him, I'll tell him that you expressed your deepest appreciation."

She said, "No, I'm going to skip the show and wait for him."

"Please don't," Hudson said. "That would only disappoint him."

So the girl sat through Engelbert and when she came out, Hudson made sure Packer came around so she could thank him.

Later playing at the Hilton, Packer took a liking to Kristine W of the Sting. Kristine and the Sting did a stint as a house band in the Hilton Nightclub and Packer thought she was great. ONe night he was playing blackjack between sets and Kristine came out to hang with him. He was betting $50,000 a hand on five or six spots on the layout. He pointed to one spot and told the dealer, "This one's yours." Then he pointed to another spot, looked at Kristine, and said, "And this one's yours." The dealer played out the hands and the dealer's bet lost, but Kristine's won. All of the sudden she was $100,000 richer.

Finally, Packer's known for not wanting to gamble around other gamblers. A story circulated after one of Packer's trips to Las Vegas that while he was playing in the high-limit pit at Bellagio, a gambler at another table was being particularly obnoxious. Packer suffered the boorish player in silence for a while. Finally, he got up, walked over, and asked the man to pipe down.

The man looked at Packer, incredulous that anyone would dare address someone of his caliber and standing in such a manner. "Do you know who I am?" he demanded.

"No," Packer replied.

"I'm [so and so] from Texas and I'm worth fifty million dollars!"

Packer cocked an eyebrow, shrugged, and said, "I'll flip you for it."

Speaking of tokes, praises have been sung about the generosity of other mondo gamblers. One guy goes around buying tables. He'll breeze up to a blackjack layout where the players are betting $5 and $10 a hand and hand each one a $500 to leave. Then he takes over the game.

A grizzled old floorman tells another tale of magnanimity. His big player, an Asian, was betting $15,00 a hand with yellow $1,000 bananas. Naturally, he drew a little crowd, among them a pregnant woman standing there with her husband. The pregnant woman asked out loud to no one in particular, "How much is that bet?"

The player looked over and said, "Thousand-dollar chips." He picked one up, handed it to her, and said, "Hold this for me, for luck."

Asians believe that pregnant women are lucky. Many won't play if the dealer is pregnant. Baccarat tables in high limits pits clear out post haste when a pregnant dealer sits down.

The gambler kept playing and every time he won a bet, he handed the pregnant lady another banana. Over the course of 15 or 20 minutes, he gave her 25 or 30 of them, till finally the husband tried to give them back. But he player insisted they keep them. "No. Those are for you and the baby."

The pregnant woman started crying. And everyone else at the table started crying. Even the seen-it-all floorman admits to getting choked up himself.

Excerpted rom Whale Hunt in the Desert -- The Secret Las Vegas of Superhost Steve Cyr, by Deke Castleman.

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