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Lay the Favorite: A Story About Gamblers
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Lay the Favorite: A Story About Gamblers

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by Beth Raymer

“Beth Raymer’s crackling, hilarious memoir ricochets through the gambling underworld in Las Vegas, and is peopled with all manner of lovable wack-jobs, none of whom is quite as wacky—or lovable—as Raymer herself.”—Marie Claire
Beth Raymer waited tables at a dive in Las Vegas until a customer sent her


“Beth Raymer’s crackling, hilarious memoir ricochets through the gambling underworld in Las Vegas, and is peopled with all manner of lovable wack-jobs, none of whom is quite as wacky—or lovable—as Raymer herself.”—Marie Claire
Beth Raymer waited tables at a dive in Las Vegas until a customer sent her to see Dink, of Dink Inc., one of the town’s biggest professional sports gamblers. Dink needed a right-hand man—someone who would show up on time, who had a head for numbers, and who didn’t steal. Beth got the job.
Lay the Favorite is the story of Beth’s years in the high-stakes, high-anxiety world of sports betting—a period that saw the fall of the local bookie and the birth of the freewheeling, unregulated offshore sports book, and with it the elevation of sports betting in popular culture. As the business explodes, Beth rises from assistant to expert, running an offshore booking office in the Caribbean. As the men around her succumb to their vices—money, sex, drugs, gambling—Beth improbably emerges with her integrity intact, wiser, sharper, nobody’s fool. A keen and compassionate observer of the adrenaline-addicted roguish types who become her mentors, her enemies, her family, Beth Raymer depicts an insanely colorful world teeming with pathos and ecstasy.
“Candid, smart, funny, wild and crazy.”—Elle
“Raymer gleefully shatters the myth of the modern gambler. . . . Seduced by her stories, we long for this strange, sleazy and alluring landscape.”—Los Angeles Times
“[Raymer depicts] a sordid, florid microworld lurching along the edge of society, not to mention legality. . . . She never condescends or indulges in reality-show caricature; she finds charm in the charmless, a point of light in the most lost of souls.”—The New York Times Book Review
Lay the Favorite reads more like a novel than a memoir. The rich characters are drawn in depth, yet simply and honestly.”—The Wall Street Journal
“Entertaining (and often quite funny) . . . a delight to read.”—The New Yorker

Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher
“Betting on the come in her wickedly funny debut, Beth Raymer’s prose is like a virgin in a sandy bikini festooned with C-notes. From Vegas to Rio, from the boxing ring to the stripper's pole, she rubs shoulders and other things with the sickest crew of action junkies since Roulettenburg. Her ear for sports bettors' patois, for the ins and outs of pleasure, self-pleasure, and getting the best of it, makes Lay the Favorite a kaleidoscope of high-test debauchery.” –James McManus, author of Positively Fifth Street
“Strange as hell, wildly affectionate and very, very funny.  It is a world filled with scoundrels, thieves, and gamblers.  It is a world we all recognize, where everyone is looking to somehow come out on top while doing what they love.  The book is wise and has a relish for life that is a treat.” –Stephen Frears
“Beth Raymer possesses one of the most original voices I've encountered in years of teaching, reading, and reviewing young writers. And she puts that voice to ideal use in depicting the demimonde of sports gambling, the place where she finds an unlikely but uncanny surrogate family. Lay the Favorite is a coming-of-age saga like no other you’re ever likely to read.” –Samuel G. Freedman, author of Letters to a Young Journalist

Lay the Favorite reads more like a novel than a memoir. The rich characters are drawn in depth, yet simply and honestly.”—Wall Street Journal
“[A] very funny and smart book.”—Robert Siegel, NPR/All Things Considered
“Seduced by her stories, we long for this strange, sleazy and alluring landscape, even as the stakes get higher and Raymer's search for ‘the best of it’ turns into a worst-case scenario. With a film adaptation in the works, it's a safe bet that Raymer's memoir will find a wide audience. In fact, her engaging voice makes her a shoe-in for a sequel. I'm setting the odds at 3 to 1.”—Los Angeles Times
“Raymer’s crackling, hilarious memoir ricochets through the gambling underwold in Las Vegas, and is peopled with all manner of lovable wack-jobs, none of whom is quite as wacky—or lovable—as Raymer herself.”—Marie Claire
“Candid, smart, funny, wild and crazy.”—Elle, Top 10 Summer Books for 2010
“It’s hard not to like the breezy, ingenuous voice of this plucky protagonist who proves she’s game for any kind of new experience.”—Publishers Weekly

Lynn Harris
Technically, Lay the Favorite is not 100 percent memoir. It's also a tragicomic biography of Raymer's misfit-math-whiz boss-slash-father figures…Raymer is an ace at description: from American neo-gothic detail…to gambling patois…The generous emphasis on her mentors underscores her even greater strength: compassion. She never condescends or indulges in ­reality-show caricature; she finds charm in the charmless, a point of light in the most lost of souls.
—The New York Times
Stefan Beck

The trouble with cautionary tales is that they rarely afford any surprises. If you’re too thick to guess what’s coming, chances are you’re too thick to appreciate the warning, too. Only a genius can make something timeless of this didactic genre (think Dostoyevsky’s The Gambler). Perhaps Beth Raymer, author of Lay the Favorite, understood this when she sat down to write what one might call an incautionary tale -- an unapologetic, largely lesson-free panegyric on gambling.

It’s a memoir, but not in the sense we’re accustomed to; it’s less about Raymer than it is about the misfits with whom she surrounds herself and works: Las Vegas-based pro gambler Douglas "Dink" Heimowitz; his frugality-challenged wife, Tulip; Long Island bookie Bernard Rose; and more boxers, spivs, wheedlers, goons, loose women, degenerates, and wannabes than a whole sagging shelf of crime fiction.

Raymer ends up in Las Vegas by following a doomed relationship, and finds herself in short order living in a $17/night motel room decorated with only a Magic 8-Ball and a road atlas, this latter being an uncannily appropriate departure from the Gideons Bible. She waits tables at a Thai restaurant before going to work for Dink as a handicapper and delivery girl, but her susceptibility to gambling and other unusual work isn’t accidental; we learn that her father is an inveterate gambler and that before reaching Sin City, Raymer worked (with a wink) as an exotic dancer specializing in house calls.

She goes to New York, hoping to go straight, as it were, but is soon put in touch with Bernard. Hoping to give her life structure -- no laughter, please -- she takes up boxing. This culminates in Raymer’s getting her face turned "eggplant purple" by a Dominican woman, "La Tormenta," in the Golden Gloves finals at Madison Square Garden’s Felt Forum. She travels to Curaçao and Costa Rica to work for an offshore sports book. She makes a lot of money and spends all of it. That teeth-gritting, fist-clenching sensation you’re experiencing is called "envy."

Some memoirs read as if their authors courted trouble for something to write about. Lay the Favorite reads like Raymer did so for something to do, and that has made all the difference. Her book is a tribute to what she calls "getting the best of it," strong-arming every thin dime out of life, and having experiences worth remembering at the expense of stability or, at times, respectability.

Then again, if Raymer’s employment history won’t make her respectable, at least her prose will. "I only learned at [Columbia’s MFA program]," Raymer told Publishers Weekly, "what a metaphor was and how to structure a paragraph." I’ll buy that for a dollar -- but the fact remains, for a debut, by a self-described non-writer, Lay the Favorite is a hell of an achievement. It’s entertaining, funny, and boasts unforgettable images, like a hooker whose "large, dark nipples shone through her white lace unitard like coffee stains on a tablecloth." Best of all, Raymer never tries to force an insight where wonder will suffice.

The slang-laden chatter of Raymer’s characters is great fun to read, and critics with no way of knowing it will doubtless tell us she has a pitch-perfect ear for the argot of . . . Whatever. Only an insider can vouch for her accuracy. But any rube can see that she’s got an eye for the main chance, and in this case it’s paid off big.

--Stefan Beck

Publishers Weekly
It’s hard not to like the breezy, ingenuous voice of this plucky protagonist who proves she’s game for any kind of new experience. Hailing from Ohio, Raymer eventually made her way to Las Vegas when she was 24 and found a lucrative position assisting a Queens-born, Stuyvesant High School-educated gambling operator, Dink Heimowitz. The lovable, irascible, big-bellied Dinky had shucked life as a bookmaker back in New York, having run into trouble, for professional sports gambling; he put Raymer and the other motley staff on the phones setting up bets for all kinds of sports matchups (baseball, football, horse racing, hockey) in order to “find a line that gave him an edge.” Dinky referred Raymer to a high-flying bookie on Long Island, Bernard Rose, who had his own offshore network. As “girl Friday” Raymer fetched doughnuts, placed calls, and acted as a runner, making wads of dough, but mostly Raymer cherished working among the assortment of gambling types, the low-end hustlers and misfits she chronicles with evident tenderness. (June)
Kirkus Reviews
An impulsive young female boxing enthusiast stumbles through the sordid milieu of professional compulsive gambling. Raymer's background is certainly improbable. A onetime "private stripper," she followed up her gaming adventures with a Columbia MFA and a Fulbright Scholarship. She nostalgically recalls her earliest experiences with games of chance alongside her father, a flashy used-car salesman. "Though gambling caused many fights between my mom and dad," she writes, "I associated it with some of the happiest memories of my childhood." In Las Vegas, Raymer worked for Dink, an overweight, slovenly "professional sports gambler." She quickly became enamored with the business and with her own aptitude for the minutiae of receiving odds and placing bets with various sports books. The author found Dink inexplicably fascinating, despite the fact that Dink's wife considered her a threat, even when Dink abruptly fired her, a loss that caused her to take up boxing. "Dink's absence and rejection had created a void," she writes. "Boxing was the most challenging thing I'd ever done. It gave me the discipline I had been craving since I had no professional life to speak of." Later, Raymer traveled to Curacao with Bernard, similar to Dink but more compulsive and hysterical. Bernard set up an offshore wagering operation that quickly caromed from instant success to insolvency. Raymer remained unfazed. The author's prose style is sharp, but her memoir is morally tone deaf. The author strains mightily to present her gambling associates as colorful iconoclasts rather than creeps, yet she seems unable to perceive the financial harm they visit upon peoples' lives and families. This material might have led to striking literary journalism, but Raymer's preoccupation with herself-she details several PG-13 romantic affairs, which have little effect on her gambling obsession-renders it trite. The ending leaves various narrative threads unresolved, as Raymer literally runs away from her problems to Rio de Janeiro. Uninspiring but sure to receive media attention. Local author promotion in New York and Las Vegas. Film rights to director Stephen Frears. Agent: Andrew Blauner/Blauner Books Literary Agency

Product Details

Random House Publishing Group
Publication date:
Product dimensions:
5.42(w) x 7.82(h) x 0.52(d)

Read an Excerpt

Chapter One

The Crew

The thing I liked best about working at Komol was Jowtee, the invisible spirit who controlled the restaurant’s destiny. I had never actually seen Jowtee but the kitchen staff swore he existed. They said he was a seven-foot-tall Native American Chief, a ghost from the Indian burial ground beneath the strip mall. If I didn’t feed him, pray to him, and bring him presents, something disastrous would befall the restaurant. As the only non-Thai, I had to believe them. So in between seating, waiting, and busing tables I found time to keep Jowtee happy. At the booth that was reserved for him, I’d serve Jowtee imported bottled beer in a frosty mug, whole fish fried in hot sauce, and coconut ice cream for dessert. I’d bring him daily horoscopes and decks of cards from neighboring casinos. After lighting his candle, I’d close my eyes and telepathically beg him to help turn my life around and get me that cocktail waitress job at the Bellagio.

Jowtee heard my plea. At least part of it.

During a particularly slow dinner shift, one of the regulars offered to help get me a better job. Her name was Amy and she was a massage therapist. Every Saturday evening she came in by herself and ordered vegetable green curry, extra spicy, and took her time eating it, her oversized black sunglasses never leaving her face. One night, on her way out, she slid into the front booth next to me and watched as I filled out my Stardust and Four Queens cocktail waitress applications.

“These jobs are shit,” she said, flipping through the papers. “I have this one client I give massages to. A professional gambler. Want me to see if he’ll hire you?”

I was twenty-four and had moved to Las Vegas to be with a guy I had been dating for a few months. We broke up soon after I arrived. I didn’t know a single person in town. But no one else seemed to, either. It was 2001 and Vegas was the fastest-growing metropolitan area in America. Fifteen hundred people were moving into the city each week. Everyone I met was very much like me and had just ended up there.

After the breakup, I rented a room in a motel just north of the Strip in a neighborhood known as Naked City. In the fifties, it had been home to strippers who sunbathed in the nude to avoid tan lines. Now, bail bondsmen, hookers, Vietnam vets, and irritable motel clerks added color to the place. My motel was three blocks from the Little White Wedding Chapel and Johnny Tocco’s Boxing Gym and four blocks from the downtown casinos: Binion’s Horseshoe, the El Cortez, and the Aztec—home of the fifty-nine-cent strawberry shortcake. The cigarette burns in the motel’s bedspreads were big enough to fit a leg through and the staccato of stilettos across the floor upstairs made it hard to get a good night’s sleep. But at seventeen dollars a night, it was affordable, and it allowed dogs. So Otis, my sixty-pound Chow Chow, and I moved in. The wooden nightstand showcased the room’s only décor: a Rand McNally road atlas and a Magic 8 Ball.

Before moving to Vegas, I was living in Tallahassee, Florida, and working at a residential home for troubled teenage girls. During one Sunday morning shift, the girls kept asking me if I would let them run away. I could get their shoes out of the locked closet, open the back door, wait fifteen minutes to give them a head start, and then call the cops. I could tell the psychologists that they threatened me. That one of them held a knife to my back—no; my face—then stole the keys from my pocket. Come on, they begged, we just want to see our boyfriends and smoke. Please?

All three of them were seventeen-year-old white girls who got into a lot of fistfights, dealt pot, and dated gangbangers. Usually when they asked me to let them run away I’d change the subject. But on that morning, as the girls over-plucked their eyebrows and pleaded with me to set them free, I felt sad for them. The only thing they looked forward to was filling paper cups with mouthwash, shooting it back as though it were bourbon, then pretending they were drunk. They were never allowed outside, and their lunches and dinners consisted of microwavable pasta dishes high in fat. As a result, they had acne and their clothes were too tight. I didn’t get their shoes from the closet, which seemed too calculated. But I did let them run away. Standing by the door, I watched them laugh and scream in disbelief, grasping for one another’s hands, their bare feet skipping across the parking lot’s blacktop. Fifteen minutes later I called the cops. Two days later I was fired.

A cocktail waitress job seemed like a better fit. But with no connections or casino experience my application went straight to the bottom of the heap. After applying to the fancy casinos on the Strip, I moved to the downtown casinos near my motel. Sure, I was welcome to apply for a position at the El Cortez, but I’d have to wait for sixty-five-year-old Rosie from Cheyenne, in her surgical stockings and culinary workers local 226 pin, to die before I could even get an interview. The only reason I had a job at the Thai restaurant was because my ex-boyfriend’s parents, who were nice enough to offer me a job upon arrival, owned it. They weren’t expecting me to break up with their son, however, and working there had become tense.

I gave Amy twenty percent off her curry and the following day she left a message. Interview at noon with Dink, 1459 North Rainbow.

The office park sat in a patch of desert eight miles off the Strip. Every few steps, Otis stopped to sniff and pee on the benches. Dragging him past the professionally dressed men and women enjoying their smoke break, I pulled the address out of my pocket. I hadn’t imagined gamblers doing business alongside divorce lawyers and accountants. In my denim miniskirt and Converse sneakers, and with Otis scruffy and panting at my side, I felt more like a teenage runaway than an interviewee. I pulled my hair out of its ponytail so that it fell over my shoulders and hid my bra straps.

In a row of offices with signs like Nevada Insurance and Coldwell Banker, stood a suite with no sign and white plastic blinds covering its windows. Next to the door was a square address plaque and scrawled in its center, in Wite-Out correction pen, was “Dink Inc.” From inside, a television blared. The sound of a bugle summoned horses to the starting gate at a racetrack. I knocked.

The door opened, revealing a guy about six-foot-four, two hundred and eighty pounds. His hair was a heap of shiny, springy brown curls, the kind you see in ads for home perms. Tucked into his armpit was a Daily Racing Form, and in his hand was a puffy white bagel overstuffed with lox. He introduced himself as Dink, then took a bite of his sandwich. With mouth full, he asked if my dog had an opinion on the Yankees game.

Dink was in his late forties, but his bashful smile and distracting habit of twisting his curls around his pointer finger made him appear much younger. He dressed like the mentally retarded adults I had met while volunteering at a group home. His Chicago Cubs T-shirt was two sizes too small for his expansive frame. Royal blue elasticized cotton shorts were pulled high above his belly button. White tube socks were stretched to the middle of his pale, hairless shins.

Inside the suite, a long banquet table was cluttered: hockey digests; baseball encyclopedias; a baseball prospectus; sports pages from USA Today, the New York Post, the Las Vegas Review-Journal; dozens of calculators; telephones; mechanical pencils; computer monitors; and several copies of Fuzzy Creatures Quarterly, a magazine that offered tips on how to better love and care for one’s hamster. At the front of the office, a tower of six forty-inch televisions balanced on a flimsy metal stand, each tuned to a different sport. Dink took his seat at the head of the table. In front of him, stacks of cash were piled as high as his bottle of Yoo-Hoo. I stared at the money, mesmerized.

He nodded to one of the TVs and in a heavy Queens accent he said, “We need Minnesoter and undah, for a decent amount.”

Having no idea what he was talking about, I said, “Okay,” and took a seat.

In the long silence that followed, Dink twirled and twirled his curls, engrossed in the basketball games and horse races. The action on TV reflected off his eyeglasses, which were as thick as hockey pucks and cloudy with thumbprints. Rising from the floor were stacks of books, all of which appeared to be on the subjects of hockey and New York punk bands except for one on the very bottom: Hide Your A$$et$ and Disappear: A Step-by-Step Guide to Vanishing Without a Trace.

On the TV, a player for Minnesota made two free throws. Unsure of whether or not this was a good thing for Dink, I stayed quiet and massaged Otis’s back with the bottom of my sneaker. Dink clicked the eraser of his mechanical pencil, then scribbled something down in his raggedy five-subject notebook. He asked me how well I knew Amy.

“Very well,” I lied. I smiled.

He took a swig of his Yoo-Hoo and asked me what I knew about gambling.

The day the Fort Lauderdale airport started offering casino junkets that flew nonstop to the Bahamas was the day my family started taking vacations. My dad, a car salesman, found out about the offer from the guys at the dealership. Basically, he guaranteed that he would spend a certain amount of time at the Paradise Island Casino blackjack tables, and in return, we got free airfare. The next thing I knew there were four airline tickets on the kitchen counter and Dad was coming home from work carrying books. Dad never came home from work carrying anything but Miller Lite tallboys. The only book in our entire house was the Lee Iacocca autobiography Dad won for selling the most cars at the Fourth of July tent sale.

The books were small and glossy and bore titles like A Winner’s Guide to Blackjack and Beat the Casino. They had lots of pictures and were only about sixty pages long. Perfect for an eleven-year-old like me. The week before the trip, after my mom and fourteen-year-old sister went to bed, I sat at the kitchen table and practiced dealing hands of 21 to my dad and my three Cabbage Patch Kids.

On the afternoon my family arrived at Paradise Island, Dad handed my mom, my sister, and me each a crisp one-hundred-?dollar bill. He recited our family vacation motto—Money is no object!—then bolted for the casino the moment the airport shuttle’s door slid open. Mom caught the trolley to the outdoor market, my sister went off to buy pot, and I went in search of my dad, eager to sit beside him at the tables and watch him play.

It was my first time in a casino but certainly not my father’s. In the early years of my parents’ marriage, he and Mom flew out to Vegas a couple of times a year and stayed at the Tropicana. In 1976, a nun from the orphanage called my parents and told them there was a two-week-old baby girl available. My parents had married young and had been trying to have kids for twelve years. They had adopted my sister three years earlier. Now there was a new baby, from a different family. Were they interested? Mom cried “Yes!” but as soon as she hung up, Dad reminded her of the tickets they had, to see Elvis in Vegas that weekend. The next morning they picked me up from Catholic Social Services, named me after the Kiss song “Beth,” which was playing on the radio, left me with Aunt Bonnie, and took off to Vegas. On the evening of the show, Dad found himself at the blackjack table, in the middle of a “hot streak.” Despite my mother’s pleading, Dad refused to quit playing, and they missed Elvis. Twenty-two years later, during their divorce, Mom repeated this story in front of the judge as proof that my father was a problem gambler.

Meet the Author

Beth Raymer has an MFA from Columbia University. In 2007 she was awarded a Fulbright scholarship. She lives in New York City.

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