Winter 2003 When celebrities, high rollers and certified whales hit Vegas, they all call the Mandalay Bay's Richard Wilk By Rob Wiser, Portraits by Joe Picket III Vegas Magazine

I'd split the Big Apple and relocated to Vegas, eager to embrace a new lifestyle of high stakes, fast women and extra dry martinis. But the plan for reinventing myself in the swingin' style of a young Dean Martin -- parading through Sin City's dice joints with a showgirl on each arm, doubling down till dawn and then retiring to the Rain Man suite -- had been doused by an ice-cold bucket of reality.

On Saturday nights I'd throw on my best suit and hit the blackjack tables, only to see my rent money wiped out before I could score a free drink. Instead of dining on filet mignon and single-malt Scotch, I was standing in line wit the fannypackers for the $5.99 buffet. While the movers and shakers partied with the beautiful babes, I was stuck on the wrong side of the velvet rope.

I needed juice. I needed to get connected. I needed to know a guy like Richard Wilk. Richard is a senior casino host. To hold this title at one of the Strip's hottest resorts is to possess the ultimate backstage pass, to preside over a world in which wait lists, cover charges and velvet ropes don't apply. A fourth dimension where nightclub doormen practically fall over themselves whisking you past the line into the plush VIP rooms never glimpsed by average mortals. Where strip-club goddesses ask you for your phone number.

Richard's job is to take care o the casino's most important customers. After a stint at the Hard Rock he's now with Mandalay Bay, the billion-dollar colossus with the golden facade that anchors the southern end of the Strip. The sprawling casino floor contains a lavish high-limit salon, where the big shots think nothing of betting an everyman's salary on a turn of the cards. There's the members-only Foundation Room, a spectacular VIP sanctuary looming high above the Strip where corporate kingpins mingle with pro athletes and rock stars. There are nightclubs packed with knee-weakening women, a list of restaurants as long as your arm, and a pool with an 11-acre manmade beach. It's one of Sin City's grandest stages, the type of joint he was born to work.

I met Richard when he was with the Hard Rock. I had no use for a host -- I'd just burned through the contents of my wallet in another of my furious four-minute blackjack sessions -- and a host had even less use for me. But Richard and I got to talking and hit it off. A few weeks later, I joined him for lunch and told him I wanted to document the life of a top host, explore the other level of Vegas where he plies his trade.

He said that in order to paint an accurate picture I'd need to start hanging with him on the VIP scene. I was one step ahead of him on that idea. All he had to say was where and when.

The next night, I found myself in the company of Richard and a half-dozen young NFL stars, barreling down the Strip in a convoy of SUV limos. Our destination was Light, the ultrachic nightclub inside the Bellagio. Our posse sliced through the crown like a Ginsu blade and was received like royalty: up the private elevator, down a dark, mirrored hallway, ushered to our spot next to the dance floor. Within minutes, our booth resembled an island amid a sea of women trying to get next to us, as the wait staff scrambled to replenish our bottles of chilled Grey Goose.

Throughout, Richard loomed nearby, chatting with a constant stream of well-wishers, but always keeping one eye on us. Making sure his people were being taken care of. I glanced his way and he flashed me a grin that said, Welcome to the big time. I wasn't planning on going home anytime soon.

Back in the Rat Pack days, your average host was a white-haired suit who started in the trenches as a dealer, eventually got kicked up to pit boss, and wound up a host since he'd known all the casino's regular customers since the dawn of time. Richard epitomizes the new breed: 35 years old, razor-sharp, armed with a marketing degree and ambition to burn. His vide is old-school Italian: genuine, gracious, but clearly not a guy you'd want to tangle with. With his leading-man good looks, and fullback's build, he cuts a striking figure as he stalks through the casino. At the Hard Rock, he sported a goatee and dressed in hipster black; at Mandalay Bay he made the switch to immaculately tailored suits, the diamond ring sparkling on his pinkie giving him a dash of Vegas Wiseguy.

It's no surprise Richard was tapped to arrange a party for the cast of The Sopranos; in his world, as in theirs, respect is the name of the game. He treats you right, you reciprocate, and then you aren't a customer -- you're a friend. Spend enough time in his casino and you're family. He has a Sinatraesque charisma, an aura that makes you feel special just being around him. One night he's organizing a bash for Eminem; the next he might be squiring around a pal like Mike Piazza or Joe Pesci. Nights often conclude with a trip through the rear VIP entrance of the Crazy Horse Too, Vegas' hottest strip club.

Taking care of people seems wired into his DNA. Raised in Canada, he got hooked on martial arts as a kid and was working the door at Toronto's biggest nightclubs by age 18. He worked as a stuntman for film and television productions that came to town, his first exposure to celebrities. "They trusted me because I wasn't gaga over them," he says. "I treated 'em like normal people."

He underwent Special Forces training and segued into the bodyguard business, eventually heading up his own "executive protection team." They quickly became known as Toronto's finest, guarding acts such as Aerosmith and the Stones when their tours came to town. He declines to give details or name names, but let's just say other security jobs involved the top brass at the biggest software company in the world, and a former U.S. President who had an ill-advised fling with an intern.

Soon he would be watching backs in a different sense. He took his first host job in Atlantic City with the famed Sands Casino, once the stomping ground of Ol' Blue Eyes himself. Hungry for bigger action, he made the move to Sin City to work at the Monte Carlo. One day, Matt Damon and Edward Norton showed up to check out the poker scene, having just wrapped their cardsharp movie, Rounders, and when they told Richard they wanted to scope out the Hard Rock he put in a call to RJ Demman, then the Hard Rock's top host. Richard brought them over to meet him, he and RJ struck up a friendship, and when RJ moved up to vice president of casino marketing, he brought Richard to the Hard Rock to fill his old spot.

The Damon/Norton anecdote illustrates Richard's approach to customer service, Vegas-style. While 21st-century casinos are designed to keep customers under one roof for the duration of their stay -- lest they gamble their money elsewhere -- he takes a more pragmatic stance. "It's inevitable. They're going to go somewhere else to play," he says. "Why not send them to a buddy of yours who's not going to try to steal them?"

Casino presidents, managers and hosts all over town roll out the red carpet for Richard's customers, knowing he'll do the same when they send theirs to Mandalay Bay. Some hosts are notorious for poaching players from other properties; Richard doesn't play that game.

Becoming a friend of the family isn't as difficult as you might think; you don't need to pack a whale-sized bankroll or have an Oscar on your resume. All a player needs to do is call mandalay Bay and get him on the line, or stop by for an introduction. If they've played at a different casino in the past, Richard can call them, get their playing history, and start comping them in the manner to which they're accustomed. New players' information is entered into a computer, and from that point on, the casino and Richard track their play to determine the level of free luxury for which they qualify. Anything they've already shelled out -- for rooms, meals, even plane fare -- can be reimbursed if their action is strong enough. "If you're confident you're a player, you won't care what the rate is," he says. "That part of the game people don't understand."

Play big enough, and with a host like Richard you have Vegas on a string. Front-row seats to the Elton John and Billy Joel show? Consider it done. Your wife wants to go shopping? The limo's waiting out front; we'll pick up the tab. A suite during the craziest we're completely-booked-up weekend of the year? It can be arranged.

Richard's relationships with his players can get deep; bonds form fast in this turbocharged, high-stakes world. He ensures comfort and privacy in the place they come to leave it all behind, to take Lady Luck for a whirl and forget their worries. Unlike their agents, coaches, lawyers or wives, he's the one face they always look forward to seeing. "It's like Cheers, where everybody knows your name," is the way Richard describes the vibe -- though in this world, the booze is strictly top-shelf, there's no last call, and Cliff and Norm would fall off their barstools if they got a load of the ladies.

In the end, the casinos see a hell of a lot more losers then winners; if the house didn't have the edge, this neon jungle never would have sprung forth from the desert. He says the highest compliment of all is when one of his players has a tough weekend at the tables but still goes home wearing a smile. And despite what you may think, he's pulling for them to win. While some casinos give their hosts a percentage of their customers' losses -- and independent contractors known as "whale hunters" earn their money by steering gamblers into a particular casino -- Richard opts for a salary and bonuses based on performance. He figures it would be disingenuous to wish you good luck and then hope you burn through a fortune.

During a busy week he might work 16 hours at a clip, seven days straight. He's always ready for the high roller jetting in from Malaysia, the movie star who just wrapped shooting, the 5 a.m. call from a gang of boozed up big shots wanting a table at an after-hours club. Maintaining a personal life outside the casino isn't easy -- while his fiancé understands the demands on his time, his beloved pair of Labradors still have a hard time coping.

It's noon on a Sunday and we're lunching in the casino cafe. After another dawn patrol on the VIP circuit, I'm nursing a hangover that would kill a rhino; Richard, unaffected, is fueling up for his next tour of duty. "The worst thing you can do as a host is let your customer meet me, because my service and integrity are unmatched," he tells me. "Your best bet in Vegas is on me."

Then his cell phone blows up for the third time this minute. This time it's an NBA giant who's about to hop on a plane and wants to stay a couple of days. He'd heard from a friend that Richard Wilk is the guy to see in Vegas.

While Richard chats with him about arrangements, he shoots a smile at a gaggle of curvaceous cuties walking by. "Hi Richard," they coo, breaking up into giggles. They give me a lingering look as they walk past, trying to place my face -- breaking bread with Richard, I must be somebody.

And for the first time since I hit this crazy town, I feel like I am. I realize I have a touch of Dino in me after all. Maybe it's because I finally found my Frank.

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