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Back in the 1980s high-stakes bingo was offered at more than a few of our state’s 19 pueblos. Bingo was legal, but off-reservation bingo jackpots, by state statute, had low-payoff limits. Bingo action at nonprofit organizations was withering.
There were class II slots in some of the reservation bingo halls; those were considered legal — they replicated “real” slots. They were like pull-tabs set into a machine that looked like a slot.
Back then, among the 120 or so veterans and fraternal clubs, one could easily spot a sprinkling of class III video poker machines ensconced in the club’s game rooms. Of course these were considered illegal, yet more than a few clubs had six, seven or eight of these devices humming away, and believe it or not, several, not all, were paying gross-receipt taxes on their coin-in.
Governors, district attorneys and law enforcers, were aware of the machines, but, gee, who was going to barge into a veterans’ club and bust an old vet playing a slot?
When Judge Bob Schwartz, who recently passed away, was Bernalillo County district attorney, he was once asked why he didn’t go into a popular Albuquerque veterans club and yank out the slots and arrest those responsible.
Schwartz said, “Fuhget about it. I’m not going to bust a vet in a wheelchair playing a slot in his club. There are drug dealers, thieves and robbers out on the street — those are the ones I’m after; they are whom I was elected to collar. Not an honest-to-God G.I.”
Now remember the old saying about what the Indian tribe in any state can and cannot do as it relates to business and industry: “If the white can do it, so too can the Indian.” After just a few years of watching vets and fraternal clubs running their “real slots” our Native American neighbors sprung into action — class III gaming had arrived.
Of course it wasn’t legal, but as one vet testified before a House Committee on gaming, it wasn’t really against the law because no one had “seriously” been busted going back to the late 1970s.
Remember too, back then folks were clamoring for the lottery to be legalized, also classed as Class III gambling.
A note: Back, before all this became proper and sanctified, one of the biggest lottery ticket sellers for the Colorado lottery was a convenience store outside Farmington, right along the state line. One of the largest seller of Texas lottery tickets was another New Mexico convenience store, in Sunland Park.
There is no stronger law than one whose time has come. The lottery was at the door, and not going away. So, in 1997, Gov. Gary Johnson, after two years of ironing out kinks in the paper work, signed into law the legalization of gambling in our state.
That brings us to the point of the story: Today, when you hear of a casino celebrating an anniversary pre-dating the baptism date of legal gaming in our state how do you explain that?
Try to remember what Pojoaque Pueblo Gov. Jake Villareal said about that situation (with a wink of an eye and a wry smile): “We were all grandfathered in.” Works for me.
The actual birth of casino-type gaming in New Mexico began on the street in downtown Raton, the summer of 1938. The Raton High School marching band’s uniforms were a disgrace: shabby, shop worn, desperately needing to be replaced. The group also was short on instruments, including a glockenspiel.
When this sad story reached members of the Lions Club, it concocted a plan to raise cash “for our marching Tigers.” Its plan was to have a “49ers Night.” It would block off the busiest intersection in town, put up a craps table, some blackjack tables, a roulette wheel, a wheel of fortune, have beer and pretzels and hot dogs and live entertainment and make money for “the kids.”
Raton’s mayor bought in, a caravan was formed, a large contingent bounced into Santa Fe to see Gov. Johnny Miles. Back in the day, there was no liquor director, no gambling chairman — Gov. Miles sported all hats. Miles blessed the Raton Tiger fans — “Go with your 49ers Night.”
It was a rousing success. Through the years other schools jumped on the idea.
And that is how it all came to pass, a billion dollar industry in New Mexico was born all because some kids in Raton needed new cummerbunds.
