It was a dark and stormy night in Las Vegas. When I walked out of the casino, my partner said as he got into his car, "Do your best not to kill anyone tonight, Miller." I didn't bother to answer him because that would have been a commitment. Our vocation required that we carry a concealed weapon, and I almost never went anywhere without it.



Somewhere near the intersection of Sahara and Las Vegas Blvd., I saw two men trying to beat up some old guy. I say trying because the old man was holding his own. I decided to just watch since he was raising some knots on the heads of these two guys. However, the odds and youth began to take their toll, so I made my presence known thinking the two thugs would not like the odds and leave. That was not to be the case. One of them pulled out a weapon and headed towards me. Big mistake on his part. My weapon was larger and far more deadly than his.

To make a long story short, the two would-be robbers left the area in need of serious medical attention. As I was taking the old man to the hospital to get some stitches, I said, "You're quite a fighter, old man."

He replied, "When you're a Jew, you'd better know how to fight or they'll kill you."

This really took me back. I was born and raised in the backwoods of Alabama and there were no Jews in that area, at least none that I knew of. Everything I had been told about the Jewish people wasn't good. So I said to the old man, "Hell, had I known you were a Jew, I wouldn't have stopped to help."

With big crocodile tears running down his cheek, he asked, "Why?" I didn't know why and told him so. We were close friends until his death.