Photograph by Greg Rannells
Between April and July 2007, the St. Louis–based Isle of Capri gaming company opened a casino in Coventry, England; a racino at Pompano Park harness track in Florida; a riverboat casino and hotel in Waterloo, Iowa; and a newly acquired riverboat casino in Caruthersville, Mo.
By July 30, 2007, when Virginia McDowell took the helm, Isle’s long-term debt was nearing $1.5 billion—and the economy was starting to founder. Industry analysts pronounced her capable of leading an aggressive turnaround, though, and by early 2009, an Oppenheimer & Co. report showed Isle of Capri “posting improvement despite headwinds.”
McDowell is—although she’s never seen it as a handicap or an asset or really even noteworthy—the only female COO among the 10 largest U.S. gaming companies and the first woman to serve on the board of the American Gaming Association. She worked for 16 years in Atlantic City, helping shape New Jersey’s just-legalized gaming industry; came to St. Louis as an executive with Argosy Gaming (one of Isle’s competitors); spent two years working for Donald Trump. She regularly makes the list of the 100 most highly compensated women in St. Louis.
She knows how to play the game.
But she doesn’t play games.
You launched this career with a bachelor’s degree in journalism?
My dad directed the reference library at the Philadelphia Evening Bulletin; he was the original Google. When anybody needed a fact, it was, “Hey George!” He’d take me down to the paper on weekends and set me up on the big old cabinet, and I just loved the atmosphere in the newsroom. It was exciting and loud—when the presses were going, the whole building would shake.
He introduced you to the former Pennsylvania insurance commissioner, who gave you an internship. Surely not in insurance?
Oh, no. That was Herb Denenberg. He was very, very smart, but a showman as well. He decided he’d become a consumer advocate, so he started a TV show, Denenberg’s Dump. Temple University only allowed internships for seniors, so they said, “You are too young.” I went home and told my dad, and he said, “Well, are you going to accept no for an answer?” So I tortured them, wore them down, drove them crazy, and finally they said, “Fine! Just leave us alone!” By junior year, I was working full-time at CBS and going to school in the evening.
Then you got in trouble with the Secret Service at the White House.
We had this huge battle going with the EPA, and “Denenberg’s Dump Goes to D.C.” ended up being a multipart series. I was coordinating all the media, and I’d given their names and Social Security numbers to the Secret Service. This caravan pulls up at the White House lawn, I jump out, and they say, “We’ve been waiting for you. What are you trying to pull? The numbers and names don’t match.” I said, “Can you give me one example?” They said, “Dave Neal,” who was my producer. So I go out to the limo and pull Dave aside and say, “Dave, what’s your real name?” and he says, “Gomberg.”
You graduated just as gambling was legalized in New Jersey.
Yes, and got hired by a former [Associated Press] bureau chief who was working for the Bally’s Park Place casino as PR director. My starting salary was $12,000 a year. Herb had let me learn whatever I was willing to try, and I found the same kind of people in the gaming industry. Everybody was learning—the casinos, the customers, the city.
How has the industry changed?
It’s dramatically increased the entertainment value. If you are going to go gamble, you probably have a predetermined budget. You are looking for, say, $50 worth of entertainment value. What we like to do is give you as much time on-device as possible, so your entertainment experience lasts longer. And today, the technology behind what we call “low-denom” machines—penny machines—is just fun.
Do you gamble?
Believe it or not, I don’t consider myself very lucky!
Why not?
We go to the Global Gaming Expo every year just to see what ’60s television show they’ve turned into a slot machine. The granddaddy of them all, though, is Wheel of Fortune. One of my colleagues and I would try to spin the wheel, and she always beat me 3-to-1. Or 4-to-1, or 5-to-1. I think I’m very lucky in a lot of other areas—life, love, job, children. But apparently not slot machines.
You’re obviously in no danger of addiction, but do you worry about tempting those who are?
Compulsive gamblers are 1 to 2 percent of the population, and they’re probably going to be compulsive in a number of things. I know people who are compulsive golf players. The most addictive, dangerous form of gambling is lotteries, because they tend to prey on the poor and they’re easily available. The average gamer is someone whose income is in the $50,000 to $75,000 range, and they start in their late forties, when they have discretionary income. There’s a big difference between an entertainment experience and “I’m going to finally get some money that will change my life.”
According to your husband, you do have one compulsive habit…
Yeah. Gardening. We have an acre in Chesterfield, and every year I build at least one new formal garden. I’ve always worked in an extremely dynamic environment where you’re always going like this [snaps her fingers]. Gardening gave me a way to relax and be introspective. The flowers didn’t talk back.
You were executive VP of Donald Trump’s entertainment resorts. What’s he like?
Donald Trump is a man who loves his family. The perception of him is as an entrepreneur, a business mogul, high-profile in the glitterati. That’s accurate, and he is a very astute businessman. But I think people would be surprised to see Donald Trump with his little boy perched on his hip, walking him around and being so proud.
Yeah, but did he change diapers?
I think he said no, that he didn’t do that.
How did you meet your husband?
In Atlantic City. He’s a career dice professional. He was in a craps pit for almost 20 years.
Was it love at first sight?
It was, it really was. We saw each other across the room.
You’ve been described as “commanding, yet very down-to-earth.” How do you manage that balance?
My father was the head of a Democratic committee in Montgomery County, Pa., which is very Republican. As a kid I was going out putting circulars under doors, and I kind of learned to swim upstream politically. I learned how to listen to people and understand where they’re coming from.
Do casinos have the drama we see on TV and in films?
No! We are one of the most highly regulated industries. This high drama you tend to see on television shows, we find amusing.
When you were diagnosed with thyroid cancer in 1998, how did you react?
It’s very treatable, so I felt fortunate. But when you are 39 years old and you are the sole breadwinner for the family, and someone looks you in the eyes and says, “You have cancer,” that’s scary.
What prompted you to do seven triathlons after your treatments ended?
I needed to prove to myself that I could do it. I’d swum competitively, but I am not a runner. So if you’d like to know every flat triathlon in the Midwest, I can tell you.
Still, you managed an Olympic distance at the Memphis triathlon.
It’s a hilly 10K, and they write your age down your calf with a Sharpie. I entered in a division called Athena—women over 150 pounds. They send the professionals out first, so they’re not tripping over us. I’m sitting there thinking, “Oh, this is great, they sent all the fat people out last—we’re gonna be on this course for weeks.” You finish across a levee and everybody’s waiting with cowbells. Their tradition is that the last person who comes across the levee is escorted across by Elvis.
So he is Alive
In Memphis, absolutely. Anyway, I have people passing me whose age I can see on their calves—“That woman’s 66 and she just blew by me!” And the whole time, I’m thinking, “No Elvis. No Elvis. No Elvis.”
You lead a high-powered corporation and serve on many nonprofit boards. How different are the two worlds?
Well, the 501(c)(3)s I’ve been affiliated with are run very professionally. There’s not a big difference, except it’s a diverse group of professionals, so you need somebody who keeps it focused, and then afterward you can go for an adult beverage. But in Atlantic City, I was the first gaming professional loaned to the city to help build a better relationship between the public and private sectors, and it was very frustrating. I was used to doing things at the speed of light and I’d have to put in a submission in triplicate that had to go through three different departments. Finally, I said, “I can do more for you from my old job. Just let me run your festivals with my staff!”
You also led the Atlantic City Basin Brass Ensemble With Wind, made up of nonmusicians who played regular gigs, straight-faced, at a local pub.
Yep. I played the tuba. It was actually a dented English horn, but we called it a tuba, and nobody ever argued with us. Pat Dodd—the former vice-chair of the Casino Control Commission and past president of the [New Jersey] state Senate—was trying to break down the barriers between the CCC and the gaming industry. He said, “We can regulate vigilantly, but we don’t have to have this adversarial relationship.” And he had a unique way of changing it.
Dodd wrote a book recently and asked you to sign a release.
I thought, “I’m probably going to regret this, but OK.” And it turned out to be a story about his grandmother—who was a bootlegger!—and one of the characters, Virginia McDowell, was a promotional whiz in Atlantic City in 1929. When he sent the book, he included an invitation to his wedding and a request that I ship the tuba so the band could play at his reception.
Bet you were glad you kept it.
Oh, place of honor! But there was just one problem. [She pulls out a mayoral proclamation that solemnly requests that she “KEEP THAT DAMN THING OUT OF TOWN.”]
Let me guess: You shipped it anyway.
Absolutely.
