Sam Angel, the John Cameron Swayze of the Street, is fighting the long odds at Spring Valley Hospital.

At 86, it appears he's about to be 86'd from the endless bar and betting parlor of his life. I guess that makes him an Angel in waiting.

Of course, people have lost money on Sam's life over-and-under before, so hunch players might want to load up on him making an unexpected recovery from the effects of decades of drinking and gambling and selling watches and jewelry to poker room stiffs and unsuspecting rubes.

Just a few weeks ago, I saw Sam's familiar bespectacled melon in the front row of The Orleans horse book. He favors a sport coat so green you'd think he'd won it at the Masters, and he's never more than a stumpy arm's reach from a bottle of beer.

Doctors have told him to watch his drinking since Man o' War was a colt, but Sam has been remarkably consistent in one respect: He's never once listened to reason. Whether he's sipping a little V.O. or his favorite, a bottle of Heineken with a wicked dose of salt, Sam has been as faithful as any athlete to his personal training regimen. His arteries are as hard as the stare of a $20 strumpet.

I made his acquaintance long ago at the fights and through the years have watched him charm and eventually alienate bar and restaurant owners from Henderson to Indian Springs. How can I put this politely?

When Sammy drinks, his gravel throat gets deeper than Wolfman Jack and louder than an Aerosmith concert.

"How are you, MR. SMIIIIIIIIIIIITH!" Sam greets a fellow saloon fly at 180 decibels from a bar stool away. How such a little guy generates so much vibrato is hard to say. Experiencing Sam's bark up close is akin to sparring with Joe Frazier in his prime. It's hard to say where all the power comes from, but it arrives like a mallet and echoes like a thunderclap.

Sam was no slouch at the tables. He won two World Series of Poker Razz events.

"He won two bracelets for his own wrist and put a lot of watches on other people's wrists," his buddy Larry Grossman says.

Grossman watched the octogenarian's training table in amazement, personally witnessing him gamble and drink V.O. and Heinekens all night, then dine on a fistful of Slim Jims at 3 a.m.

"If you were a germ, would you want to be inside Sam?" Grossman asks.

Poker room denizens of a certain age will remember Sam as the man who sold them their first knockoff Rolex at Binion's Horseshoe or the Dunes. In those days, Sam trafficked in quality goods, diamond jewelry "for your lady friennnds," and gold bracelets for the gentlemen. For a while, Sam was one of Benny Binion's favorite charities.

At a little more than 5 feet tall, Sam was no tough guy and often was victimized by the two-bit hustlers who frequented such places. His watches and jewelry displayed for all to see, Sam was robbed more than the noon stage in B Westerns.

He often lost his goods, but not his sense of humor.

As Las Vegas became more corporate and less open to freelance entrepreneurs of Sam's calling, he found fewer places to display his wares. Late one night, I watched him at the Olympic Garden topless cabaret selling shiny bracelets and handsome sport shirts to the customers as he cadged cocktails and charmed the girls. He kept his shirt on but had a dozen others for sale on hangers.

"It's not much of a living, but just look at my office," he said above the din of rock music.

Now he's in the hospital, maybe for the last time. Some of his friends admit his health has been failing, but a few suspect Sam plans to sell watches and bracelets to the nurses.

"He's been out of it, but when he wakes up, he wakes up cussing, so I think they're keeping him sedated," his pal Lem Banker speculates. "Sam's a discredit to the community, and we all love him."

A town like this needs an Angel.

When our man Sam goes, where will we find another like him?

John L. Smith's column appears Sunday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Friday. E-mail him at Smith@reviewjournal.com or call 383-0295.