The Investment Club

by Cooper, Doug

  Max walked in front of her. He had been practicing the pitch for the past week. She had given him five minutes. He knew he needed only two. He said, “On New Year’s Eve, people wear nicer clothes, they go to fancier restaurants, they’re willing to spend more money. Overall, they want formal. They want the casinos of old, the ones they have seen in movies. And who do people think of? James Bond. Agent 007. The suave, tuxedo-clad gambler. So imagine me dressed in a tux, but not as 007, as Agent 003½.” Max paused, waiting for the expected laugh, received it, and continued. “I’ll be running the Big Six Wheel with two beautiful Bond-type girls as my assistants. Maybe we call them Bondage girls and have them scantily dressed in leather. That could draw some attention. I’ll leave that for you to decide. On the side we set up a martini bar that we could probably get one of the liquor companies to sponsor so it wouldn’t even cost us. How great would that be? People coming off the street would immediately get a martini—not a beer from a tub like other places—and the first game to play is the Big Six, the best odds for the house. Even if they didn’t play, they would have one stiff drink in them before they even attempted to play another game.” Max sat down at the table across from his boss. Now he just had to be quiet. He knew in any negotiation the person who talked first always lost.

  She remained silent with her eyes fixed on Max. A smile widened across her face. “Agent 003½, huh? I’m not so sure about the Bondage girls, but I think you might have something here. I’ll run it up the flagpole and see what they say.”

  Max banged on the table. “That’s great. No pride of authorship here either. Feel free to change it as you see fit and take all the credit if they like it. If not, blame me.”

  Of course the bosses liked it. Something new and different to stand out on New Year’s Eve, with the costs absorbed by a liquor company, which Grey Goose vodka so willingly did, was a no-brainer—exactly as Max had calculated. Just as he had known his boss would have no problem taking the credit. His suggestion to do so was just his subtle way to let her know he knew the game and was willing to play by the rules.

  On New Year’s Eve, the “Double Your Money With Agent 003½” promotion—with the exception of the Bondage girls, which were replaced with Grey Goose girls at the request of the liquor company—was launched exactly as Max had pitched and was an instant success. People were immediately drawn to Max in a tux, spinning the wheel and working the crowd with the Grey Goose girls passing out martinis. Of course they were plastic martini cups to keep the speed of service up and costs down. Sure the plastic made it trashy, but no one said it had to actually be classy. It was the front of the casino. Nothing in the front of a casino was really classy. It only had to look classy to attract people and get them to stop. The high-end stuff was in the back for the people the casinos knew would spend money.

  As midnight approached, the promotion was working too well. The crowd swelled, congesting the entrance. Lines backed up onto the sidewalk, while seats sat empty at tables inside. Seeing the crowd out front, new guests passed on to other casinos. Management had to position security by the front to keep the crowd flowing. They pushed gamblers to games with better player odds to make sure everyone could get in the door. It was better to pay out a few extra dollars than have the money walk down the street. After all it wasn’t like they were giving it away. The odds were still stacked in the house’s favor. The stack just wasn’t as high.

  Spin after spin, Max, standing on a black wooden box so everyone could see him, fine-tuned his feel for the wheel. He surveyed the board, calculating the symbol that would cost the house the least amount of money based on the bets played. He didn’t hit the target every time, but as the night went on, he was averaging about three out of four. And when he didn’t, he was only a space forward or back. Once the bets were frozen, he would even call out the number to add to the excitement. If he got hot and hit four or five in a row or noticed someone picked up on his pattern, he missed a few on purpose. If there were attractive women, soldiers, or newlyweds in the crowd, he pulled them into the act and let them spin the wheel. If dealers could be in a zone, Max was in one. He fist-bumped; he high-fived; he even head-butted one overexcited reveler.

  As the time crept toward two, he noticed bettors were staying away from the O’Sheas casino symbol—a forty to one payout—so he aimed right for it. As he waved his hand to freeze the bets, he said, “No one wants that forty to one, huh?”

  A guest threw a twenty down on the emblem on the board. “I’ll take that action.”

  Max pushed the money back. “Sorry. Too late. You’ll have to wait until next time.”

  The wheel rotated, the pointer rubbing against the pins separating the spaces. Players’ eyes followed the casino emblem, each time taking longer to make the journey around. As it passed the bottom and circled back toward the top, the pointer grabbed each pin, holding it, then releasing it before moving on to the next. Eyes widened as the O’Sheas emblem approached. The pointer rubbed passed the front side pin and grabbed the backside one, but just before it moved to the next space, it settled back on the O’Sheas emblem, bouncing between the two pins.

  A collective groan for the missed opportunity shuddered through the crowd. Max said, “I told you it was going to hit. Who thinks I can do two in a row?” The crowd cheered, following with a rush of money on the O’Sheas emblem. Needless to say, Max came up one space short that time. The crowd didn’t care about losing. They just loved the action and increased their bets on the next spin to make up for it.

  At the end of the night, when Max clocked out around seven in the morning, he had not only grossed the highest revenue for any shift of the Big Six Wheel all year but also the highest for any year. Even better than that, his control of the wheel yielded the highest profitability of money taken in versus paid out. When someone produced success like that, it didn’t take long for the news to travel through the management ranks. Spreading equally as fast was the rumor, which Max vehemently denied, that the promotion was his idea all along. No matter how much people prodded him to admit to them the truth or winked at him, saying they knew the real story already, he remained committed to his boss. He knew nothing good would come out of making his boss look bad. That was the short play. Max was always about the long play.

  Max reminded himself of that as he read the job description. He thought about what the best long-term play was. His seek-and-conquer mentality had served him well, but he knew what got him here, wouldn’t always get him there, to the next thing, whatever that might be. Perhaps it was time for a change in strategy. He liked his boss. She had always been good to him. Why not trust her a little further? He figured it would take a lot more time and energy to climb the ladder on his own than to make his boss look good by working hard and letting her pull him up to the next level. If she thought he could do the casino marketing specialist job, then he knew he could do it. It didn’t matter how or why the opportunity arose. He would surpass expectations, just like he did with everything else: by doing whatever it took.

  Dow Jones Close: 11,837.93

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Date: Tuesday, March 17, 2009

  Dow Jones Open: 7,218.00

  Only in West Hollywood would a dance studio be sandwiched between a dry cleaner and a patisserie—and be painted magenta. Crystal stood before the bright pink façade, closing her eyes, breathing slowly and deliberately to calm her nerves. No matter how many times she went through the process, her anxiety always skyrocketed before auditions—and as much if not more when she got the part. It actually was much easier if she didn’t get it. That way she could just tell herself she tried, that she was still putting herself out there and doing her best, and wait for the next opportunity. She was comfortable with that part of the process. It was all the questions that flooded in after she got a part that she really struggled with. All were some version of What if I’m not good enough?—even though she always was. But still, it didn’t ever
seem to help quiet the doubt, just as it wasn’t calming her nerves that day. One more deep breath, and she grabbed the wrought-iron handle, pulled open the wooden door, and charged up the steps.

  She checked in with her résumé and headshot and reported to makeup and hair. Because of Crystal’s natural skin color and features, not much work was required. For once everything was progressing as Maura had advised. Not that Maura ever directly lied, but she did have a tendency to oversell. Today Crystal filed away the fortunate developments as conveniences rather than positive signs of an impending successful outcome. No matter how many good things appeared, she knew the room would be filled with her type, some taller, some thinner, some something.

  The casting agent summoned all the girls into the studio and directed them into four lines of ten facing the mirror to learn the dance number. Crystal was first in the third row, but she wasn’t worried. She knew they would be subdivided again when it was time to perform. The casting agent joined the producer, the director, and the choreographer at a table in front of the mirror.

  After the people at the table introduced themselves and provided more background info than was necessary, the choreographer, a mid-forties male with narrow shoulders and hips to match, walked in front of the table and faced the mirror in the same direction as the girls. He spoke in a high-pitched, nasal tone. “We’re going to break you up into groups of four and have you perform with two in the front and two in the back. We’ll do the number twice, then switch the front and back and do it twice more. OK?” He scanned the group in the mirror, checking for questions in a way that suggested he didn’t expect anyone to really ask anything. He gathered himself, focusing on his reflection in the mirror. “Five, six, seven, eight.” He moved forward to initiate the number then mimicked his instructions. “To the side, two, three, four, and back for two, forward for two, spin right, three, four, and back to the center, two, three, four.” He stopped and addressed the group in the mirror in the same dismissive manner as before. “Any questions? No? Good. Let’s go through it together.”

  He counted off and led the group through several repetitions. With each rendition, they became more synchronized. Comfortable with their progress, he stopped dancing but kept instructing their movements, counting and providing the same verbal cues. Moving back and forth, around, and through the lines, he offered coaching instead of the directional advice in between the number counts. The others seated at the table pointed and gestured at the group, whispering amongst themselves.

  After several minutes, the choreographer clapped his hands. “OK, OK. That should do it.” He pointed at Crystal and the other girls at the beginning of their rows. “You four in first position are group one, second position, group two, and so on.”

  Crystal would’ve liked to have had more time to practice off to the side. There was no advantage to going first. When you were done first, it just meant you had more time to wait and think about what you wished you would’ve done differently.

  Crystal lined up in the back row of her foursome. The choreographer counted off. “Five, six, seven, eight.” They went through the number twice. Crystal tried to focus straight ahead in the mirror and block everything else out, but she could see the four at the table doing more of the leaning and whispering, and now shuffling the headshots into piles. The choreographer directed them to switch the front and back rows, and Crystal was face-to-face with the ones controlling her fate. This was her moment, the time to channel the years of hard work and preparation into only thirty seconds. She looked in the mirror, sharpening her stare. The reflection of the windows behind her faded. All she saw was herself, and for once she wasn’t nervous. The sounds around her dampened. As the choreographer counted them down, his voice trailed off as if it were disappearing into a tunnel. She launched into the number. All she heard were the patter and shuffling of her feet on the floor and her voice counting in her head. When she landed on the last eight count, the room came back into focus, and the surrounding noise registered in her ears like waking from a dream.

  “Very nice, very nice,” the choreographer said. The other three at the table murmured to one another while organizing three of the headshots into one pile and one in the other. It was obvious which was the keep pile and which was the cut, just not who the chosen one was. The choreographer motioned toward the girls on the side. “Come on. Come on. Let’s have the next group.”

  And so the process repeated nine more times. After the last group, the choreographer thanked everyone, picked up the keep pile, and announced the list of who would get to stay for the afternoon. Crystal’s name was, surprisingly, first. Maybe there was some advantage leading off. After the final name was announced, the choreographer said, “Let’s break for lunch and start getting your sixteen bars ready. We’ll begin at one o’clock in the same order as the names were read.”

  Eat lunch? No way Crystal could eat after that. The stress of the morning had her stomach feeling like a wad of overly kneaded dough. She just sat off to the side, flipping through her binder of sixteen-bar auditions: Phantom’s “My True Love,” Oklahoma’s “Out of My Dreams,” and “What Is a Woman” from I Do! I Do! Since it was a love story set on an island, something from South Pacific might be appropriate. Eventually she decided on “A Cockeyed Optimist.” Rethinking her position on going first, she thought at least she didn’t have to worry about someone using her piece before her.

  Crystal remained in the studio and sat against the wall, quietly humming the sixteen bars. Just like her mom had taught her, she closed her eyes and visualized singing to the four people from the morning. She even did the breathing and relaxation techniques, the ones that she always thought were stupid and a waste of time. She used to complain to her mom, “We breathe all day, every day. How can focusing on breathing help?” But in that moment she was open to anything that might help. She had tried to keep her expectations low, but after the dance performance that morning, she knew she had nailed it and admitted to herself that she really wanted the part.

  The musical director and a pianist joined the director, producer, casting agent, and choreographer for the afternoon callbacks. The musical director, a short, chubby woman with a white headband around her black hair-sprayed flip hairstyle took over from the choreographer as the one directing the auditions. Her glasses hung around her neck on a silver chain. She put them on, then removed them, alternating as she looked at the girls and her notes. She said, “Congratulations, ladies, on making the callbacks. For the afternoon, each of the twelve of you will come up, provide your music to the pianist, tell the panel your name and song, and sing the sixteen bars. Please stick around after you finish. At the end, we may ask some of you to sing again or sing another piece. Any questions?” Again, like the choreographer, she scanned the room but was looking past the group, ready to move on. She looked down at the stack of headshots in her hand underneath her notes. “Great. First up is Crystal Moore.”

  Crystal walked over to the pianist and presented her sheet music. They discussed the piece quietly for a few seconds, then Crystal returned to the front and presented herself to the panel. “Hello, my name is Crystal Moore. Today I’ll be singing, ‘A Cockeyed Optimist’ from South Pacific.” She smiled and nodded to the pianist. He played the introduction. On cue, Crystal sang, “When the sky is a bright canary yellow, I forget ev’ry cloud I’ve ever seen, so they called me a cockeyed optimist, immature and incurably green.” The pianist played the final notes. Crystal smiled, studying the faces of the panel for some indication of how she did. But it was just more whispering, scribbling, and shuffling of papers.

  The musical director called up the next singer. Crystal faded into the background with the other girls. She listened to each performance, losing more confidence with each one. She was always so impressed with everyone else’s talent at the auditions and thought that the fact she even got in the door was more a testament to Maura’s abilities than her own. By the time the last girl finish
ed, Crystal was sure she would not be amongst those who would be going to the first rehearsal.

  As advised at the beginning, the musical director requested that several girls sing again and asked a few girls to sing some other pieces. Crystal was not one of these girls. She prepared herself for the inevitable disappointment. The musical director picked up a pile of headshots and walked in front of the panel. “Well, you girls are not making this easy on us. Even if your name is not called, we may still call you for other roles in the production. We ask that these four girls please stay.”

  Crystal braced herself, remembering what her mother had taught her: Each rejection is one step closer to your big break.

  The musical director looked down at the first headshot. “Crystal Moore.” He shuffled to the next headshot, but Crystal didn’t hear the name. She didn’t hear anything, or see, or feel anything for that matter. She was numb. Tears pooled in her eyes. It wasn’t until another girl came over and hugged her that she fully realized it was really happening. Her first thought: I need to call Mom. She is going to be so proud.

  Dow Jones Close: 7,395.70

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Date: Friday, July 19, 2013

  Dow Jones Open: 15,524.17

  Following his proposal to renew their vows, an immediate change surfaced in Darlene. She was still limited in what she could do, and often had to stop halfway through to rest, but whether it was getting dressed, going down with him to get the mail, or eating her meals at the table, she was trying. But more than anything, she was filled with questions. “Where are you going?” “What are you doing?” “Do you need any help?”

  At first he tried to do everything himself because he didn’t want to burden her, but he slowly realized the more she was involved, the better…for both of them. He brought back the brochures and packets from each of the chapels in the surrounding area, which was more of a chore than he anticipated, since there were at least ten within a few blocks. While he might have to drive a few miles to find a grocery store, he could throw a rock and hit plenty of choices for chapels, lawyers, and bail bondsmen. The Vegas Wedding Chapel right across the street from their building with its chablis stone exterior, authentic stained glass, and white steeple would’ve been perfect if it wasn’t for its neon-lit “Fast Lane” for drive-through and walk-up weddings. No way Darlene was going to get married at a church with a drive-through. After days of deliberation, she decided on A Special Memory Wedding Chapel on the corner of Fourth and Gass. She liked that one the best because it had a New England-style façade with white wooden paneling, gabled stained glass windows, and a three-tiered steeple entrance, actually resembling a traditional church. There was also a plush yard with a gazebo and a fountain where they could have pictures taken, and it was only a block away, so Bill could easily wheel her there without being drenched with sweat by the time they arrived.