Based on Marshon’s experience, at least nine hundred individuals would walk through the front door of the VFW over the two-night run on Friday and Saturday, but only about two-thirds of the attendees would gamble. Others would come to eat, drink, have fun, and be seen.
Isley sipped his Scotch and then turned to lean both elbows on the bar, so he could observe the early crowd coming in for dinner. “My daddy used to tell me stories about how Skinny Walker created The Wheel back in the day. Boy, if he could only see it now.”
“Yes, indeed, it has evolved into a first-rate charitable gambling operation,” Marshon replied, keeping a straight face.
Isley chuckled, lighting up a Marlboro. “Marshon, you could sell shit in a toilet. That charity cover is crap and you know it.”
“That’s not what my lawyer says,” Marshon replied. Actually, Mort Saperstein had the same opinion as Lt. Isley, although he explained it in lawyerly language. The law is always complicated and it evolves, Mort had said, in the same voice cops use when reading Miranda rights to a suspect. The law is manmade and, hence, always open to interpretation and review, which is why courts exist. However, the state doesn’t adjudicate all legal issues, especially if the defense has ardent supporters. The Wheel might or might not be a charitable gambling organization meeting the qualifications and requirements of state law, but its various supporters so far had prevented the issue from going to court. That was one reason Marshon paid a $5,000 per month retainer to Saperstein. It also explained why he made campaign contributions to a growing list of politicians, and supported a number of influential organizations. In fact, Marshon had recently concluded that the cost of doing business was starting to kill his business. For that reason, he was thinking about making a change, soon. Marshon just needed a push.
“We’ll get a diverse crowd in here this weekend,” Marshon said. He had some negotiating points to make, too. “You’d be surprised at how many players we get from City Hall, Tremont Plaza, and Essex County. White folks who expect to feel safe at The Wheel.”
Isley blew smoke at the ceiling. “Yeah, you run a popular game, Marshon, that’s a fact. So long as you control the fights and keep the noise down so it don’t attract too much attention, everyone at Division will be happy. ’Course, things could change, Marshon. You hear of this guy Benjamin Dewhurst, who’s running for mayor?”
Marshon nodded, and frowned.
“They say he’s a hard-ass black man who wants to get tough on crime. Clean up the inner city so white-owned businesses won’t be afraid to move in.” Isley shook his head and scowled. “I ain’t decided whether I’m going to vote for him or not.”
Having grown tired of the conversation that had only one purpose, anyway, Marshon took an envelope out of his inner jacket pocket and handed it to Isley. A city council member who had the ear of the present mayor who nominated the current Chief of Police had suggested the eighteen-hundred-dollar contribution to the police athletic league. Although it was about four percent of anticipated gross for the evening, Marshon didn’t like having to tip the cops that much — especially since they constituted only one component of those with their hand out. The others included local, state and federal elected officials and heads of departments and agencies created by these officials.
With one meaty hand, Isley took the envelope and stuffed it into his pants pocket. He motioned to the bartender for a free refill to go. “I’m off tomorrow night, Marshon. Maybe the old lady and me’ll stop by.”
As the cop swaggered toward the front door, Marshon smiled broadly for the first time. However they divided his “contribution,” the share that went to Isley was likely to come home, since the cop had a reputation as being a long-odds shooter on the craps table.
Marshon stood and took in the scene. By four o’clock, his four-man moving crew had moved all of the gambling tables out of storage into the hall. Jemmy Shoemaker, the head of security, stood by the metal detector located inside the front door, watching the early crowd filter in. Alonzo Mayberry, the other key member of Marshon’s staff, was at the back of the building near the kitchen, telling the staff from Jake’s Original Barbecue where to set the large aluminum foil pans full of steaming hot ribs. Marshon owned thirty percent of that eating establishment. The dining area was full and those waiting either stood in line or sat at the tables in front of the bar, waiting for their reservation number to be called over the loudspeaker system.
The VFW hall was Marshon’s favorite site for his nomadic business. The rectangular structure was about 200 feet long and half that wide. Once, it had been a warehouse. Ordinarily, veterans and their guests entered the front door into the assembly area that took up the northwest quadrant of the building. Folding chairs could be set up on the hardwood floor so that seated members and guests faced an elevated dais where their officers and guest speakers could hold forth on some subject of importance to veterans. Or — and most VFW members preferred this use — the chairs could be folded and stored on movable carts, and the hardwood became a dance floor. The dais became a platform for a DJ or the percussion section of a jazz band. Tonight, gaming tables occupied the entire floor.
Marshon sat at the bar directly across from the assembly area. A carpeted seating area in front of the bar accommodated eight tables, each with four chairs. The back half of the VFW hall consisted of a kitchen and restrooms on one side, and a dining area on the other. In between, stairs lead to a half-basement, which opened into a parking lot behind the building. There was a side door leading out of the dining area.
Marshon left the bar and walked to the middle of the gaming area. He motioned for Jemmy to join him.
“We’re getting a good dinner crowd, boss,” Jemmy said, wiping sweat off his brow with a large orange handkerchief.
“Give me a quick rundown on everything,” Marshon said. Although Marshon was six-three, he had to look up at Jemmy, who was six-ten and weighed three-hundred-and-fifty pounds, nearly all of it solid muscle. The massive enforcer’s shaved head and the large, gold Christian cross dangling from his left earlobe made him look even more ominous. They’d first met at a youth reformatory in Missouri and had been fast friends ever since.
“As you can see, we got nine of our tables on the hardwood, leading up to the seating area in front of the bar,” Jemmy said.
The gaming tables — three blackjack, three different types of poker, a craps table, a roulette wheel, and a “wheel of fortune” — were arranged in rows of three.
“We got about fifty slots here and there, mainly along the walls,” Jemmy said, pointing around the room. “We’re using their folding chairs.”
As businessmen typically do, Marshon ran various calculations in his head. If all the tables were full, they’d accommodate about sixty players, with maybe twenty looking on, or waiting for a seat. If players occupied all the slots, there’d be one hundred gamblers in action at any given moment. Maybe another fifty people would be in the bar area and the dining room. By the time they closed at two a.m., the crowd would turn over several times and change in character. Those who lost their money or had enough to eat and drink would leave and be replaced by a late-night group, which would be a younger, tougher and rowdier crowd. Winners never wanted to leave, which meant many of them eventually turned into losers. As Marshon knew, gambling wasn’t really about luck, but rather about mathematics, and the house had an advantage in every game. It wasn’t as large as everyone thought, though.
“You gotta keep some muscle out back,” Marshon said. “The parking lot will attract troublemakers.”
“Yeah, I’ll put two guys out there beginning about nine p.m., after we’ve screened everybody in here. That’ll leave one of my guys inside on each door and two more roaming around, plus me and Widja.”
“Everybody comes through the front door and the metal detector,” Marshon said, as he always did before each session. “No exceptions. No hand stamps or passes. They go out and come back in, they go through the metal detector. Give ʼem a pat-down if
they even look suspicious.”
All six members of Jemmy’s security crew were experienced bouncers, off-duty cops or military veterans who didn’t tolerate any trouble or sass, and all the players knew it. Seven years ago when Marshon took over management of The Wheel, it catered exclusively to hard-core gamblers and neighborhood toughs. Many were armed, fights were a regular occurrence, and the police were inevitably called to restore order. Marshon ended that chaos, expanded his customer base, and made more money, which was his only goal.
Marshon turned to face Jemmy. He smiled and nodded. “Hey, it’s a great place to spin The Wheel.”
“Absolutely. Too bad we can’t make this permanent.”
Marshon shook his head. “The minute we leave all the equipment in one place, our image changes and our problems escalate. Then, we’re a permanent illegal casino. Now, we’re just a spontaneous, charitable gathering.”
“You’re the brains, Marshon.”
They set up The Wheel nearly every weekend, in church basements, theaters, skating rinks, car dealerships, assembly plants, abandoned buildings, even a nursing home rec room once. The only recent turndown came from a city firehouse. The chief there was reluctant to pass on Marshon’s promised contribution to their Christmas fund, but city regulations clearly prohibited use of the facilities for entertainment purposes.
Marshon again ran math formulas in his head. The vast majority of the 600 gamblers he expected to attend The Wheel over the weekend would be recreational gamblers, although there would be some pros in attendance. They amateurs would spend on average about $300 each. Many people, including some cops and politicians, assumed that The Wheel made nearly all its money on gambling, but that wasn’t true. Of the $180,000 that would be in play over the weekend, the house advantage would probably average out to eight percent, yielding a take of about $14,000. Marshon’s administrative fee was eighty percent; the remaining $2,800 was the charitable share for the VFW.
Additionally, all attendees paid a $20 per head “charitable contribution” at the front door, with the proceeds going to support the VFW — minus Marshon’s administrative fee of 60 percent. That gave the veterans a nice windfall of $7,200. Marshon had negotiated the same 60-40 split with the VFW on food and drinks. He had a year-round contract with a liquor distributor, and he personally owned 30 percent of Jake’s Original Barbecue, which would provide much of the food consumed over the weekend. Because of the substantial mark-up on food and drinks amounting to 50 percent, Marshon expected to make another $15,000 from these sales.
The bottom line: the VFW would take in more than $17,000 over the weekend, which would make it the top revenue-generating event of their entire year. Marshon would gross about $40,000, although he had a few tricks that could shove that amount nearer $45,000.
Not all weekends were as good as Marshon expected this one to be. Still, with 50 sessions per year, The Wheel annually grossed close to $2 million; unfortunately, gross wasn’t net. Marshon’s efforts to make his operation respectable, and reduce the violence that once characterized it, had cost more than he’d anticipated. Now, there were many hands in his pockets, while others attacked the charitable scheme justification on several fronts. Still, while it lasted, it was a profitable venture for a kid from the mean streets.
Marshon put two fingers into his mouth and emitted a piercing whistle. In response, all the dealers setting up at their tables halted their activity and formed a circle around him and Jemmy. Before the circle was complete, a little man squeezed through and stood beside Marshon. At five-eight, Alonzo Mayberry, known to everyone as Widja, was a jack-of-all trades, doing anything Marshon or Jemmy needed done.
All the dealers and floor managers, called rovers, wore black, including sturdy black shoes with thick crepe soles. By contrast, Marshon and his two lieutenants constituted a colorful trio. Marshon wore a powder blue sports coat, lighter blue button-down collared shirt and tie, and black pants. Jemmy sported a leather two-piece maroon outfit with a zippered top that had a decorative design of white diamonds in a red background, but no lapels or collar. Widja wore a caftan of rich earth colors and matching skullcap. All three were strapped. Marshon had a snub-nosed thirty-eight in an ankle holster.
“Okay, we’ll open the tables in about a half-hour,” Marshon said to the assembled group. “Same rules as always. Be alert. Let’s nick all trouble in the bud. Use the same hand signals: one for a cheater, two for a possible fight or dealer abuse, and three for a break. Jemmy and his men, plus Widja, will solve any player problems. Let the rovers take care of any financial issues. Rovers, use your walkie-talkies, especially the buzzer button, if you need help from Jemmy and his men.”
Jemmy spoke up, “We know the main troublemakers, and we’ll be keeping an eye on them.”
“You got any problems at the tables with any piece of equipment, or need anything done, you get my attention,” Widja said.
“Okay, if you don’t have any questions, finish up getting your tables ready,” Marshon said. When no one responded, he said, “Richey, a minute, please.”
As promised during their meeting earlier in the week at The Stadium, Marshon’s friend had shown up to fill in for one of the two floor managers, called “rovers.” At one time, Richey Stanton had been head rover. These floor managers circulated among the gaming tables, settling any disputes over odds, payoffs and pot splits. Richey also carried a card reader for those players who wanted additional cash and were willing to charge it to their credit card. Only Marshon and the two rovers had access to the cash boxes located at each gaming table. All gamblers bought chips from the dealers.
Marshon desperately wanted Richey back on the job, because there was no one he trusted more, with the exception of Jemmy. Richey’s ex-wife, Shirley, had forced him several years ago to leave the job, but she now lived in Chicago. Marshon was prepared to make Richey an exceptional offer if he’d come back — a 15 percent salary bump and a half-percent year-end share of net profits.
Richey, another dealer and one of the security guards were the only three white guys working for Marshon this night.
Marshon handed Richey a sheet of paper. “No credit for this list of deadbeats. We got a new craps table croupier, that skinny kid over there with the orange streak through his hair. Elon. Watch him. He may be leaving part of lost bets to his friends. If you catch him cold, I want his ass gone with fanfare.”
“I understand.” Richey looked up at the ceiling. “Does this place have its own security, Marshon, or did you put up those cameras.”
“No, that equipment belongs to the VFW. Someone tries to rob this place about once a month, although I don’t know why, because the vets have a small arsenal in the basement. Also, Richey, we need to up the house advantage as much as possible this evening.”
“I’ll do my best, but as you know, odds is odds.”
The house had a big natural advantage on most games. It was nearly 20 percent on slots and The Wheel of Fortune, depending on the amount of the bet. The house had a 5.5 percent advantage on such games as double-zero roulette and Caribbean Stud Poker. However, there was only a one to two percent average advantage on blackjack and craps, both popular games. In other poker games, the players played against each other. Marshon had instructed dealers at this table to push “charitable donations,” especially from winners, but not to refer to this money as dealer tips or the house rake, since that was clearly illegal.
Still, there were other ways to increase the house percentage.
Marshon pointed to the bar. “See the black guy in the green shirt? You need him, just ask for the Fireman on your walkie-talkie.”
The Fireman cooled off any player who got hot at any of the tables. He might take a seat beside the winner and distract him with conversation, spill a drink of him, or palm some of his chips. He might even start a fight. Marshon had a playbook of such techniques. For example, he might instruct the bartender to load up the drinks of winners. Among the servers were a few women known to practice the
world’s oldest profession as another sideline, if the price was right. They could be prompted to whisper something distracting into the ear of a player on a roll. The basement area of the VFW was perfect for short-term liaisons.
“I could offer some specials,” Richey said. “Of course, that cuts both ways. We can also lose twice the bet.”
“Let’s hold off on that until about mid-way through,” Marshon said, “when I get a sense of how it’s going.”
“Okay, boss.”
“Hey, Richey, let’s get together soon and talk some more, okay? I want to run a few ideas by you.”
“Any time. What you got in mind?”
“For one thing, let’s talk again about that private lottery you run at the warehouse.”
“You looking to add it to this action?”
“Not necessarily. It could be a stand-alone operation. The Wheel costs too much to operate, and it’s too dangerous. I may lease it to someone else.”
“Come by anytime. You know where to find me.”
Marshon walked over to a desk placed against the wall to the side of the front entrance. A young woman wearing a U.S. Air Force uniform sat on a chair behind the desk. This VFW member collected the $20 per head charitable contribution fee, payable in cash or by credit card.
Marshon stood near the desk, so that after the attendees entered the building, walked through the metal detector, and paid their fee, he could greet them. He performed this P.R. gesture every evening before the gaming tables opened. It was important to know all his customers and listen to comments, praise and criticism with the same look of concern. He always made a fuss over the ladies, young and old alike, who were flattered by the attention from a handsome, well-groomed and well-dressed African-American man with impeccable manners. Without exception, the women mentioned Marshon’s teeth, which were perfectly formed and aligned, and whiter than Jesus’s robes, as one septuagenarian put it.
The Money Game Page 3