Because those occurrences brought the police, Marshon revamped his security operation. Principally, he put in the metal detector, ordered additional pat-downs, instituted hand stamps, and didn't let players leave and re-enter at will. Over the past two years, no robbers had actually gotten inside The Wheel until Friday night. There had been a couple of attempted robberies outside, one of which resulted in the death of a player. In that case, Jemmy Shoemaker tracked down the robber/shooter and turned him over to the police. That pleased everyone — the police, players and the East Side community.
The current situation could undermine all of Marshon’s accomplishments. His community support was primarily among older residents. The Wheel was not necessarily a symbol of East Side pride and independence among younger residents. If they gambled, they did so online, or at the state-sponsored casinos. Many wanted to win a seat in a game on the World Poker Tour. Some within the community openly said The Wheel was an embarrassment that reinforced many stereotypes about the African-American community. The political climate was changing, too. There was a new breed of black politicians who talked like Republicans, with emphasis upon the need to bring traditional businesses and jobs to the East Side. Mostly white-owned businesses offering minimum-wage jobs, but “job creators” didn’t care about that. Like Marshon, they were only interested in profit.
Now, two men were dead and soon to be buried — and Marshon hoped the circumstances of their deaths would go away, too. However, he calculated that someone or some group would use this situation as a lever to dislodge him. The first rule of poker was to know when to hold ʼem and know when to fold ʼem. It was always the difference between winning and losing.
It was a propitious time for Marshon to turn away from the past toward the future — a future he had planned for meticulously. What he did now would determine whether he wound up dead, in prison or enjoyed life on an idyllic Caribbean island. As Marshon drove through neighborhoods where he “ran” as a youth, he thought about the past, mainly to remember and review the lessons he should have learned.
Marshon had only a shadowy remembrance of his father, also a gambler, who left town on a trip to Chicago and never came back. To this day, Marshon didn’t know exactly what happened to him, although his Uncle Clyde hinted that his father had been killed in a robbery. Marshon did not know whether his father was the robber, or the victim. His devastated mother became a heroin addict and prostitute and died when he was eleven, leaving him to be raised by his Grandmother, who he called Nanna, and his Uncle Clyde, who once had been a railroad porter, although in later years he worked as night auditor for a seedy East Side motel.
Marshon had dropped out of high school at fifteen and asked Skinny Walker for a job. Weighing about a buck forty, Skinny was nevertheless a big man on the East Side of town. He’d invented The Wheel, which he started in the back of an old work van that traveled around the community. At first, he scheduled regular stops in alleys, parking lots, and abandoned houses, before setting up shop in his own home.
As a boy, Marshon had heard Skinny tell the story many times about his first craps “table” — a rectangular piece of felt with chalked-in squares, lettering and numbers. He laid it on the van floor so the players could crowd around the open sliding door while Skinny worked the felt inside. On the East Side, you could reopen the debate at any given time by asking why Skinny called his evolved operation “The Wheel,” when it started as a portable craps table. Some argued you couldn’t call the operation Craps, because everyone would drop the “s.” Similarly, Poker might be confused with a house of ill repute. Most begrudgingly accepted the conclusion that a roulette wheel was most symbolic of gambling, although real gamblers viewed that game with contempt. It was pure luck, no skill involved. Now, the name symbolized the question Marshon always had in the back of his mind: when should he stop spinning The Wheel, figuratively?
Marshon started working at The Wheel as a clean-up boy. Skinny and Marshon’s dad had been close friends. Despite his new job, Marshon thought he needed more money so he and several friends stole a set of wheels one evening, planning to joyride for a few hours and then sell the car on the streets. They got less than ten blocks before a cop pulled them over. No license tag. It had been his first harsh lesson in the consequences of unplanned crime.
The judge sentenced him to the state reformatory until he turned eighteen. Skinny came to see him on the first available visiting day. They’d sat in the corner of a visiting room along with all the other relatives who’d come to visit their wayward kin. Most were black.
“I know a guard here,” Skinny said. “A captain. I called him at his home last night and talked about you.”
“Why?”
“Asked him to look after you in here, boy. You’re pretty. Someone’s gonna be wantin’ to stick their dick in you.”
“I can take care of myself,” he’d said bravely, although quaking inside.
“Yeah, you’re doin’ a helluva job so far, Marshon.” Skinny had a pencil-thin mustache to match his physique. “This experience will be a turnin’ point for you, Marshon,” Skinny had continued. “Either you’ll go on to be a street hood and graduate to state and federal pens, and eventually the graveyard, or you’ll try somethin’ different.”
“What you do is illegal, Skinny,” he’d shot back, defiantly. “The cops could bust you any day.”
Skinny nodded, carefully placing an unfiltered Pall Mall between his lips. Eventually, he succumbed to lung cancer. “True, but I probably got enough money to buy my way out of any prison time. Money corrupts everything, Marshon, including the law. Or, you could say money allows you to use the law to your advantage. Don’t get me wrong, son, I’m a crook. Yes, indeedy. I’d just as soon you finished high school and got a law degree or went to work in the stock market. Now, those are legal ways to steal a fortune.
“But, no, you be a cool dude, so you went out onto the streets like all those niggers who want to hustle and deal.” Skinny snorted contemptuously. “Small time shit leadin’ nowhere. I may be a gambler, Marshon, but I got a nice bank account and if someone had taken the time to sit down with me when I was your age, I’da had a whole different life. So, you either listen up or I got better places to be. I’m only here ’cause me and your dad was tight and I still owe him, wherever he is.” Skinny raised his eyes toward the ceiling.
Marshon never discovered the nature of the debt, but he had the good sense that afternoon to keep his mouth shut.
“Some niggers got a big chip on their shoulders like it was their birthright. They’s always bitchin’ about racism and how the white man is holdin’ ʼem back. They get mean and don’t give a shit about anyone ’cept themselves. Fuck over their friends and family, do somethin’ stupid, and die face down on the street.
“Let me tell you two important things, Marshon. People really are the same under the skin like Martin Luther King said. It’s nothin’ more than pigment. Every race has got an equal share of smart guys and dumb guys, good guys and bad guys. A white guy and a black guy throw the dice, snake eyes comes up an equal amount of times for each guy. That’s a fact.”
At the time, Marshon couldn’t make heads or tails out of Skinny’s philosophy.
“Second thing is, Martin Luther King’s wrong about equality. Little black and white kids might play together, but they’ll damn sure go their own way once they grow up. That’s also a fact, despite all the changes we seen in this country. So don’t spend no time worryin’ about equality and gettin’ white folks to like you and treat you fair. With a few exceptions, it ain’t gonna happen.”
Marshon had understood that even back then.
“Yeah, a black man starts several rungs down the ladder and he has to work harder to prove himself,” Skinny had continued. “Some doors are forever closed to you. Don’t worry about that, either. Forget all the anger, forget all the integration bullshit, and don’t worry about equality and justice. Those is just abstractions. Distractions. Life in the U.S. of A. is onl
y about one thing –– making money. That’s the only game in town. Anybody who makes big money bends the rules, Marshon. Breaks the hell out of ʼem on many occasions. And, it’s allowed everywhere, no matter the business. That’s a fact.
“Now, lots of people are gonna tell you money is the root of all evil, especially those psalm-singin’ niggers you find in church every Sunday. Life for them is all about being God-fearin’ and helpin’ other folks.
“Fuck that shit. We can’t ever know if the life-after-death dream is true or not, until we experience it personally. So, concentrate on the here and now and take care of number one. You can do that and be a good man. In fact, you don’t do that, you won’t be a happy man. Don’t neglect your education and I ain’t talkin’ just about school. Your Uncle Clyde is one of the best-educated men around and he’s night auditor at a fleabag motel. Get yourself a laptop, get on the Internet and start learnin’. Knowledge is power. I’m talkin’ about findin’ ways to get money and have money make you money. That’s how the people who actually run this country do it. They damn sure don’t do no manual labor. That’s a fact.”
Marshon could still remember Skinny as he lit up another Pall Mall. “You got enough money, Marshon, you’ll automatically win people’s respect and admiration. Getting big money is always a challenge — an excitin’ and rewardin’ game. All colors blend into green, my boy. In fact, with enough money everything’s better. Life is better, love is better, your family is happier, you is happier. Hell, death is even better if you die rich, Marshon. You can do somethin’ with your money to help others, or get even with your enemies. You don’t have money, you don’t have jack shit. The money game is the only game in town worth playin’, Marshon. That’s a fact.”
Having given his philosophy lecture, Skinny pocketed his Pall Malls, stood, and prepared to leave the youth prison.
“When you get out of here, Marshon, you come back ’round to The Wheel. I still ain’t gonna pay you no more than minimum wage. If you’re smart, The Wheel I set spinnin’ can take you places you never dreamed of. If you’re smart. And, if you plan for the future. Good, practical plans, no pipe dreams.” Skinny tapped the side of his head. “Always be thinkin’ six steps ahead. Life is a chess game, too. You ain’t payin’ attention, somebody’ll fuck your queen and kill the king.”
When Skinny decided to step aside nearly a decade later, he tapped Marshon to succeed him. Marshon, who was twenty-five then, outmaneuvered several competitors. He’d made The Wheel bigger and better, and diversified as well. On paper, he was a multi-millionaire. He’d provided start-up funds to become a silent partner in a restaurant, beauty shop, car repair garage, video rental store, and a janitorial service run by Widja. A couple of white entrepreneurs from the suburbs were courting him to come in with them on a Subway franchise and a microbrewery.
All in all, it was a nice portfolio, except in most cases his share of profits wasn’t legally guaranteed by contracts. Marshon was a silent, invisible partner in most of his businesses. Those deals had been made on the basis of a handshake. His share of the profits depended on the goodwill — and fear — that existed between him and his partners. Marshon made certain all of them met Jemmy Shoemaker.
By way of compensation, Marshon didn’t pay taxes on most of that income. Unfortunately, at the very time he should be planning to move on before his house of cards tumbled or the IRS drew a bead on him, Marshon was relatively cash-poor as a result of too many investments, too many business expenses, and having poured too much money into his secret island home.
∞ ∞ ∞
It was after ten o’clock and dark by the time Marshon parked in front of the apartment building he owned and lived in. He didn’t worry that the local hoods would tamper with or try to steal the BMW 435i coupe. They knew they’d have to deal with Jemmy Shoemaker then.
Nevertheless, before getting out of the car, Marshon looked around, scouting the terrain for enemies just the way his ancestors in Africa probably had done when they were walking through head-high savanna grass. You never knew when a “snake” might rear up its ugly head and squirt some venom your way. The apartment building took up the middle two-thirds of the block, flanked by an old house and a corner convenience store, where iron bar covered every window. Across the street were three old houses, circa 1940s, occupied by elderly individuals who seldom came outside.
Five years ago, the structurally sound three-story brick building was a steal at $575,000, even though it was a mess inside. Initially, Marshon considered running The Wheel exclusively inside the building, as Skinny had done in the middle years. His Nanna and Uncle Clyde officially purchased the building, putting twenty percent down out of their own savings account, into which Marshon made regular but not overly large deposits. They’d paid the mortgage in full earlier this year. Marshon spent nearly $200,000 on interior renovations to the twelve apartments. On the third floor, he had a wall knocked down to make two apartments into one, where he lived.
As always is the case with real estate, the location recommended the investment, since the apartment building was located halfway between the J. T. Warren Convention Center complex, just south of the old downtown area, and Tremont Plaza, about forty-five blocks south. The Convention Center and the Plaza both had upscale retail stores, restaurants, bars, theaters, nightclubs and hotels.
Marshon had become a pimp quite by accident. About the time the renovations were finished, several working girls offered to be renters. They wanted him to become their “manager.” Boudra, their spokesperson, presented an intriguing budget. Marshon struggled with the decision for weeks before agreeing to their offer. For psychological reasons, he really couldn’t turn it down. When he was eight years old, he went to live with his Nanna and Uncle Clyde because his mother had entered “the life.” She then became a shadowy figure in the family; someone they talked about infrequently and reluctantly. When his mother was sober and in the right mood, she’d show up and shower him with gifts and affection. Then, she’d disappear for months on end. Marshon resented her, loved her, and hated her. The day someone found her body in a vacant lot, he just shrugged when told the news. Later, in his room, he cried for hours. Even now, he thought about her at least once a week; thought about what should have been.
Maybe it was misguided and pathetic, but Marshon couldn’t turn down that opportunity to help those like his mother. There had to be some way to make it a safe business for those who were going to work in the world’s oldest profession anyway. In addition, his reward for such good intentions turned out to be a source of revenue that, over time, nearly equaled his net profits from The Wheel. Plus, the “apartment business” wasn’t as visible as gambling. It was safer, even sedate, by comparison. He never referred to it as The Whorehouse, but rather the “apartment business.”
When the women began working out of their apartments, Marshon gained total control of the business, which was impossible when most of the women hung out on street corners and in bars. Boudra had always done business through her own Website. What she lacked was protection.
Jemmy Shoemaker had the first apartment inside the front door, which a visitor could only unlock by entering a code on a keypad. Otherwise, Jemmy buzzed them in. He changed the code weekly. An elaborate video surveillance system allowed Jemmy to size up the customers. He wasn’t shy about grilling a John who aroused his suspicions. The $8,000 per month salary Marshon paid Jemmy actually came out of the building revenue, not the profits of The Wheel.
Rowdiness and fights in the building were rare. In fact, a stately atmosphere prevailed and that, in turn, became a positive marketing tool. John’s second greatest need is security. The third is comfort. Having a permanent apartment allowed the women to provide attractive amenities to regular Johns, including their favorite brand of alcohol and a closet where regulars could keep a change of clothes and other personal items. One regular came every Sunday afternoon for a quickie, followed by three hours of watching televised sporting events. Most of the John
s were white and all but two of the hookers were black. It was temporary integration dictated by economics. Skinny’s philosophy held water once again.
The hookers drummed up most of their own business, although they and Marshon agreed upon a pricing schedule. In return for allowing the hookers to operate out of his building, provide them security services, and make various necessary pay-offs to law enforcement, local and state officials, Marshon took 30 percent of their gross income. A local cadre of cabbies, hotel desk clerks and bartenders discreetly directed business to the building, while attempting to heed Marshon’s warning not to send any “trash” his way. After evaluating the customers (both before and after they conducted their business) Jemmy would go around and pay referral fees, which generally ranged from five to twenty bucks.
Marshon established several inviolate rules. He immediately evicted any of the working girls if they sold drugs in the building, took in boarders or friends, even for a night, or attracted a low-class of customers who caused trouble and brought the police. Out that night; no excuses accepted or second chances given. In four years, he’d only kicked out two renters.
From the beginning, Marshon screened apartment applicants. They had to have experience and intelligence, as well as be healthy, relatively attractive women. Even more important, he looked for common sense and business savvy.
He treated the “working women” with ultimate respect, insisting on a business arrangement, not a master-slave relationship. Marshon even carried the working women in the apartments as ghost employees at several of his legitimate businesses, so he could provide them with health insurance. He required them to submit to regular medical checkups. He lobbied constantly for the use of condoms. He never personally availed himself of their services, because they would remind him of the mother he barely knew.
The Money Game Page 7