The Money Game

by Michael A. Smith

  Needless to say, his employees were loyal to a fault, which was good business. Because of the trust that resulted, Marshon often did business with the women who got out of the “life.” Shavani the Spiritualist was one example. The former hooker turned psychic ran a profitable business in a storefront over on Troost. She found out things about her clients that Marshon had used for profit and political advantage on more than one occasion. They occasionally went to dinner together.

  The cops and government officials he bribed begrudgingly allowed his operation to exist because it indirectly cut down street crime and reduced the visual presence of this inevitable, but unsavory, business. That, too, was good for business. In fact, many police were serviced regularly in his building, although nearly all of them demanded “freebies,” which galled Marshon to no end, although it coincided with Skinny’s perceptive philosophy of life. Hypocrisy and the bending of the law were pervasive and one best not let that be too upsetting. Swim with the current.

  Marshon currently rented the apartments for $1,000 a month, each. However, he never saw any of that money, since his Nanna and Uncle Clyde technically owned the building. The rent income went into an investment account managed indirectly by Marshon’s lawyer, Mort Saperstein.

  Marshon entered a five-digit number code on the security keypad and the front door to the apartment building buzzed open. He knocked on Jemmy’s door and waited to be let in.

  “What’s up?” Marshon asked, collapsing on the sofa.

  “You mean about tonight or Friday night?”

  “Both.”

  “I made two copies of the VFW surveillance disk. The original is in your apartment, one’s under a floorboard at my mom’s place, where I used to stash my porn, and Widja’s got one. I talked to a bunch of people in the community and asked them to help spread the word that this situation didn’t happen. But, somebody’s gonna talk, you know.”

  “Probably. We’ll just have to deal with whatever comes up.”

  “What about this Ace guy?”

  “Richey and I just talked to him. I gave him five grand to get out of town. I think he’ll go, soon. If not, you can pay him a visit and help him pack.”

  “If someone talks, I’ll put the fear of God into them.” Jemmy stirred wearily from his chair and stood. Today, instead of the colorful maroon suit, he wore jeans and a black sweatshirt that he’d had specially imprinted with red lettering that read: DON’T FUCK WITH ME. His rock-solid physique resulted from a taxpayer-financed prison weight-lifting program that extended several years beyond their reformatory days. Tattoos covered his spectacular muscles, although the ink was hard to read on the black skin.

  “So, anything important go on in the building over the weekend?”

  “I’m tryin’ to catch up, man. Talked to some of the hookers today. It’s business as usual as far as I can tell.”

  Jemmy walked toward one of the two bedrooms, and Marshon rose and followed. A video monitoring system occupied one entire wall. Each of eight monitors projected a live feed from video cameras hidden in each of the building’s “working apartments.” Another monitor displayed a split image from one camera monitoring the building entrance and another providing a panoramic view of the street. An L-shaped desk occupied one corner of the room and contained video editing equipment, a laptop computer, stand-alone monitor, a combination printer/fax/scanner/copier, and stacks and stacks of DVDs.

  Jemmy, often with the advice of one or more of the hookers, would review the raw footage and decide what to copy and keep. Some copies were made to CDs, others to a thumb drive. Recently, Marshon hired a computer consultant to evaluate their operation. The consultant initially laughed at their “old school” system, and advocated several equipment and software upgrades that “will make your lives easier.” He also advocated uploading video clips to a Website where they could be viewed by anyone who received an e-mail link from Marshon. Jemmy had objected, saying he didn’t want to “learn any new computer shit.” Even Marshon was hesitant, thinking how easy it would be for someone with skill to take over that Website, although hackers could just as easily break into the building’s wifi. The cops employed computer nerds, too. All his operations had many vulnerabilities.

  “Lotsa action over the weekend?” Marshon asked.

  “I just fast-forwarded through the surveillance camera covering the entrance,” Jemmy said. “Looks like about forty-eight customers, including two new ones Boudra picked up through her Website.”

  “White guys, those two?”

  “Yeah.”

  Marshon shook his head. “There’s somethin’ they like about her.”

  Jemmy sighed. “Man, this is disgusting shit to watch night after night.”

  “Yeah, but pickin’ up garbage off the street is also disgusting. This pays a helluva lot better, plus it won’t break your back.” Still, Marshon heard the sour note and the weariness in Jemmy’s voice. Each of the eight working girls had a remote taped to the bottom of a nightstand so they could activate the videocam in their apartments during their liaisons, and shut them off during down periods. Each working apartment also had an alarm button wired into a warning bell located in Jemmy’s apartment.

  Unless The Wheel was in motion, it meant that Jemmy watched live sex shows from about nine p.m. until three a.m. Widja filled in upon occasion. Jemmy’s brother Darieon, worked the weekends. Each day about noon, Marshon picked up a master disk containing all the “action” by new customers, or any scenes in which regulars imparted some information that the women or Jemmy considered to have economic potential. The “information business” included stock tips, insider information, political gossip, likely divorces, and pending sales.

  The building generated another unforeseen lucrative sideline: blackmail, or as Marshon preferred to call it: the insurance business. This profit center started innocently enough about two years ago. One of the regular Johns who was inordinately proud of his equipment and performance brought a movie camera to one of his sessions to make a video for his buddies. He jokingly told Marshon he might sell copies, thereby planting the seed of the idea that such recordings might have value to some people. Depending on the individual and circumstances, Marshon decided there were several categories of Johns he’d shake down: the very rich, sanctimonious business and community leaders, troublemakers, anyone who made complaints to the police, those who quit coming around, and those who cancelled their credit card charge. He didn’t always demand money either; sometimes, a favor sufficed.

  “Look, Jemmy, you been working too hard. You deserve a bonus. How about five grand? I’ll drop it off tomorrow morning. Take a week off. Go to Vegas. I’ll find someone to fill in.”

  Jemmy gave him a stunned look. “What, so I can gamble and visit legal whorehouses out in the desert!”

  Marshon acknowledged his foolish suggestion. “Okay, go fishing in the Ozarks. Skiing in Colorado. Dress up and attend comic com. Whatever turns you on. Just get the fuck out of here and recharge!”

  There was no elevator so Marshon took the stairs to the third level and his apartment. Boudra’s apartment was across the hallway. The other apartment on the third floor was vacant. Marshon used it for out-of-town guests, or rented it out daily or weekly for a variety of purposes: private poker games, business meetings, or as a rendezvous nest for lovers wanting to conceal their relationship. The working girls occupied the other eight units in the building.

  When Marshon arrived on the third floor, he saw Boudra standing at the end of the hallway near the front window, smoking a cigarette. She had opened the window a couple of inches, so the cold outside air sucked out the smoke. Boudra never smoked in her apartment.

  “Hey,” Marshon said.

  “Marshon,” she replied, modestly adjusting her blue robe to cover her breasts. She was tall and sleek-looking. Her muscles were well toned and her skin a burnished black. Boudra’s hair was close-cut in a flattop style that complemented her angular face.

  He walked to his apartment do
or near the front of the building. “Everything okay with you?”

  “Yeah. You?”

  “No problems. Hey, I’ll get with you tomorrow. Heard you got a couple of new customers?”

  “Yeah. One of them won’t be coming back.”

  “He a problem?”

  Boudra pulled a glass ashtray from a pocket on her robe, and ground out her cigarette in it. “He’s an asshole.”

  “Ain’t they all?”

  “Some are more tolerable than others.”

  Marshon hesitated and then said, “You got any plans beyond the life? As I recall, you studied business in college.”

  Boudra considered the question. “Economics major. Almost got through my junior year before the money ran out. Originally, I wanted to open a restaurant, but I’ve rethought that idea. The profit margins are too slim.”

  “My accountant just made the same comment about a microbrewery I had considered as an investment,” Marshon said.

  “Investment plus revenue minus expenses equals profit,” Boudra replied. “Economics one-o-one.”

  Marshon walked closer and said. “What about this business? This building.”

  Boudra looked startled and alarmed. “You goin’ somewhere?”

  “Eventually.” Skinny Walker told him long ago to always have a back door. Not only was Marshon thinking about spinning off The Wheel, but also about getting out of the apartment business, which was odious by nature. Both were recognized brands in the city, however. He could sell them; or, perhaps even better, lease them as a package to an investor or investors who would agree to pay Marshon a monthly dividend. Then, he could begin a new life in a new country with a new deal. Everything might yet work out nicely.

  Boudra’s facial expression indicated her interest. “We could talk about it,” she said. “I got some ideas.”

  “How about tomorrow morning? Ten?”

  Inside his apartment, Marshon flopped into an easy chair and leafed through the mail, tossing most of it onto a coffee table.

  He opened a letter from Phillip Dahlgren, his other lawyer located in Nassau, the Bahamas, although he had branch offices on several islands in the Lesser Antilles. Marshon read a statement of monthly expenses for maintaining his island home located in the British Virgin Islands. Most were direct deductions from his offshore account in a bank located in Road Town, Tortola. These deductions included a whopping $9,489.74 per month mortgage payment on a twenty-year home mortgage. Dahlgren took care of the other expenses for running the house — including utilities, housekeeper and a gardener — and billed Marshon separately.

  No paper trail led directly to Marshon because the deed to the island home was in the name of Marcus Jones, an elaborate second identity Marshon had established several years ago. Dahlgren knew him only as Marcus Jones. Lawyer-client privilege further protected Marshon/Marcus. The big problem was getting the cash to the Road Town bank. It was money illegally gained and Marshon couldn’t very well deposit it in a local bank and electronically transfer the money.

  With the help of Dahlgren, Marshon solved the problem with several creative solutions. It was easy to charter a private airplane leaving from a remote airport located fifty miles outside the city. There, a passenger’s carry-on was not checked or x-rayed. He usually flew to Miami, or some other airport on the Florida coast, where he transferred the money to Dahlgren’s private jet or his yacht. The lawyer might or might not be present. Then, it was out of Marshon’s hands, although he paid a hefty twenty percent fee for this laundry service.

  The living room of Marshon’s apartment resembled a library reading room except for an entertainment center containing a Smart TV and sound system. Bookshelves lined a part of one wall from floor to ceiling. There were books on many subjects, but mainly business practices, investment, and banking. He’d taken to heart Skinny’s advice of many years ago. Although he had a smart phone, laptop, Kindle and an iPad, Marshon liked the old ways, especially the smell of books.

  He walked into the kitchen and plucked an apple out of a fruit basket. In the bedroom, he quickly stripped down to his underwear and threw his clothes onto a chair and the floor. Then, he slipped into bed, pulled the warm duvet over him and immediately fell asleep, as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

  In fact, sleep is a respite to revive our energies so we can face the challenges of tomorrow that we can’t imagine, or are not prepared to confront.

  5/A Dime A Dozen

  “I think you’ve got the part already,” Carmen said, shaking her head in amazement as they stood beside her car in the parking lot of the Eastport Library, an old limestone building located north of Tremont Plaza. “You look just like him, or at least the way I envision him.”

  “We’ll see, we’ll see,” Richey said gruffly, shuffling off in an old man’s gait toward the basement entrance to the old building. A sudden cold spell on this Saturday afternoon in mid-October threatened to send the city into a deep freeze.

  “You should read for a part,” he said, talking over his shoulder.

  Richey had asked Carmen to drive him to the library, telling her he needed to prepare mentally for the one p.m. audition without being distracted by the requirements of the road. Both of them understood the subtext of his request, which was that Richey wanted Carmen to witness his acting passion first hand. They both sensed the experience could shape their future relationship, although only time would reveal whether it would have a lasting positive or negative effect.

  “Not that my own enthusiasm for acting has been at a high level lately,” Richey continued. “This is my first audition in nearly a year.”

  Richey couldn’t pass up an opportunity to play the part of Willy Loman in a local theater production of Arthur Miller’s play, Death of a Salesman. Carmen hadn’t seen Richey this animated in the year she’d known him.

  “I can play up to Willy’s age and I am the father of a grown child, so I understand what the play’s all about.” He stopped halfway down the stairs and turned toward Carmen. “You know how his wife Linda describes Willy in the play?”

  “No.”

  “She says he never made a lot of money or got his name in the paper. He’s not a great man or even the finest character who ever lived. ‘But he’s a human being,’ she said, ‘and a terrible thing is happening to him.’”

  He didn’t have to elaborate. Although Carmen didn’t remember that line, she had paged through the play and understood the terrible thing. Willy had pontificated all his life about the necessity of being self-assured, well liked, successful, and remembered — worshipped even — by his family and peers. Yet, Willy was none of these things and had accomplished none of his goals. His narcissistic life was a lie. In the end, salesmanship as he practiced it produced shattered relationships and an empty life.

  The play revealed Willy to be unrealistic, self-righteousness and duplicitous, as demonstrated by his extramarital affair accidentally discovered by his son, Biff. Those character flaws drove a wedge between Willy and his wife, Willy and his sons. Willy and the world. These unresolved conflicts may have driven Willy to suicide, although it remains an open question whether his fatal car accident was intentional or not. In the end, Willy didn’t know who he was. No one cared either, except his family, and even they didn’t understand. Not really. Carmen feared Richey felt the same about his life, and she hoped the play didn’t turn out to be an omen. She did sense that their relationship had entered a critical phase.

  The audition was in the basement, which smelled of age and dust. Once, there had been a small theater here, but without permanent seating. A hundred folding chairs were stacked on two rolling racks pushed against one wall. Now, the basement was used primarily as a meeting place for Alcoholics Anonymous. The city planned to demolish the library next year.

  They approached a table where a young woman sat. Richey handed her an acting résumé, along with his photograph.

  “What part will you be reading, Mr. Stanton?” she asked, smiling.

&n
bsp; Carmen watched Richey adopt his Dustin-Hoffman-look-of-annoyance. “Who do you think? Willy, dammit!”

  “We have a script,” the receptionist said slowly and carefully, so as not to offend him again. Her glasses had slipped and she used her index finger to move them further up the bridge of her nose. “You realize it’s a revised version?”

  Richey/Willy looked at her and said snippily, “Yes, I have it all committed to memory, although for the life of me I can’t understand why anyone would rewrite such a classic. Modern-day idiom, my ass! You still need permission from Miller’s estate, you know?”

  “Someone’s taking care of that,” she said.

  Richey/Willy looked skeptical as he turned away.

  Carmen laughed appreciably at his improvised act as they walked to a row of chairs where both sat.

  “Don’t see anyone I know,” he said, glancing furtively around the room at his fellow actors. “On the other hand, I’ve been gone from the scene so long most of the competition probably died!”

  “I doubt that,” Carmen said.

  “Marshon lives about fifteen blocks north of here,” Richey said. “I called him and Gail and told them about the play. Don’t know whether they’ll try out or not. If they did, both would get parts.” He sounded as confident as Willy Loman.

  Carmen stood. “I’m going to walk around, talk to some people, and see if I really want to try out.” In truth, she wanted to leave Richey alone with his thoughts and preparations.

  “Okay.”

  Fifteen minutes later, she heard them call his name and Carmen sat near the back of the room on one of the folding chairs. Richey walked up on stage and stood in a spot illuminated by overhead lights. He looked alone and forlorn. An old radiator provided heat for the basement, but it was located against the back wall, making the stage rather chilly. Willy rubbed his hands and blew on them.