The Money Game

by Michael A. Smith

  On a picture-perfect late autumn day, Marshon’s brown, pinstriped suit matched the seasonal colors and the solemnity of the occasion. He was about to sell an insurance policy to the wife of a man who owned the largest insurance agency in the city, and who had slapped and threatened Boudra. Who almost got his dick cut off. The John with the imperial attitude who wore wing tips and carefully folded his tie. Charles Krebs, whoremonger, woman-beater, arrogant hypocrite and potential troublemaker who needed to be taught a lesson and neutralized before he did some real damage.

  He surveyed the three-story brick-and-stucco house from the front walk, noting its impressive roofline featuring a half-dozen different peaks. He calculated approximately twenty rooms. Nevertheless, Marshon considered it just another big box located in an all-white ghetto for the nouveau riche. It had no character at all, as far as he was concerned, especially in comparison to his home on Scrub Island.

  He pressed the doorbell, initiating a Gershwin tune that played until a Hispanic housekeeper wearing a simple print dress opened the door.

  “I’m here to see Mrs. Krebs,” Marshon said. “She’s expecting me.”

  The housekeeper looked dubious, as if undecided about what to do with this big black man outside the missus’ door. Mrs. Krebs appeared at her maid’s side but showed no similar signs of fear. In fact, Marshon noticed that her chin defiantly jutted upward at the sight of him.

  “You are the Mr. Touissant who called?” Mrs. Krebs asked snobbishly.

  “Yes,” Marshon answered. His alias has a pleasing island sound to it, hinting at a family lineage extending back to France.

  “Do come in,” Mrs. Krebs said. Although Mrs. Krebs was originally from Iowa, she had adopted an English accent with its clipped, distinct pronunciation of words. It fitted her family’s high social standing, and there certainly was no crime to it.

  “Thank you greatly for your hospitality,” Marshon said, countering with his best Jamaican dialect. He had to project some type of demeanor. He could be all businesslike, which would scare many white people, or he could be light and chatty in an attempt to put his newest client at ease before he lowered the boom. “My business will only take a moment.”

  The foyer and area behind the staircase appeared to be half as large as Marshon’s apartment. He followed Mrs. Krebs up three steps to a landing. The short, heavyset woman had the proud carriage of someone who had a compensating quality — money. In a dining room to his right, an elegant round table contained a service for five. An expensive-looking porcelain urn sat in a bay window.

  In the living room, Mrs. Krebs sat on one of two facing sofas separated by a glass-topped coffee table. A large, multi-paned window provided a comprehensive view of a patio, outdoor kitchen, and swimming pool. All of it added to Marshon’s calculations.

  “Very impressive house,” Marshon said.

  “Thank you,” Mrs. Krebs responded. “Now, if we can get down to business, Mr. Touissant.” Suspicion clouded her face. “You’ll pardon me, but you don’t look like one of my husband’s business associates.”

  “No, I suppose not,” Marshon replied. Rather than sit directly across from her, Marshon took a seat in one of the fashionable chairs located near the window. “What is your given name, Mrs. Krebs?”

  She inhaled deeply, as if reluctant to share such an intimacy with a stranger. “My name is Virginia.”

  “Well, Virginia, Charles and I are not exactly associates, but I also am in the insurance business, as I told you on the phone. A recent event, or series of events, actually, prompts this business.”

  “On the phone, I believe you called it a potential crisis for my family?”

  “Yes, it is, and you need additional insurance, Virginia. A special policy for a special situation.”

  “Oh, I seriously doubt that,” she said condescendingly, and then laughed to underscore the outrageous nature of his suggestion.

  “The idea of insurance, Virginia, as you know, is to sell people protection against unforeseen tragedies that would render them financially vulnerable in any number of ways. Different policies serve different purposes.” He’d learned long ago that social elitists and racists were prepared to ignore him for being black, but forced beyond their will to listen to him because of his intelligence and command of the English language. He could switch from ghetto slang to an island dialect and back to proper English at will.

  “Mr. Touissant, can we please get to the point of your visit. Surely you’re not going to attempt to sell me an insurance policy. I can’t imagine you have anything that unique.” She talked to him as if he were an ignorant houseboy. “After all, my husband owns the largest agencies in the city.”

  “I’m aware of that, Virginia.” Using her first name made them equals and equals were more likely to become co-conspirators. “Yes, let’s get down to business. Do you have a telly in here?” he asked, poking fun at her fake British accent.

  “A television in the living room, goodness no! It’s in the family room.”

  Marshon held out both arms as an admission of his faux pas. “How stupid of me.” He took a flash drive from a jacket pocket and said, “Assuming you have a smart TV or a computer, I’ll just pop this flash drive in so you can view a short video and you'll understand why you need the policy I’m selling today. Shall we?”

  Walking behind her and feeling cocky, Marshon mimicked her mincing steps. She wore an off-white suit. The cardigan jacket trimmed with soutache and pearl beads minimized the spare tire encircling her waistline. Even so, he would have dressed her in darker colors.

  As they walked toward the rear of the house, Marshon saw the Hispanic housekeeper working in the kitchen. She eyed him nervously and he deliberately attempted to freak her out by smiling evilly and causing his eyes to bulge. Behaving outrageously helped Marshon deal with his own stress. After all, Virginia Krebs could turn the table on him in an instance, by picking up the phone and calling the police. He’d adroitly explain his visit, but someone downtown might come to a different conclusion. The contents of the flash drive would certainly identify him as a blackmailer, although he would attempt to destroy it before the police arrived. For that reason, he carried a cigarette lighter, although he never smoked.

  The family room also had windows overlooking the patio and pool, clearly the focal point of this house design. An L-shaped sofa with rolled arms sat on a hand-painted sisal rug. The outside wall featured a chimney-free gas fireplace with a round window where the mantel should have been. A Sony big screen television occupied a portion of one wall.

  “This is a lovely room,” Marshon said, in an effeminate voice accompanied by appropriate hand gestures.

  Virginia said, irritably, “Mr. Touissant, if you don’t mind, I have luncheon guests arriving shortly.”

  Marshon turned on the TV, inserted the drive and used the remote to locate the video file. Before activating it, he looked back toward the door. “The maid isn’t likely to pop in, is she?”

  “Of course not! She’s been taught to observe our family’s privacy unless called upon.”

  “Just like slavery,” he muttered, putting the video into play. He’d pre-selected the action to show Charles Krebs pumping away on top of Boudra last weekend.

  “Oh, my God!” Mrs. Krebs cried out, inching closer to the edge of the sofa, as if compelled against her will to better see the action.

  As soon as Charles finished and then stood, Marshon paused the action to capture a still shot of naked, half-erect Charles as viewed through Boudra’s legs, as she lay on the bed on her back. It was a money shot. As if that wasn’t enough, Charles was shown slapping Boudra, after she denied his request for anal sex. Jemmy had edited out the scene in which Boudra threatened to cut off Charles’s weenie with her switchblade.

  Mrs. Krebs regained her composure. “Shut this filthy trash off! I’ve seen enough!”

  Marshon said, with conviction, “You really should watch the rest of this, Virginia, but perhaps later, when I’m gone. I can
transfer the file to your TV.”

  “Let me understand this. You’re a pimp, this is one of your girls, and you’ve filmed my husband with a hidden camera! Is that right?”

  “Ahhh . . . yeah!”

  She began to leave the room. “When Charles finds out about this, he’ll call the police! In fact, I may call them if you don’t leave this instant!”

  “Damn!” Marshon said, sitting on the sofa. “That’s just what he said! You two kinda look alike and it’s obvious you think alike.”

  She stopped and whirled around. “You showed this . . . this pornography to Charles?”

  “Yesterday. Sent him an e-mail with a video attachment. Didn't he tell you?” It was a bold lie, of course, but a bluff that Marshon hoped would pay off in a big way. If necessary, he would send the video to Charles, but Marshon calculated that Virginia would be an easier sell.

  “You're trying to blackmail us!”

  Marshon’s head slumped backward dramatically. “Jesus, yes, it’s not that difficult to understand, Ginny. I got this video of Charles dipping his little white noodle in that inky hole and I’m willing to sell it to you for two hundred thousand dollars.” He’d arrived thinking seventy-five before he got a good look at the house.

  “That’s outrageous!”

  Marshon wagged his finger at her. “No, no, no, that’s the going rate today, Virginia!”

  She inched back toward him. “You told me my husband said he would call the police. Why did you come to see me?”

  Now, he became a serious counselor, offering both psychological and financial advice. “Sit down, Virginia, and I’ll tell you the whole gruesome story — quickly, so you won’t be late for your luncheon. Charles viewed the video and said, when I called, quote, ‘Fuck you, nigger. I don’t give a damn who sees this! I’m not givin’ you a fuckin’ penny and if you bother me again, I’ll call the cops and charge you with extortion!’” Although he’d made up the whole encounter, Marshon managed to look truly hurt. “He has a very filthy mouth, Virginia.”

  Even if Virginia confronted Charles, who denied talking to Marshon, he couldn’t deny the video. His wife wouldn’t believe anything he said.

  “You should be charged with extortion,” she replied grimly, although she sat reluctantly at the other end of the sofa.

  “No, I don’t think so, Virginia,” Marshon said, suddenly looking grim as he bore down. “You see, I’m not the guilty party here. Charles is. Maybe you didn’t hear or understand what he said to me. He said he didn’t care who saw the video. Therefore, I assumed that included you, which is why I brought it here for your viewing pleasure. You see, he really can’t call the police ’cause those who visit prostitutes also are breaking the law. If I’m a criminal, so is Charles. It’s what they call a symbiotic relationship, I believe. In addition, he beat up on Boudra, the poor working girl in the video. I’ve saved back that footage. It’s prima facie evidence of assault. It will play very well in front of a jury, when we seek damages in the millions of dollars. The local TV news will eat it up. Your husband’s business will collapse and you’ll have to move out of this beautiful house.”

  Marshon watched Virginia weigh his words. Suddenly, she seemed crestfallen, beat down. He knew he’d won, although he didn’t feel victorious. Instead, he felt as if he’d won ugly. It generated an inner sigh.

  Nevertheless, with practiced impeccable timing, Marshon delivered the coup de grâce. “Maybe Charles meant the neighbors, too, Virginia, when he said he didn’t care who saw the video. That could include the people in the regional office and national headquarters of the insurance company he works for. Your friends and family. You got kids, Virginia?”

  “Yes,” she acknowledged, suddenly alert. “We have two children in high school.”

  “Tsk, tsk. I guess I could post the video on YouTube and notify the student body by e-mail.” He grimaced, as if that was unimaginable even to him. “Or, we can settle this all now in a way that benefits both of us.”

  “You want me to give you the money,” she said quietly.

  “Yes, I do, Virginia. Here’s what I suggest you do with this video once you purchase it. Give it to your lawyer and take this house and everything else Charles has. Find yourself a new husband and stepfather for your kids. Someone who’ll keep his dick in his pants and not bring home any dangerous viruses that might infect you and your children. That’s what I’d do, Virginia.”

  “How do I know you won’t be back asking me for more money next month?”

  Marshon sighed. “You have my word, Virginia. This is a one-time deal, for many reasons. If I were to continue to extort you, you’d obviously go to the cops. They’d harass me, maybe bust me. I don’t need that grief. Two hundred thousand is a good number for both of us. Your lawyer won’t have to do much work, so he can’t present you with a big bill. You’ll get your divorce and a settlement in the millions, I’d guess. Then, it’s over and done with. What would my leverage be after that?” Actually, Marshon could think of many ways to continue tapping this source of income, but that would be cruel and then he’d be just like Charles Krebs. This was truly a one-time sale.

  Mrs. Krebs rose and left the room, her high heels clicking on the wood floor in a determined way. Marshon relaxed, leaned back on the sofa and closed his eyes. He felt confident, not only because he’d done this many times before but also because he was selling a good policy. Those who make a better product or sell a better service can beat a path to most any door. It was solely about the money, as Skinny had said. Why else would anyone be a pimp in America? Or an insurance agent, for that matter?

  Soon, Marshon heard her coming back and he opened his eyes to see that Virginia had a checkbook in hand. She sat and asked, "Who should I make this out to?"

  “Jake’s Original Barbecue," he said, thinking to launder the money through one of the businesses in which he was a silent partner. They’d be buying new kitchen equipment, or at least that’s how it would appear on next year’s tax return, which would be another true work of fiction.

  Having regained her composure, Mrs. Krebs held the check out to him and said defiantly, “Someday you’ll get killed doing this, you know!”

  Marshon’s cocky smile and attitude disappeared as he frowned, stood and snatched the check from her hand. He didn’t really believe that anyone could predict the future, but future events would cause Marshon to review this conversation, over and over again.

  8/Shirley’s Getting Married

  Someone slipped onto the barstool beside him and Richey looked at his new seatmate to discover that it was Shirley, his ex-wife!

  He levitated to a standing position. “Shirley, my God! Has something happened! Is Ethan okay!”

  She put her hand on his arm and said, “Sit down, Richey. Everything’s fine. Ethan is well. He was just promoted at the bank after being there only four months. I flew in from Chicago last night to get some things out of storage and to talk to you.”

  His heart rate slowed as he sat and said, “Well, you obviously knew where to find me. Some things never change, huh?” He forced a laugh.

  She smiled and then said, seriously, “Some things do, though, Richey, so let me get right to it.” She drew in a deep breath of courage. “I’m getting married on December eighteenth.”

  His heart again shifted into high gear. Richey drained the Bloody Mary and set the glass into the gutter so the barkeep could see it was empty. “And that’s what you came to tell me?”

  She took a deep breath. “I felt I owed it to you. It didn’t seem right telling you on the phone, by e-mail or regular mail. We had nineteen years together.”

  “What’s the old joke: ‘and the first one was good’.”

  “Can I get you something, lady?” bartender John asked, as he set a fresh drink in front of Richey.

  “Coke, please.” Shirley stood and took off her trench coat, which she draped over the back of her chair.

  It was shortly after ten in the morning and The Stadium had just o
pened. Besides the two of them, there were only a half-dozen other customers. The bar was quiet, stale smelling and sad, as if the structure itself, along with the furniture and light fixtures, had a hangover. It wasn’t the ambiance that originally convinced Richey to make it his favorite watering hole, but rather its location. The Stadium was in a direct line between Biederman’s and his home; furthermore, it was possible to get from the bar to his house on several back streets, significantly reducing the possibility that the cops would stop him for drunk driving.

  Shirley sat again and gave Richey her full attention. “No, most of the years were good, Richey. You always treated me well. We tried hard and accomplished a lot. We just drifted apart. Especially after you went to California. That year was very tough and you were different when you came back.”

  “How?”

  Shirley chose her words carefully, but she spoke with authority, and no inflection indicating the slightest doubt: “You were defeated and angry. Angry at the world and most of the people in it, including me, it seemed.”

  For a moment, it looked like he might put up an argument, to salvage some pride and bolster his fragile ego. No one person in a relationship wants to take all the blame for its failure. Instead, Richey slowly bobbed his head in agreement. There had been enough arguments in the past, and another one today didn’t seem appropriate, given the situation. What difference did it make now about who was right? Besides, sometimes the truth simply hurts. Richey even managed a weak smile. “Yeah, it was a decision I made with the best of intentions, but which turned out to be a mistake. The timing was terrible. I go to Hollywood when I’m nearly thirty-nine, instead of nineteen, spend a little more than a year pounding on a thousand doors and what do I have to show for it? A few commercials, a couple of stand-in roles and — don’t forget — a bit part in a B movie. I was on screen for all of ten seconds and got to deliver that poignant line that surely will be included among classic movie scenes, ‘Three of ʼem are coming up the back stairs!’”