Richey looked around the room and out into the warehouse where a crowd had gathered in front of his office. Davron and Fax had pushed to the front where they gestured, laughed and generally celebrated. Calvin shook his head with genuine regret. Ace stood off to one side, his face a dark cloud. Suddenly, Richey understood. The two blacks had set him up out of revenge. They perceived him as a friend of Ace, their nemesis. Ace had taken to sitting beside him at The Stadium and following him around. Word had gotten out. Maybe Davron and Fax also thought they’d be helping Calvin move up. Management couldn’t ignore any complaints from minority workers, especially if they even implied racism in treatment and promotions.
“Yeah, I’ll give you a urine sample,” Richey said, suddenly emboldened, by either the booze or general outrage over the fact his life had once again come to a degrading moment. He unzipped his pants, took his pride in hand, and began to urinate on everything in the office that he could reach. “Sometimes a man’s reach should exceed his normal range,” he yelled manically.
Pandemonium broke out as the crowd started yelling and laughing. Both Beems and Kryck attempted to restrain him, causing his pee stream to spray both of them before Richey could shut it off.
∞ ∞ ∞
Richey went to The Stadium and had several drinks while trying to think of what to do. He didn’t want to be in the bar when the Biederman’s crowd came in at the end of the second shift. He could already imagine the jokes. They’d probably give him a new nickname. Something like “Hose” Stanton, or Yurin Sampleski, a Russian long distance champion.
He got up to leave just as Ace came through the door. “What are you doing here?” Richey asked.
“I took off early. Just slipped away. I don’t think anyone noticed. The place is still in an uproar. I may not go back.” Ace motioned to John and said, “Budweiser.” In fact, it was the ideal time for Ace to set his plan in motion. He’d auditioned and chosen the cast. He even had some production money, complements of Marshon Johnson. A principal actor was desperate. The timing was perfect. He wasn’t certain exactly how to use Richey, but this conversation would illuminate that decision.
Richey sat back down on the stool. “I suggest you take Marshon up on his offer and hit the road. There’s nothing here, anyway. You can see that.”
Ace took a newspaper clipping from his shirt pocket and laid it on the bar in front of Richey. “Here’s a sure thing,” he said. “The big score we talked about. Taking from the rich and giving to the deserving poor. She’s the one. The timing is about right, wouldn’t you say?”
Richey skimmed the Tribune article about a prominent local couple, James and Cathy Kennedy. The suburban weekly specialized in such fluff pieces, hoping the rich and influential people whose ego they polished would spring for a display ad. A photograph of the Kennedys accompanied the text. He was president and chairman of the board of directors for First United Bank, the largest banking chain in the state. In fact, Richey had his checking account at the corporate headquarters branch on Melrose Avenue. Mrs. Kennedy had just purchased Belton Jewelers in Sweetwater Mall.
The effusive article focused on a party the Kennedys held at their mansion recently for patrons of the symphony.
Richey slid the clipping back down the bar. “So?”
“So how’d these people get so rich, managing the money other people make who actually work?”
“Beats the shit out of me,” Richey said, holding up his empty glass to get John’s attention.
“I think we should come up with a plan to shift some of their money from them to us.”
“Are you drunk? What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about Butch and Sundance. Thunderbolt and Lightfoot. The two robbers in the storm drain under the bank in California. Crooks admired by everyone — you and I and the public. Crooks who take from the rich and give to the poor — themselves. The Kennedys like to support the arts. How much are you going to get paid to play Willy Loman, Richey?”
He shrugged. “Depends on the ticket sales. Maybe nothing.”
“So, take a donation from the Kennedys.”
Richey couldn’t help but laugh uproariously, temporarily getting everyone’s attention. “These last couple of days couldn’t get more bizarre! Now we’re talking about you becoming a real-life Robin Hood. You’re crazy! Everyone at Biederman’s is crazy! The whole world is fuckin’ crazy! I’m damned sure crazy! My ex-wife is getting married. Next thing you know, John will tell me they ran out of vodka!”
“I admit not everyone is up to the task,” Ace said, lowering his voice. “You gotta have a great plan and not many people can come up with that. If you do and you’re convinced the plan will work, you’re almost obligated to go ahead with it.”
Richey gave his stoolmate a look of utter amazement. He had to admit it was a good script line and he wouldn’t mind delivering it in a movie, although certainly not in the real, unscripted life. He drained his new drink in one gulp and got up again. “I’ll leave you to your planning, Ace. I gotta get the fuck outta here.”
Ace called after him. “We’ll talk again, Richey. I know I can convince you, one way or the other.”
The events of the last few days had pushed Richey to the edge, but he felt he could avoid the abyss, and find a new path leading to a place where he could be happy and content. Besides, things couldn’t possibly get worse. As it turned out, Richey was wrong, and Ace was right.
9/Marshon’s Many Gambits
Abigail Thomas lived on the tenth floor of a condominium building overlooking Tremont Plaza, an area of shops, restaurants, movie theaters, hotels, nightclubs, and a nationally renowned museum. It was more than forty blocks south of the old city center. Many buildings on the Plaza were constructed in a Spanish architectural style reminiscent of the American Southwest. A pedestrian mall ran down the middle of the complex. On one end of the mall was a small park with a large fountain containing a Greco-Roman statuary of a bareback female rider mounted on a magnificent horse. Tremont Plaza was the social and economic hub of the wealthy southwest suburbs and the new high-tech businesses located there. Also, it was a tourist attraction, especially during warm weather.
The residential area to the south and west of the Plaza included many stately mansions that traditionally had been the homes of the multigenerational rich, although the nouveau riche had integrated the area in recent decades. Gail had grown up in this wealthy enclave, and her parents — her father, a respected judge, and her mother, a psychologist — still lived there.
Marshon drove his BMW to a gate leading to underground parking for the West Building, rolled down his window and punched a four-digit code into the keypad attached to a post. When the gate opened, he drove down the ramp to the basement level and searched for one of the two numbered parking spaces assigned to Gail’s condo. He also needed an access code to open the elevator to take him to the twelfth floor.
Marshon always went to Gail’s condo for overnight stays. They’d never stayed together at his apartment, largely because he’d lied to Gail and said that Jemmy Shoemaker was his roommate. On the very few occasions when Gail insisted on visiting his apartment, Marshon made certain Jemmy was there and that the hookers were on lockdown. He had twin beds in the single bedroom to embellish the lie. Gail had never questioned him about the building, leaving Marshon to conclude that it was such a delicate subject that even Gail’s father had not brought it up in the judge’s crusade to convince his daughter to dump her no-good boyfriend.
Perhaps the farce was unnecessary because they had never talked about moving in together. Maybe both secretly knew such a move would necessitate a level of honesty they had so far not achieved, or attempted.
After he let himself into the condo unit 1215 with a key card, Gail said, “God, you scared me!” She sat at the kitchen table, reading from a pile of papers and entering data into a laptop.
“Don’t be afraid. It would take an army division to get at you in here.” Twenty-five blocks north and east of the P
laza where Marshon lived, personal security was often a factor of how fast one could run.
Gail smiled, rose and walked into his arms. He felt, smelled, and kissed his chocolate delight, amazed as always by her breath-taking beauty, enhanced this evening by white short shorts and a blue and red Jayhawks’s shirt cut off just below her bouncy, unfettered breasts.
“What are you up to?” he asked.
“I was trying to balance my checkbook,” Gail replied, “which would not be a difficult process if I could find all my debit and credit card receipts. I bought a new digital scanner for such receipts. Now, if I could just find all of them.”
“Pretty sloppy. Remind me not to do any business with Pickering and Associates,” he joked, referring to her employer, a local accounting/consulting firm.
“I’m not certain they’d take on your accounts, Marshon,” she said mockingly, as she went into the living room and sat on a sofa.
Marshon had always been careful in discussions with Gail about his various business ventures. It wasn’t as if he could be open and honest about them. Just how would an accountant report Virginia Krebs’s purchase of an insurance policy? And, her payment of $200,000 to Jake’s Original Barbecue.
Marshon remembered recent conversations with Richey Stanton when Richey recalled the circumstances under which Marshon and Gail first met, nearly seven years ago. They were walking opposite directions on the opposite sides of the street in Tremont Plaza. He’d honed in on her and immediately crossed the street and hurried to catch up with her. He then unleashed a very unoriginal line, “Didn’t I see you at the Sting concert in the spring?”
Gail had looked at him with amusement and said, “No.”
Marshon hadn’t let up. “I’m sure I saw you, because I wouldn’t confuse the world’s most beautiful woman with any other women. What’s your name?”
He had successfully negotiated the fine line between casual conversation and sexual harassment. She had agreed to have coffee with him at an outdoor café. The information he wheedled out of her included the fact that she had auditioned for a local production of Showboat and won a major part. She was thinking about switching her major at the university from business administration to theater. He found out when the next rehearsal was, showed up, and begged the director for any part, including stagehand. Then and now, their relationship was still in rehearsal.
“Monday evening, I talked again to Richey,” Marshon said. “We were reminiscing about Showboat.”
“We had some great times together that summer. Apparently, he’s still acting locally. He left me a phone message about tryouts for Death of a Salesman. I wasn’t really interested. Maybe another musical, though.”
Marshon flopped onto the sofa beside Gail. “Yeah, he called me, too. We really need to get together with him and his new squeeze.”
“Definitely.”
“Talking about a squeeze,” he said, taking her into his arms, reaching around and squeezing one of her butt cheeks.
“We must be telepathic,” Gail said. “I was thinking the same thing a half hour ago.”
“As you can see, I got the message.”
They shed part of their clothes on the sofa and the rest on the floor leading to Gail’s bedroom and bed. An hour later, after each had taken a shower, they returned to the kitchen and sat at the breakfast bar, devouring cold Chinese food and drinking Tsingtao beer.
“Feeling better?” she asked, teasingly.
“Totally relaxed.”
“Good.”
Marshon also considered it a good time to introduce his other agenda, fueled in part by the killings at The Wheel and his insurance policy sale to Virginia Krebs. Her parting warning still sent chills up his spine, and Marshon wasn’t the type to be spooked easily. While he wasn’t an overly superstitious person, he also didn’t ignore signs, which he defined as the consequences of intended and unintended events.
“A couple of guys approached me about investing in a microbrewery out south,” he said, trying to start the conversation in a roundabout way, and temporarily mask his real intent. “I gave them a preliminary commitment, saying I’d look into it. You got any thoughts?”
“How much they want?”
“A hundred and fifty thou for a fifteen percent interest.”
“Wow! That means they are valuing the business at over a million before opening?”
Marshon frowned as he mentally did the math. “When you put it that way, it doesn’t sound like such a good deal.”
“The bar and restaurant business is very volatile. They gonna serve food?”
“I think so. Typical bar food, they said. But, they’re making a big deal out of their unique formula for hand-crafted beer.”
She held up the bottle of Tsingtao. “Better than this?”
He laughed. “I see your point.”
“Give me the particulars of the deal, including these two guys’ names. I look into it for you. You got that kind of money?”
Talking about his income was tantamount to walking into an area known for having quicksand or land mines.
“I’d have to scrape for the money,” he answered finally. “I’m actually spread a bit thin now, but you know I promised you several years ago that I’d shift my business interests to more … acceptable activities.”
“And, this is part of that process?”
“Absolutely,” he said. “You know about my investments in Widja’s janitorial service and Jake’s Original Barbecue, both of which are doing very well, by the way. In addition, I’ve put some money into a beauty shop, auto repair garage and a video store. I’m also considering buying into a Subway franchise.”
“Those are very profitable. Sounds like you’re building a nice portfolio.”
Marshon dropped the bomb. “I’ve decided to turn operation of The Wheel over to Jemmy and Widja, although I haven’t talked to them about it yet.”
Her smile lit up the room, and he grinned automatically, although he was in fact alarmed. He was only abandoning The Wheel for practical considerations, plus his desire to move into other illegal opportunities that appeared to be more profitable but less dangerous. Truth was, he preferred working outside the law. It was more exciting, more profitable, and less hypocritical.
“Are you going to concentrate your efforts on your other businesses?”
He screwed up his facial muscles in a gesture of equivocation. “In part, but those are just investments, not my life’s work.”
“What is you life’s work?” she asked, suddenly serious.
He decided to make the plunge. “You know I bought a condo on St. Thomas, in the Virgin Islands.”
“You mentioned it once before. Don’t you mainly rent it out?”
“Yeah. I got interested in that whole area of the Lesser Antilles five or six years ago when I attended a wedding for friends, who got married at a resort in the British Virgin Islands.”
“I don’t know the geography there very well,” Gail admitted.
“The Greater Antilles run west to east, starting in the Gulf of Mexico with the big islands of Jamaica and Cuba. Then, they extend into the Caribbean Sea with Haiti and the Dominican Republic, and Puerto Rico. The Lesser Antilles swing southward toward Venezuela, beginning with the Virgin Islands on down to Trinidad. Hundreds of islands, of all sizes. Some independent nations, some dependencies. Anyway, I fell in love with the Virgin Islands. Palm trees, white sandy beaches, blue-green water, and endless, lazy summer days.”
“And you a big city boy,” she replied, teasing.
“Exactly. The point it, I don’t get there much. There are always renters, although that pays the mortgage.”
“I hope that’s why you haven’t taken me to your vacation heaven,” Gail said, pouting good-naturedly.
Actually, Marshon was lying to Gail as he once again probed her willingness to accept his lifestyle, present and future. It probably wouldn’t work, but it certainly wouldn’t work if he told her the truth. He’d actually purchased a $3 m
illion home on Scrub Island, located about twenty miles northeast of Tortola, British Virgin Islands. Five years ago, Marshon had attended the wedding of his friends, SamL and ShaNa, who were married at the Long Bay Resort on Tortola. Marshon stayed for several days after the wedding and explored business opportunities in Road Town, the capital city.
Like the Cayman Islands, the British Virgin Islands are an overseas territory of the United Kingdom. In both cases, the twin economic pillars of these commonwealth territories are tourism and financial services. The British bristle when American authorities refer to the banks in Georgetown and Road Town as “tax havens.”
In fact, the laws governing these financial centers are very complicated, which is why Marshon, after opening a bank account in Road Town, asked for a referral to a local attorney. That’s how he met Philip Dahlgren, who was actually a third-generation citizen of the independent nation of The Bahamas. His main office was in Nassau, but he had branch offices on several islands in the Lesser Antilles. He not only headed up a large legal practice, but owned subsidiary businesses in insurance and real estate. Marshon thought he’d met a kindred soul after delicately explaining to Dahlgren his charitable gambling business and his desire to make regular cash deposits into his new bank account. For legal reasons, Marshon didn’t want to wire the money or carry it on a commercial airliner.
Dahlgren merely asked about the amount of cash. Marshon explained that it would be about a quarter million, maybe three times per year. The Nassau lawyer then explained that he did quite a bit of business in Miami. He and other trusted colleagues usually arrived and departed via either private yacht or jet. If Marshon could get his cash to Miami, Dahlgren would take it from there — for a twenty percent fee. Never once was the phrase “money laundering” used.
It was Dahlgren who contacted him eighteen months ago about the home on Scrub Islands, which apparently had sold previously for $5 million to an entrepreneur from Colombia, South America. Some event forced the drug dealer to make an abrupt departure and he was willing to sell the house for the bargain basement price of $3 million — if the cash was available immediately. If Marshon could come up with a down payment of $1.5 million, Dahlgren would carry the remaining mortgage as a personal loan. Impulsively, Marshon jumped at the opportunity, which left him cash-starved for six months. It also indebted him to Dahlgren.
The Money Game Page 15