The Money Game

by Michael A. Smith

  Now, he wanted Gail to live there on that storybook island with him, but only if he got a firm commitment first. Otherwise, he needed to keep the location of his home secret, in case he had to make a fast exit from the city and his current lifestyle.

  “Would you have any interest in moving permanently to the Caribbean?”

  Gail was stunned. “Are you kidding? What can you do there besides lie on the beach?”

  “Sailing, diving, sitting at a swimming pool bar. The essentials of life! Seriously, there’s a vibrant economy in the islands. Millions of people live there. They have the same needs you and I have. In fact, there are probably more banks and insurance companies there per capita than anywhere else in the world. I imagine there’s a huge need for qualified accountants. I know a lawyer whose business interests are varied. I’m sure he could help.”

  “I would never have thought about it in a million years, Marshon! How come we never talked about this before?”

  “We’re talking about it now.” He paused, searching for the right explanation. “Like I said, I was in the Virgin Islands for a wedding. Took a ferryboat excursion. I was watching a sunset and suddenly had the feeling of being on the world. Not in an apartment, a building, or a car. We spend most of our lives inside some type of structure. One-third sleeping, one-third working. Then, there’s shopping, business meetings. Always inside, working away like robot ants.”

  “I remember you talking about sitting on the porch with your Uncle Clyde when you were a small boy, looking at the stars. Is that where this grand impulse comes from?”

  “Maybe. I hadn’t thought about it that way. But I did when I was on that ferry, on a big ocean, on a small rock in the universe, which was in the process of turning away from the fiery sun. It got me to thinking about what I was doing during my brief time here on earth.”

  Gail’s face fell, as she suddenly realized the seriousness of their discussion. “And, you’ve decided to move there?

  “Why not? Life is a beach, on an island, in an ocean, on a rock in a limitless universe.”

  “It’s highly adventuresome. Romantic.” She seemed to search for more other descriptive words, but came up empty.

  Reading her expression and relying on his gut feeling, Marshon thought he knew her answer to his question. His stomach felt queasy. Nevertheless, he faked a smile and said, “Just think it over. We’ll talk again.”

  Gail looked immensely relieved to abandon the subject. “Along the line of surprises, how would you like to get together with my folks on Saturday night? There’s a fund-raiser dinner at the convention center Hyatt. They called me about it right before you arrived. Said they had two spare tickets.”

  Marshon looked skeptical. “And they were hoping you’d invited someone respectable?”

  She smiled slyly. “They didn’t say I couldn’t ask you. Why don’t you look at this as a sign, Marshon?”

  ∞ ∞ ∞

  Saturday night, Marshon drove into the circular driveway in front of the downtown Hyatt, got out of the car and handed the keys to a valet. He entered the spacious lobby and bounded up the stairs to the mezzanine level. Although there were many people milling about, Marshon easily spotted Gail on the far side near the conference rooms. She stood out in a crowd, even at a distance, especially since had poured herself into the blue evening gown, as promised. Most women have a good feature or two, but Gail had it all. The well-defined facial features, dazzling smile, flawless complexion, shimmering curly hair, and a “drop-dead” figure. Equally important to him were the intangibles: intelligence, commitment, understanding and, yes, even honesty, a quality to which Marshon could only aspire. In his life, being truthful seldom if ever yielded any profit, whereas being vague and duplicitous always seemed to have value.

  “I’ve been waiting for you, Marshon,” she said, in a breathless Marilyn Monroe voice. The way she sometimes said his name still excited him. No one else could communicate that level of sensuality simply by saying a name. Marshon.

  “Hey, baby, no problem. I said I’d come and I’m here. Where’re your folks?”

  Gail pointed to a middle-aged couple standing twenty feet away on the edge of a crowd gathered in front of a meeting room –– her father, Cecil, a respected judge in the 19th judicial circuit, and her mother, Florence, a psychologist with a private therapy practice. Daddy was a nominal Democrat who generally expounded conservative viewpoints that Marshon tried to ignore. On the other hand, Florence was always delightful.

  “Can we get something to drink first, so I have the necessary courage to talk to your dad?” he asked, as he pretended to be shaking with fear.

  Gail laughed and he slipped one arm around her waist to draw her closer. He inhaled, drawing in her various smells, all of which turned him on. He couldn’t wait for the evening to end.

  “There’s free champagne right over there,” Gail asked, pointing at a nearby table loaded with hors d’oeuvres and glasses of sparkling wine. “In fact, everything’s free this evening. Tickets cost two-fifty a head, but Daddy paid for them.”

  He knew she was being subtly seductive and he didn’t mind playing the game while they had time. “I’d pay two-fifty for the right head,” he whispered.

  She put a hand on her hip in a gesture of mock outrage. “You be a nice boy and don’t talk street trash like that with Mom and Dad.”

  “I’ll have to remember not to slip and call Cecil dad,” Marshon said, remembering how they’d laughed about that once.

  “I wouldn’t do that tonight. Maybe some other time.”

  Marshon whispered, “What about later? Any other freebies on the horizon?”

  Gail pretended to ponder his question. “Later I might want a double-dip pistachio cone at Baskin Robbins. That’s probably about two-fifty and tax,” she said, artfully.

  They each got a glass of champagne and approached her parents.

  “Florence, Cecil, how are you,” Marshon said. He purposefully tried to sound white and conservative. How-R-You.

  “What a beautiful tux, Marshon,” Gail’s mother said.

  Marshon wore a royal blue tuxedo with a black shawl collar and matching paisley vest, so that he and Gail would stand out in the sea of black.

  “Thank you, Flo. Love your dress.”

  “The color is eggplant, in case you were wondering.”

  Marshon liked Gail’s mother, the source of the daughter’s beauty, and felt at ease around her.

  “Cecil, good to see you.”

  Marshon, Gail, and Florence towered over the judge: a wiry, balding man whose mouth turned down in a perpetual expression of disapproval. His wrinkled forehead signaled deep cynicism, perhaps caused by listening to all the criminals who had appeared in front of his bench. Marshon desperately wanted to avoid ever being in that penitent position.

  “I’m looking forward to hearing what Mr. Dewhurst has to say,” the judge said, biting off his words. “He can still lose my vote.”

  The dinner and after-dinner presentation were a fund-raiser for Benjamin Dewhurst, a local, highly successful African-American attorney who had been city attorney, a councilman, and now planned to step up to the big job. Mayor.

  “I don’t care what he says,” Gail announced truthfully. “I’m just here to enjoy the company.”

  “Let’s go to the lady’s room, Gail,” her mother said, taking her daughter’s arm.

  Marshon’s antennae immediately went up.

  “This gives me an opportunity to talk to you, Marshon.”

  “Sure, Cecil, just let me grab another champagne from the waiter other there,” Marshon said, needing a few moments to collect his thoughts. Up until now, Cecil had been content to glare at him on the few occasions they’d been thrown together, including an office picnic at Gail's firm. Never had they spoken privately. Flo appeared to be part of this conspiracy.

  “What’s up?” Marshon asked, rejoining the judge at a secluded end of an adjoining hallway. He handed him a glass of bubbly.

 
; “Marshon, I don’t have time to beat around the bush. My daughter apparently loves you and that causes her mother and I some distress.”

  Marshon could pretend to be hurt, but he didn’t see any percentage in that approach. So, he said, flippantly, “What, you don’t like me, Cecil?”

  “Not particularly. You’re a crook, Marshon, and before you object, and try to bullshit me, think about it for a moment. I’m a judge. I know every other member of the judiciary in the city, from traffic court judges to appellate court judges. I know nearly all of the prosecutors and public defenders in a half-dozen different jurisdictions. Many criminal lawyers defend the accused in my courtroom. Half the cops in the city have been in my courtroom testifying, at one time or another. My staff knows the staff members of everyone involved in the law enforcement and judicial system. So, when I tell you I know all about your activities, Marshon, you can be certain I know all about all your activities.”

  Marshon knew that wasn’t even remotely true, but he simply nodded his agreement. He did discreetly look around, to make sure no one else was listening to their conversation or paying particular attention to them.

  “Now, in case you think I’m wearing a wire, Marshon, and trying to trap you into some admission, forget it. In fact, what I’m gonna tell you could cost me my job, and maybe even land me in jail.” The judge then looked around carefully. “Nothing more’s sacrosanct in the judicial system than grand jury proceedings, when they are debating an indictment. You understand?”

  “Yes.” The hairs were literally standing on the back of Marshon’s neck. He took another hit of champagne, noticing that his hand was shaking slightly. This was a serious discussion.

  “A couple of young men apparently got killed at The Wheel two weeks ago, as I’m sure you know. From what I understand, they were not exactly upstanding citizens. I believe they were in the process of attempting an armed robbery when they were shot and killed. Someone’s come forward and claims to have a videotape. Being a cynic myself, I’d wonder if this isn’t someone wanting to make a move on you.”

  Of course, Marshon knew that only one of the robbers had been shot, but that probably wasn’t the fatal wound. The person leaking this information hadn’t actually been there; and, certainly hadn’t viewed the video. They were repeating what they had heard, or what someone told them to say. There was no mention of Ace and his knives. That was encouraging news to Marshon, because it meant he could easily discredit the witness. “Why are you telling me all this, Cecil, at such risk to yourself, especially since you don’t like me?”

  “Oh, it’s occurred to me to simply stand by and watch a brick wall fall on you, Marshon. That might solve everything, as far as I’m concerned personally. However, my wife gave me another perspective. You see, as a judge, I tend to take a simplistic view of law and order. People break the law, they pay the penalty. On the other hand, my wife’s profession requires her to understand a patient, even one who is morally repugnant. Only then can she effectively counsel them.”

  “Are you saying that Flo has been analyzing me from afar,” Marshon said, trying to inject some levity into the deadly serious conversation.

  “You could call it that, or you could call it profiling. At any rate, she thinks you’re a smart man, and that you might already have an inkling that the brick wall is crumbling. That you may be putting together an escape plan — that might include Gail.”

  “Wow.” Marshon was impressed, not only with Flo, who clearly was an exceptionally gifted analyst, with accurate insights, but also with Cecil. The judge might dislike Marshon, but his warning to him indicated the judge deeply loved his daughter; enough so that he’d put his own career in jeopardy to prevent her from getting swept up, even indirectly, in the gathering storm. Marshon respected that.

  “First, thanks, Cecil. Second, I didn’t kill anyone and that videotape will prove it, unless it’s been doctored. Third, I love Gail, and no way would I ever put her into danger. That includes any action that would cause anyone in the legal system to think she conspired with me to commit a crime, or that she even knows about it, which she doesn’t, to the best of my knowledge. I would never ever do anything like that. You’re right to consider me a poor match for your daughter.

  “But I’m not uncaring or evil. Believe me, I’m trying to turn things around. I do have a plan and it is in motion. This conversation will actually cause me to disengage at an even more rapid pace. I won’t involve Gail at this time, in any way.”

  They both became aware of the two approaching women — the beautiful women who looked alike, and who looked happy to see them talking.

  “You ladies ready?” Cecil asked. “I think they are about to start in there.”

  The fund-raiser for the mayoral candidate took place in the grand ballroom, which could be sectioned into three smaller meeting rooms on other occasions. The ballroom seated 540 people. Floor-to-ceiling glass windows allowed the participants to see part of the old downtown area to the east. At night, the skyscrapers twinkle with lights, and looked like giant Christmas trees.

  The J.T. Warren Convention Center complex — designed originally to invigorate a deteriorating inner city economy — included the 40-story Hyatt connected by an elevated, enclosed walkway called The Link that connected the entire complex. It ran from the mezzanine level of the Hyatt across the street to an office building. The Link then wound over another street to connect to The Shops, a three-story mall. A hallway on the east end of the mall led to another hotel, the Westin. On the mezzanine level of the Westin, The Link resumed and crossed two more streets to provide access to the convention center — a 35,000-seat arena that could be adapted for sporting events, various types of entertainment, and conventions.

  Cecil, of course, had a table near the windows. As the four of them walked through the room toward their table, all were aware of the stares that followed them. Many people in this racially mixed crowd knew who they were: an influential judge, his successful wife, beautiful daughter, and the criminal kingpin of the East Side. If you had looked closely, you would have seen many a conversation shaded with a hand, to keep the words private.

  “Full house,” Gail said as they sat at a table for eight. The two other couples already seated were friends of Cecil and Flo.

  After the toastmaster rose and made preliminary remarks, Marshon went into automatic mode, answering questions and responding without putting any thought into the effort. He was lost in more important musings generated by his discussion with Cecil.

  The informer could be a competitor, someone wanting to take his place. Marshon had once been in that position. Although Skinny had designated Marshon as his successor, and given him the means to ascend to leadership at The Wheel, there were still competitors biding their time. When Skinny moved aside, they unleashed their attack. Tyrice Banks had been Skinny’s right-hand man for years and he desperately wanted to run The Wheel. Unfortunately, Tyrice had outstanding warrants from the time he had lived in St. Louis, where he was wanted as a material witness in a shooting. Marshon found out and leaked the information to the cops. Another aspirant had been sleeping with the wife of an influential city councilman. Marshon hid a camera in their favorite hotel room and made certain the husband saw the tape. That contender fled the city.

  Now, someone might be ready to spring a trap on him. If there was a tape, it would only prove he was there that night. It would clearly identify Ace Semanski as the killer, although it would also show Jemmy Shoemaker firing shots into one of the robbers. Marshon could plead ignorance as to the disposal of the bodies, but whoever was behind this would anticipate that. They’d approach the robbers’ mothers and try to turn them. In any event, the grand jury could indict him on any number of charges: running an illegal gambling operation, trying to conceal two homicides, bribery, illegal disposal of human remains, and forgery of death certificates. It could add up to years in prison.

  Marshon turned his attention back to the fund-raiser. More than 500 people had turned
out to hear a black candidate for mayor convince them he could win, and that they best invest in him on the front end of the campaign if they wanted avenues of access once he assumed office. Two hundred and fifty dollars for the opportunity to drink cheap sparkling wine and partake of a limited menu of assembly-line food brought in $125,000. The Dewhurst campaign probably split sixty-forty with the hotel. Not a bad night’s take.

  Marshon sneered inwardly at the hypocrisy of it all. He was openly a criminal, although he never bragged about paying bribes, or made public the amounts and a list of those who accepted the payoffs — at least, he hadn’t yet. The hypocrites gathered in this room had invented a completely new language to mask their real actions and intent. They alleged to be upstanding, law-abiding citizens — businessmen and job creators who made it possible for the lower economic classes to survive. Making a campaign donation was different that extending a bribe. The donors were simply guaranteeing access to a publicly elected official and his staff, which was a businessman’s right, protected by the First Amendment. So said the U.S. Supreme Court, in a recent ruling. All these donors exercising their constitutional rights just wanted a first look at the bid requirements for all the contracts government agencies would extend to the private sector for the construction of new public buildings and roads. It wasn’t insider information or preferential treatment; it was just good business practice. It all made Marshon want to puke.

  The food came fast and was little better than fast food. “What is this?” Marshon asked Gail, as he poked his fork at a slab of white fish that was cold and had an odor.

  “Campaign food,” Gail said, sticking exclusively to her salad. “I’ll rustle us up some real grub when we get back to my place.”