The Money Game

by Michael A. Smith

  He got into his car, started the engine and turned on the heater. He listened to the water-sprinkling system as if it were background music, occasionally supplemented by human voices, slamming car doors, and engines starting. A siren wailed in the distance. The city was awake and on the move. Somehow, those sounds comforted him temporarily.

  Richey slipped into a state of half-sleep, weary not only from the traumatic events of the last few days but just bone-tired of life’s never-ending succession of hassles and events he never anticipated and usually could never control, even in a minor way. He’d spent his entire life reacting. There was nothing worse, really, than failing at one’s choice of work, especially because Richey felt so passionate about it. Additionally, he blamed himself. If he had it to do over, Richey would work his entire adult life at some workplace like Biederman’s, and never complain. Never even look up from the task at hand and be distracted by a broader vision. It was better to be a clog in a machine than it was to stand alone and fail. Of course, Richey didn’t really believe that; it was just one of the many conflicting conversations he carried on inside his head.

  Although Richey was sick and tired, and tired of living, he didn’t really want to die, and be dead dead, with no sense of consciousness — of being. If one had no sense of awareness, there couldn’t be any feelings of longing, regret, hope or fear. The aware, thinking, feeling being had to have a housing; otherwise there was no means of moving, speaking, hearing, feeling, and touching. Without corporeality, all one’s thoughts and emotions would just float free and attach themselves to molecules of various gases, or fall into the grass and dirt. One’s persona would be fragmented and scattered among the elements.

  It would be far nicer to retire, not in the conventional sense of going to Florida or Arizona, but retire periodically. If only his mind’s contents could be transferred to a CD that could be inserted into a computerized cyborg housing whenever he wanted to “live” — and placed on a shelf when he yearned for peace and quiet. Only his mind mattered anyway. The rest was just skin, tissue, water, muscle, and bone. It aged and ceased to work correctly, creating all kinds of problems. He could do without it.

  The metronomic sound made by the rotating sprinkler heads lulled Richey into a dream world of the future occupied by indestructible, imperturbable robots that housed human souls for a fixed time — an hour, a day, a week, a year? What would it cost? What price would the soul have to pay? Could the CD program be edited so that one’s history and experiences, even attributes, would be only happy and good? What would that cost? The money game might not end with the end of this life. Richey certainly wanted to be better than he was, and he’d just as soon bypass this time in his life. Right now, they could put his CD mind soul in a case.

  Suddenly, Richey jerked fully awake. He had to do something other than daydream and fantasize. He couldn’t simply wait for Carmen to come up with a plan. He needed to be a man and take control of his life. He dialed a number on his cell phone and smiled when there was an answer.

  “Marshon? Yeah, I know it’s early. Can we get together and talk? I’m ready.”

  This time, Richey didn’t plan to wait for life to come to him and present a wonderful opportunity. He and Marshon would create their own future. It almost worked except for one false move Richey made while standing behind a bar.

  12/Passing The Torch

  On Tuesday morning following the irritating Saturday night fund-raiser for mayoral candidate Dewhurst, Marshon, Jemmy and Widja got together in Marshon’s third-floor apartment for a strategy session. Widja brought a box of Dunkin’ Donuts. Marshon had brewed coffee.

  When he first moved into the building, Marshon hired workers to knock down the wall separating two apartments on the third floor. What had been the living room and kitchen of one apartment now was a new, larger kitchen and dining room. Marshon had one bedroom converted to a billiards room dominated by a large snooker table, but with enough room for a dartboard, a small portable bar and two bar stools. Walking around the snooker table in search of the best shot was Marshon’s favorite way to unwind after a long day.

  What had been the second apartment was now an expanded living room and bedroom, with a bathroom and hallway between the blended apartments. There were two twin beds in the bedroom to illustrate the fiction that Jemmy was Marshon’s roommate, in case Gail came by or proposed to stay overnight.

  Workers had put down a new mahogany floor in the living room. Furnishings included a credenza placed in front of the window overlooking the street. A long sofa with a recliner in one end faced a 60-inch Samsung smart television hung on the interior wall. To the left of the television were floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. The walls were painted lavender.

  Widja and Jemmy sat on the sofa and playfully fought over the donuts in the box sitting on a coffee table. Marshon sat in a rocker recliner located across from the sofa.

  “So, you meet the wannabe mayor Saturday night?” Jemmy asked, winning the battle for the lone apple fritter. His big body took up about two-thirds of the sofa.

  “Yeah, he described himself as the new broom that sweeps clean,” Marshon responded. “Gonna rid the East Side of trash like me. Didn’t even want my donation, at least not in public.”

  Widja, who wore coveralls with the name Royal Janitorial Service imprinted on the back, said, “I specialize in dirt and I’ll be looking for something on that motherfucker from here on out. He’s gotta have some bad habits.”

  “Hey, you remember that election where we tore down all the campaign signs of the guy who was running against our man?” Jemmy asked. “We can do that and more against Dewhurst. Maybe some high tech shit, huh? Like a YouTube video of him sucking dick. We could morph his head onto some faggot’s body.”

  “We’ll get to all that when the time is right, if we need to,” Marshon said. “But it ain’t getting snubbed by Dewhurst that worries me as much as a rumor I heard Saturday night about a grand jury investigating those two robbers getting killed at The Wheel.”

  Jemmy, who was about to take a bite of the apple fritter, said, “You fuckin’ serious?”

  “Serious as Ebola. My source is impeccable, believe me. They got a report from somebody who either was there, or heard about what happened. It’s possible the County Attorney may have a copy of the surveillance video.”

  “Can’t be,” Jemmy said, in disbelief. “I took that DVD out of the machine myself. It’s some multi-track recorder that captures the video stream from all three cameras.”

  “How soon after the killings?”

  Jemmy calculated. “I dunno. Forty-five minutes, maybe. Whenever you told me to get it.”

  “Someone from the VFW help you?”

  “Yeah, he knew about the machinery.”

  They looked at each other and nodded.

  “Hey, Marshon, just say the word and I’ll have a talk with him. If he made a copy, I’ll find out and bust his nuts.” Jemmy smashed one massive fist into the other. He wore a green hoodie with Green Bay Packers printed across the front in gold.

  “It wasn’t any of our people, boss,” Widja said. “Just think back to that night. We was all standing with you for a long time after the robbers went down. Talking to that motherfucker Ace, and trying to figure out how to get rid of the bodies. And, what to do with Bellamay. We was a tight little circle, if you recall, for quite a while. I remember nearly all the dealers being there.”

  “I know that, Widja. I got my copy of the DVD out of my safe and took a look at it yesterday. Copied part of it to a flash drive.” Marshon shook his head. “I still can’t believe how fast it all happened. But, in the time we was trying to figure out what to do, someone — probably someone with the VFW — saw an opportunity to make a little cash and copied the disk. But that don’t explain why they didn’t try to sell it to me first. That’s what I’d expect. Why would they take it to the Country Attorney instead?”

  “I’ll find out what happened, Marshon,” Jemmy said, baring his teeth.


  “Okay, but if you find this guy, don’t bust him up right away. I want to talk to him first and understand his motive. It could be that he just doesn’t fuckin’ like me, or The Wheel. On the other hand, he might have a relative or friend under investigation, or up for sentencing. He could be using the tape to help them. On the other hand, he could be fronting for someone else working behind the scenes.”

  “What do you mean?” Widja asked.

  Marshon stood and walked into the kitchen to warm up his coffee cup. Then, he stood between the two rooms and rocked from his heels to the balls of his feet. “I’m been thinking lately about how I took over The Wheel when Skinny stepped down. It was a fight, if you remember.”

  “Yeah, there were a lotta pretenders to the throne,” Widja said.

  “Well, what goes around comes around. Maybe someone wants to get rid of me and take over. This would be their golden opportunity.”

  In an impressive display for a man of his bulk, Jemmy levitated to his feet in one motion. He again slammed his right fist into the palm of his other hand, creating an awful sound. “I’m gonna fuck with some people and find out what’s goin’ on!”

  Marshon held out an arm and hand in a cautionary gesture. “Right now, get a coffee refill and let’s talk about the future.”

  After they all sat again, Widja asked, “You said someone’s also testifying to the grand jury?” Widja asked. “Who? The guy with the tape or the guy he gave it to?”

  “That I don’t know, Widja. Grand jury proceedings are secret and the transcript is sealed.”

  “We could set up surveillance of the courthouse if we knew when the grand jury was in session,” Widja said. “Don’t even use people, use a camera. You got all that expensive equipment here.”

  “Everyone on the East Side knows the rules,” Jemmy said. “You gave your speech after the boys was shot, Marshon. No snitching. I say you put some money behind those words and pay off anyone who tells us who is running their mouth. Then, I’ll deal with him!”

  “All good ideas,” Marshon said. “Get started. Just so you know, I put out the word that we got videos, too. Big shots gambling at The Wheel and not always there with their wives. God knows, we got half the brass at the police force with their pants down around their angles, getting their pipes cleaned. I’ll plant that rumor in several more ears. They may reconsider the grand jury investigation when it becomes apparent that the resulting shit storm will splatter everyone. It could just be an election year trial balloon. When they have time to think it over, they’ll move onto other things.”

  “Fuckin’ A!” Widja exclaimed, a big smile on his face as he fished through the donut box. “The best defense is an offense, right? Those motherfuckers, whoever they are, will start runnin’ when they see us comin’!”

  Jemmy bobbed his giant-sized, bald head and said, “Marshon, you a fuckin’ genius! You told me to make a highlight reel of the whores in action, and I did. We got those motherfuckers by the nuts!”

  “Make some more copies of that disk. Leave two with me. I’ll put one in my safe here in the apartment. Maybe mail the other one to the County Attorney. Each of you take a copy and put it in a safe place, where no one else can find it. It can be our nuclear weapon.”

  “We gonna solve this problem,” Widja said. “Those dicks down at city hall just can’t learn not to fuck with smart niggers who got moxie and moves.”

  “Hey, let’s not hurt ourselves patting our own backs,” Marshon cautioned. “The opposition probably has a few more surprises in their bag of tricks. You can bet the County Attorney’s staff and investigators are leaning on everyone, hard. They get the right leverage on the right person and that person is more afraid of prison than they are of us.”

  “That’s a fuckin’ mistake,” Jemmy said, with conviction. “We can reach inside prisons, and I’ll be puttin’ that word out, too.”

  Marshon sat forward and put his forearms on his knees. “And, I gotta another move, too, which at least will be ‘check,’ if not checkmate. I’m gonna step down as head of The Wheel.”

  The slightly build janitor and the giant enforcer both looked stunned. Widja stopped chewing on a French cruller. It became so silent in the room that they became aware of traffic noises on the street.

  “Why?” Jemmy asked. “Like you said, we can outmaneuver these fuckers!”

  “Because it’s time,” Marshon said. “It’s not like this shit storm got me scared and running. We’ve survived worse things in the past. It’s a combination of everything. First, I’m tired of it all after seven years. The Wheel is a lightning rod. Y’all know that. It’s one thing or the other, and always will be. Besides, the expenses are increasing faster than the profits. The bigger and better we get, the more hands are out. Our clientele are older folks and they’re dying off. Most young folks don’t like our action. They gamble on-line or in those WPT events they hold all over the country. Then, there’s this fantasy sports thing. Real big fuckin’ money! The laws are bound to change and allow online gambling, if for no other reason than it could become a big source of revenue for states and the federal government.”

  Marshon paused and took a deep breath. “Besides, I’m exploring other opportunities, some of which I think are potentially more profitable. So, what I’m saying is that you two guys got first shot at taking over The Wheel, if you want. ʼCause we’ve been friends a long time, and that counts for something with me. I would never have lasted this long without you two. I can give you both the same leg up that Skinny gave me, which includes the equipment, the lists of our regulars and a list of those motherfuckers we bribe every week. Plus, you got that video we just talked about. That doesn’t mean you won’t get a fight from someone.”

  Marshon sat back and sipped his coffee. Jemmy frowned and fiddled pensively with his Christian cross left earring. Widja chomped on the cruller, but was first to speak. “I’m kinda interested, Marshon, but I want to keep on with the janitorial business, too. It has revealed a whole ʼnother revenue stream I didn’t even know existed.”

  “Yeah?” Marshon asked, curiously, since he was now by admission open to other business opportunities.

  “Out in Corporate Woods, I recently got a cleaning contract for an entire building. Twelve floors, ten different businesses. An insurance company, a brokerage firm, some start-up tech group. I’m beginning to realize the value of information lying around the office, on people’s desks, in the trash, sometimes right there on the computer screen they forgot to shut down. Reports, e-mails, handwritten notes, flash drives I could copy. You know those little yellow post-its? People write their passwords on them and stick them on the bottom of their computer screen, so they don’t forget ʼem!

  “Let me give you one example. One night, I looked through a report lying on a guy’s desk and read that he recommended that a client take a long futures position on pork bellies, because of some hog disease the federal Department of Agriculture was planning to announce in a few days. I didn’t even know what a futures contract was, let alone long versus short. I read up on it and followed developments. When the feds announced the hog disease and that they was gonna kill tens of thousands of sick pigs, the price of pork shot through the roof. If I had bought some of those future contracts for the coming months, I coulda made a fortune. This broker was selling insider information, wherever he got it.”

  Marshon laughed softly and then explained: “I remember Skinny telling me when I was a kid in prison that if I wanted to rob people, I best become a lawyer or a stock market manipulator. Then, the crime would be legal, or at least wouldn’t be prosecuted.”

  “Ain’t it the goddamned truth,” Widja said. “Anyway, I can only do The Wheel in partnership with Jemmy.”

  Marshon looked at his muscular friend, who seemed reluctant. “Jemmy?”

  “I’m not sure I’m smart enough, Marshon. I sure as hell don’t have your P.R. talents. I couldn’t give that soapbox speech every time we spin.”

  “Fuck that!” Widja sai
d. “We’ll just run a video of Marshon preaching the gospel!”

  They all laughed at the image.

  “Tell us about the finances, Marshon,” Widja said. “And the deal. You ain’t just handing over The Wheel free of charge, are you?”

  Marshon stood and walked to the credenza. He picked up three folders and handed one each to Widja and Jemmy. He refilled everyone’s coffee cup before sitting and opening his folder. “When you come right down to it, The Wheel is as much a social organization as it is a floating casino. It’s not only takes bribe money for it to run smoothly, but like Jemmy said, there’s the constant glad-handing with the customer base. And, as you both know, security is paramount.

  “As for the finances, The Wheel will gross up to $40,000 each weekend from three sources: the admission fee, gambling, and food and drinks. It’s nearly $2 million a year. You’re gonna net maybe a million three, or four.”

  “No fuckin’ way! You got that many expenses?” Widja asked.

  “Way. Look at the salaries for you two guys, two rovers, six security guards, and four movers. Dealers and servers have to rely on tips, although I occasionally throw some money their way as a bonus.”

  Widja’s mouth dropped open. “Three hundred and sixty-eight thousand dollars a year in salaries!”

  “You two are taking nearly $100,000 of that. I pay the rovers two K per month and $15 an hour to the movers and guards. I guarantee those ten guys sixteen hours per week.”

  “Jemmy gets eight grand a month!”

  “That includes my duties here in this building, asshole!”

  “And I put thirty grand into launching your janitorial business, which I hear is doing very well.”

  “Hey, I ain’t complaining, guys. I just never woulda guessed.”

  “Add in equipment storage and repair, plus generous year-end bonuses, unexpected things, and total operating expenses come to more than four hundred grand a year,” Marshon said. “But, as you will note by looking at the other major expense column, I’m paying out about $250,000 a year in bribes.”