Marshon watched as his two lieutenants perused the balance sheet. Both then looked at him with open-mouthed astonishment.
“Yeah. Last Friday, I gave Lieutenant Fuckin’ Isley eighteen hundred dollars. This weekly payoff to the cops amounts to about $100,000 a year. You can see the amount of campaign contributions I’m making to eleven other elected and appointed officials, including the Chief of Police, County Sheriff, Mayor, County Attorney, five state legislators and two Congressmen. It’s the price of doing business as a charitable gambling operation, gentleman.”
“How long is that cover gonna fly?” Widja asked.
Marshon shrugged. “Don’t know. There’s a lotta action out there operating on the razor’s edge. Daily fantasy sports action is nearly a billion-dollar-a-year industry, but it operates on a legal loophole that considers it a skill activity rather than betting. That’s bullshit, of course. There’re politicians who want to tighten up these laws, but I’d bet on them getting looser.”
Widja produced a pen and scribbled on his balance sheet. “So, The Wheel takes in about $2 million gross and pays out at least $650,000, leaving a net of about one point three million?”
Marshon nodded. “The Wheel can make the two of you over a half-million each per year. You got something else to do that will make you that kind of money?”
“Fuck no!”
Most of Marshon’s profits for the first two years of operation under his command went into paying a dividend to Skinny Walker, buying new equipment and building up the business. In addition, he’d spent lavishly on clothes, cars, dining out, vacations, et cetera before adopting a more professional business approach.
“I paid Skinny twenty-five hundred bucks a month until he died,” Marshon said.
“What kinda dividend are we gonna hafta pay you, Marshon?” Widja asked.
“A hundred thousand dollars up front for the equipment,” Marshon said. “That’s probably its replacement value. And, four grand a month any month you’re in operation. That’ll be about 10 percent of your gross.”
Jemmy got up and walked to Marshon’s chair, where he loomed over his friend like a mountain. He grasped Marshon’s hand and said, “It’s a great deal, Marshon. You are my friend for life, brother. You ask it, and I’ll do it.”
“Go get another donut, my friend, because I ain’t done.”
“This gonna be like your soapbox speech, Marshon,” Widja said, eliciting laughs all around.
“Two things, both of which are recommendations. You heard the legend about how Skinny started The Wheel. He marked up a piece of felt like a craps table and laid it on the floor of his van. Worked alleys and parking lots on the East Side. Later, he moved it into his house and then he bought a bigger house. He moved out into places like the VFW right before I took over. I upgraded the equipment by buying used stock from the riverboat casinos, came up with the charitable gambling gimmick, and turned each gambling session into a social event. Half the people who now come to The Wheel don’t gamble much. They eat, drink, dance and maybe pull a slot handle a few times. But they provide cover, if you know what I mean.”
“Shit, Marshon, ain’t nobody gonna try to shut down The Wheel after you made it into what it is,” Widja said.
Marshon held up his folder. “Yeah, but take another look at this. The expenses are killing me, and they’ll kill you. Besides, let me ask you two a question. I don’t mean to insult you, but are you guys up to all the P.R. and hand-jobs you’re gonna have to give to all these government leeches?”
“Fuck no!” Jemmy answered, immediately. “The only dick I handle is my own.”
“You gotta do what you gotta do,” Widja said, shrugging. “What’s the alternative?”
“Go small. Go back to a version of Skinny’s original model. Buy a building like this where both of you live. In the other apartments, put a gaming table in every room, and run The Wheel like it was a friendly neighborhood game. You two rely on customer tips for your income and you don’t invite anyone back to your private games if they ain’t tipping enough.”
His friends stared back, speechless.
“Think about it,” Marshon said. “Also, you wouldn’t have to report your tip income for tax purposes, not when you derived it from an illegal activity. You only report income from your legitimate jobs. Jemmy, you’re a security guard and maintenance guy. Widja is a janitor.”
Both men frowned, consumed with calculation of their futures.
“Whichever way you two decide to go, let me launder your money in an off-shore bank for twenty percent. I might even let my royalty go then.” He planned to let them figure out that the laundry fee could be four-to-five times greater per year than a monthly royalty. Friendship had its limits.
“Is that what you do now?” Widja asked. “Stash your money off-shore?”
“Yes, and over the years I have developed the know-how and connections to do it for you, too. Otherwise, you got a problem. If you put your money in a bank account, or invest it in the stock market, or some type of annuity, you’ll have to provide your Social Security numbers and tax I.D. All of this information will be reported to the IRS. Then, you got even more problems. Besides, everybody locally will know what you’re doing, anyway, even if you allege that you’re a nonprofit just breaking even. You hold the money in your apartment or house and people will be constantly robbing you. Let me be your accountant, and I’ll get you the best available interest rate and no one will know where the money is. You’ll build up a nice nest egg over time. We may do some other business together.”
“You gonna stay and run the apartment business?” Jemmy asked.
Marshon hesitated. Right up to this point, he hadn’t made a decision. “No, I’m not gonna stay in the area or manage the prostitution business. The building is paid for and my Nanna and Uncle Clyde hold the deed. The $1,000 per month rent for each apartment goes directly into their joint bank account. It’s their retirement income. That whole arrangement is set up and monitored by my lawyer, Mort Saperstein. He’ll sue anybody who fucks with that arrangement and that person or persons will be my enemy for life.”
Both Jemmy and Widja bobbed their heads aggressively, like chastised schoolboys.
Marshon’s grandmother and her brother lived together and although they were in their seventies, both seemed in good health. Their mother died at age ninety-eight. Marshon felt he owed them his life, and he planned to take care of them for the rest of their lives.
“Look, I ain’t gonna lie to you, the whores are bringing in big money,” Marshon said, although he wouldn’t tell them the gross was over $3 million, or that he took 30 percent of that. “I just think the two of you will have your hands full with The Wheel. I know I did. I couldn’t have run both operations at the same time in the beginning.”
“So, what about the whores?” Widja asked, frowning.
“I think I’m gonna let Boudra run it, because I think she can increase the business. And, I need this piece of action myself until I get established somewhere else.”
Jemmy jumped to Marshon’s defense. “I don’t mind getting out of the hooker business, boss, as you know. And, Widja, you’ll have enough on your plate what with The Wheel and your janitor stuff.”
“I haven’t talked terms with Boudra,” Marshon said, “because I wanted to talk to your guys first. When I get together with her, I’ll work you guys into the deal, if you want. Boudra can’t do security, and there may be some payoffs, like with the cops, that you could best handle, Jemmy. Widja, you can take care of the building itself. Maintenance, upkeep, that kind of thing. What if I could get each of you an additional $100,000?”
Jemmy responded immediately. “I like it, Marshon, especially if Boudra takes over the video operation. You know, watching the nightly action and seeing if there’s anything profitable in it.”
“I’ll make sure she takes care of that,” Marshon said.
“I’m down with the whole deal,” Widja replied.
Marshon had alrea
dy decided not to deal in Jemmy and Widja on his other investments. He was bringing in about $6,000 a month as his share of those profits. Marshon had decided to let Richey manage those investments for a percentage, if Richey decided not to go with him.
“You two will have to decide if you want to continue shaking down some of the Johns, when the opportunity is right,” Marshon said. “My advice is to go easy on that action until you’re comfortable with everything else. And, clear it with Boudra. I won’t take any percentage from those deals, but if you do it, be generous with the ladies who provide the tips.”
“What kinda money you making there?” Widja asked.
Marshon shrugged. “Maybe a half-million a year.”
Widja stood also and began to sway to imagined music. “It’s all good, man. We all done okay and we’ll continue to do okay. Shit, half the kids I went to high school with is dead or in jail!”
“Where you gonna go, Marshon?” Jemmy asked.
“Maybe the Bahamas. I haven’t made up my mind.” Marshon hadn’t told his two closest friends about his island home and they’d never heard of his alter ego, Marcus Jones. He wasn’t certain he’d ever tell them, especially Widja.
Jemmy again walked over to Marshon and pulled him from the recliner. He wrapped Marshon in a bear hug. “I’ll fuckin’ miss you, man!”
“Hey, I ain’t leavin’ the earth!” Marshon said. “We’ll get together from time to time.”
After Jemmy and Widja left, Marshon sat, drank more coffee and reviewed his moves. He believed he’d made the right decision. He was getting out on top. While he’d been running his various businesses for seven years, it was only in the last three years he’d gotten everything operating at maximum efficiency. As a result, he’d managed to launder and deposit about $5.3 million into his offshore banking account in Road Town, British Virgin Islands. He had over $300,000 cash on hand. The apartment building was paid for. His main liability was a $1.5 million home mortgage, maintenance, and monthly legal expenses.
Best of all, he’d just guaranteed himself a nice monthly income of $4,000 from The Wheel, and at least the same net amount from his various local business investments. While he hadn’t concluded his deal with Boudra, he planned to ask for 10 to 15 percent of the building’s net, which could easily amount of a half-million a year, if she actually expanded the business as she planned. He’d also make Boudra the same offer to launder her cash, which could be a very lucrative deal. And, he and Richey hadn’t even fleshed out their deal yet regarding their private gambling schemes. Marshon thought there was a possibility he might yet become a billionaire.
There’s nothing more characteristics of humans than planning for the future, and nothing more predictable than the fact that such plans often prove idealistic and unattainable. To Marshon, the future seemed sunny and warm, much like the usual weather in the Virgin Islands. However, as everyone knows — or should know — a storm can blow in without much warning.
13/An Island Dream/Scheme
Marshon met Richey the next day at a restaurant and bar named The Lamplighter, located on the second floor of The Shops. He walked into the restaurant and looked around until he spotted Richey sitting at a booth in the rear. As the name of the establishment implied, replicas of nineteenth-century, oil-fueled lamps provided lightning throughout the restaurants, although the source of power was electrical. Some of the fake lamps were stationary, on simulated posts, although most were suspended over the tables by chains attached to the ceiling. The subtle, subdued lightning gave drinkers and diners a feeling of privacy and intimacy, making it a favorite gathering place for lovers and business executives. Today, at eleven o’clock, it was beginning to fill up with the lunchtime crowd.
“I was glad to hear from you this morning,” Marshon said, sliding into the vacant seat. “There have been more developments regarding the girl in the red dress.” It was code for the recent killings at The Wheel.
Richey sipped on a Bloody Mary, so Marshon ordered coffee from a waiter and waited until the server was out of hearing range. “Apparently, the County Attorney has convened a grand jury to look into the matter. Someone came forward. That person or persons may have a copy of the video. There wouldn’t be any reason for Ace Semanski to do that, would there?”
Richey leaned forwarded and whispered: “Jesus, I can’t think of any. Several hundred witnesses saw him do it, plus the whole action is on videotape. What could he gain by focusing attention on the situation? Besides, he didn’t go downstairs to the VFW office. I’m certain of that.”
Marshon shook his head. “You’re right.”
“On the other hand, he’s certainly scary, dangerous and wily, all at the same time.”
“Did he leave, or is he still around?”
Richey sipped from his drink. “He’s still around after two-and-a-half weeks. He quit at Biederman’s and initially told me he’d be moving on, but then he got involved in a hot romance. Says he’s busy banging his new girlfriend and spending your five grand. If it’s any consolidation, I still think he’ll leave, but not before you hear from him. He’ll tap you one more time and then be on his way.”
“Tell him he’s got another week, and then I’ll send Jemmy around to talk to him.”
“So what are you doing about this investigation?”
Marshon looked around through the yellowish lightning, as if searching for the blinking red LED of a camera. “I put out the word that my sinking ship will drown a lot of rats. The crisis may blow over, but in any case, I decided to liquidate everything and move on.”
Richey was stunned. “No shit! You’re going to … give up The Wheel?”
“Jemmy and Widja will take it over and I’ll retain a long-term interest. We made the deal yesterday. I’m turning the apartment management over to one of the women, Boudra, although I plan to make certain that Jemmy and Widja are somehow involved in that action.”
Richey knew about the prostitutes and some of Marshon’s other financial investments, including Widja’s janitorial service and Jake’s Original Barbecue. “Are you going to stay in the city?”
Marshon shook his head. “I always knew this day would come and I never planned to stay. I got too much history here. It would somehow come back to bite me, and I’d always be looking over my shoulder. I got an escape plan, so I can start over with a new home, a nice nest egg and an income.”
Richey signaled the waiter for a BM refill. “You really are my hero, Marshon. You actually know when to fold ʼem! I knew if I stuck around the gambling scene long enough, I’d meet that one wise man!”
They both laughed.
“Ain’t it the truth!” Marshon said. “I can’t tell you how many guys I’ve seen hit their birthday roulette numbers three times in a row and be absolutely convinced they can go on doing it all night long!”
“Inevitably, they wind up at the bar asking for credit so they can buy a drink!”
The waiter brought Richey’s drink and asked if they wanted to order lunch. Marshon immediately nodded and asked about the soup of the day. He settled on cream of broccoli, and a club sandwich. Richey ordered an appetizer combination, including fried calamari.
After the waiter left, Marshon visibly relaxed, as if the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders. He’d spent seven years plotting, fighting, arguing, negotiating, threatening, cajoling, bribing — all the while looking over his shoulder in case someone was there with a gun, a knife, or handcuffs. Now that the exit plan had been set in motion, he could reminisce with a good friend. They might have seemed to some observers as improbable companions, given the many differences in their appearance and backgrounds. However, true friendship is so rare that fate is not choosy about how a pair appears on the surface.
“Skinny brought me into The Wheel when I was fifteen, as a favor to my dad. He took care of me, groomed me, treated me as if I was his son. He didn’t have any kids, you know. Shared his philosophy with me. When he got sick and I was about twenty-five, he turne
d everything over to me.”
Richey said, with admiration, “You made The Wheel bigger, better and more profitable.”
“Yeah, now I got options, as they say.”
Richey grinned and decided to have some fun with his friend. “You own part of a bunch of local businesses, Marshon. You could run them full-time, join the Chamber of Commerce, and buy a house out south of Tremont Plaza. Become respectable.”
Marshon responded with equal cynicism. “Hey, great idea. Gail’s father, the Judge, would probably start inviting me over to barbecue. Next.”
Tongue-in-cheek, Richey made another offer: “Run for the state legislature, or Congress, in an East Side district. You’d win in a landslide.”
“I’ve dealt with political people. Most of them are two-faced, narcissistic and addicted to power. They love to talk and not do anything. Not my glass of scotch.”
“Yeah, but you’d get rich, what with the freebies from lobbyists and insider market tips.”
“Plus bribes from crooks like me.”
“Well, I guess law enforcement is out. How about medical school? You’d be out practicing in ten years or so.”
“Can’t see myself wading around in operating room blood and guts, or sticking my finger in patient orifices all day long. I admire some of these people, but I can’t do it.”
“I assume you don’t want to work any of the jobs here in the mall?”
Marshon shook his head and laughed. “You mean the walking dead who fill all the jobs in the new service economy. Store clerks, salespeople hawking cell phone covers and gold chains. Waiters, hotel maids, janitors, maintenance guys. And, the ubiquitous, foreign-speaking computer tech service rep. All these people barely make a living and they have no future whatsoever. Plus, they know it.”
The Money Game Page 21