The Money Game

by Michael A. Smith

  “Well, then, become upper management. You know, the jobs where folks make millions, even billions, and don’t do any physical work.” Richey nodded seriously. “You gotta lot of experience, Marshon.”

  “Yeah, maybe. Skinny told me once that I should go to law school, or get into the financial services. He said I could then break the law legally and get rich.”

  “He wasn’t wrong,” Richey said. “Look back to 2007, when the bankers gave home mortgages to anyone who was breathing and walking, knowing that the majority of the new homeowners couldn’t keep their heads above water and make the payments. Then, the Wall Street crowd stepped in, bundled those fragile mortgages and sold them as securities. The SEC guys were sleeping, or didn’t care. The bankers and financiers got rich before that scheme collapsed, which sent the entire economy into a tailspin.”

  “And, none of the bankers and financiers went to jail.”

  “Exactly. This week, the rich are jerking around the stock market again, sending it to peaks and valleys so they make big profits on the backs of working folks who have their meager retirement income invested in the market. Skinny was a philosopher for the ages.”

  The waiter delivered their lunch, and they began to eat. After a few minutes, Marshon dabbed at his lips with a napkin and resumed the conversation. “I just don’t like all those folks in the top income brackets. The CEOs, managers, bankers, investors, stockbrokers, insurance robots. They think alike, dress alike, talk alike. Group think. Skinny may be right that money buys you security and freedom, but those folks seem to think they are defined by what they own.”

  “Maybe they are.”

  “Besides, I can’t stand the hypocritical ethics of the rich. I saw that on display last Saturday night at a political fund-raiser. Those folks claim to be job creators, and allege that all the rest of the workforce is dependent upon them, but they’d rob their grandmothers if they thought the payday would be big enough. With them, it’s all about profit and power. That’s their lifestyle. Me, I work so I can enjoy the fine things in life — or, at least that’s the plan that brought me to this point.”

  “You should know by now you can’t talk about working in this economy and ethics at the same time,” Richey said, bitterly.

  “I understand the irony of my attitude. The Country Club set really looks down their noses at me, a gambler and a pimp, or at least that’s how it looks to them. But, hell, my stretching the limits of the state’s law on charitable gambling is grade school stuff compared to the all the schemes hatched by the rich, and the politicians. And, I ain’t no pimp!” Marshon shook his head in disgust. “I don’t solicit, at least not directly, nor do I sample the wares. I just provide protection and health care, and occasionally serve as an avenging angel, which is a role that I actually savor sometimes. It doesn’t hurt that it’s another profitable sideline. I never gave the ethics of it all a second thought.”

  “I been trying to find a job all my life that I could stand, but so far no luck,” Richey said, now forced to elaborate seriously in a conversation that began as a joke. “Oh, I admire some professions and the people who work in them. All the scientists working in laboratories trying to find a cure for cancer, AIDS, Alzheimer’s, and Ebola.” Resuming his role as comedian, Richey added, “Then, there are those people trying to decipher the genetic code so we can live to be two hundred years old and regrow a liver destroyed by vodka.”

  “If they ever make those discoveries, rich folks will then step in and make a profit,” Marshon said. “You’ll get a new liver only if you can pay for it, Richey! They’ll set up a payment plan while you work at Biederman’s until you’re a hundred and five!”

  Richey signaled the waiter for another drink. “I admire teachers, cops, firemen, farmers. But, Christ, the farmers who feed us always seem to be on the verge of bankruptcy! Cops are always working a second job in security.”

  “A lot of really important jobs barely pay a living wage,” Marshon added, “like the folks that pick up our garbage, treat our water so it’s safe to drink, and process our sewage.”

  “What about those who serve in our armed forces while their wives and kids live off food stamps?”

  Marshon shook his head. “But, we’re forgetting an important part of Skinny’s philosophy. There will always be poverty, inequality, racism, injustice, violence and war in the world, he said. It’s human nature. Don’t get sidetracked worrying about it or bitching about it. There’s nothing you can really do about it until the majority of people overturn the system.”

  Richey’s face lit up. “You remember the movie, Network? One character, Howard Beale, is a talk show host who apparently goes crazy and tells his audience to get up from their chairs, go to the window, open it and say, ‘I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take this anymore!’”

  “That’s not going to happen soon. Not while the majority of people believe they will somehow come out on top and be rich. The human race is totally fucked up.”

  Richey sang softly. “Everybody wants to rule the world. Lyrics from Tears for Fears.”

  Marshon shrugged. “For the moment, I’m happy working in the diversionary economy, I just want a new, better-paying, safer gig in an exotic environment.”

  “The diversionary economy?”

  “Yeah. Gambling, prostitution, porn, booze, drugs, bars and nightclubs. The Roman Empire invented the concept two thousand years ago. How do you keep the people in the capital city happy while they are working shit jobs? You divert their attention with the circus, carnival rides, drunken orgies and gladiator fights. Feeding the Christians to the lions. We’ve just perfected and expanded the options.”

  Richey smiled and nodded. “There are some bizarre after-hours diversions out there, like fight clubs, sex clubs. Do you know, they have a hos and pimp ball in Las Vegas?”

  “Yeah, but I ain’t gonna go. The point is, someone gets rich off these diversions, and I want to continue to be one of them. I just want a new deal in a new place.”

  “Well, the entertainment business is certainly a diversion from reality, except I ain’t making any money in the acting business, which maybe is why everyone calls it my obsession rather than my job. By the way, I’m gonna play Willy Loman a week from Friday night in a modernized version of Death of a Salesman. Tickets are $28 apiece, but the producers are skeptical that any money will be left over to pay the actors, including me.”

  Marshon leaned forward. “Hey, man, that is a great, great role! I got your phone message about the audition. Gail and I will be there, count on it. You are absolutely perfect for Willy Loman. It’ll be the highlight performance of your career, Richey.” Marshon had read Arthur Miller’s brilliant play and there were too many parallels between Richey’s life and that of Willy Loman. He didn’t want their conversation to drift into those areas.

  “Thanks, Marshon. I am looking forward to it.”

  Marshon really did admire Richey. Richey had a real passion for acting. It was his life’s work. Marshon’s life had been like a real life drama, but he had no enduring passion for it. It was primarily a means to an end. A game he played. He’d tried to play it to the best of his ability, but it was still only a role. The first act was nearly over, in fact. Marshon wondered if he would ever feel as passionate about his work, as Richey felt about the theater. However, he understood the problem: most actors never knew if there was another role on the horizon, let alone a good role. They were always on the edge of an abyss leading to failure, depression, drug abuse and suicide. Marshon would never willingly travel such a road, although he wouldn’t say that to Richey, because the actor was his friend. Moreover, Marshon wasn’t certain how he’d wind up. Maybe his lifestyle was only a blueprint for failure and death.

  “Look, we just agreed that most of the jobs in this economy would make us constipated. Not so with your acting career, Richey. Literature and the theater are valuable in a way that doesn’t allow anyone to put a price tag on the work. When all the politicians and businessme
n are dead and gone, the next generations will remember Arthur Miller and his play, because it makes them think about their lives and what’s really valuable. It’s why we keep Shakespeare and the theater alive. In part, we learn about life through drama — the theater, television, the movies. Life’s lessons can’t always be taught at home, in a church or classroom. Let me give you an example. Brokeback Mountain changed my attitude about gay guys.”

  “I understand, but I still have to make a living.”

  Marshon leaned forward again. “So reverse the usual order of things. Don’t audition, beg, and wait for the producers with money to come to you. Get your own money and produce your own ideas.”

  “How?” Richey looked truly confused.

  “That’s what we’re here to talk about, so let’s get down to business and quit all this foolish talk.”

  The waiter appeared to pick up their plates and replenish their drinks.

  “So, what are you going to do now, Marshon?”

  “I’m gonna do exactly what we talked about at Biederman’s after that Friday night. Upscale gambling. I want you to be part of that process, Richey.”

  “Well, I am kinda at loose ends right now. I finally left Biederman’s after Shirley showed up a week ago and told me she was getting married again.” Richey delivered the statement in a hurried voice tinged with both regret and bitterness. He was too embarrassed to tell Marshon the story about the events surrounding his firing, including the manner in which he provided a urine sample.

  “Well, congrats on losing the loser job. I’m sorry about Shirley. It’s a loss, any way you look at it.”

  “Thanks, I thought you’d understand.”

  Marshon leaned in toward Richey. “We’ll adapt your lottery to a new clientele of high rollers and tell them the two-digit numbers cost ten thousand bucks each. One hundred players, a million dollar pot. We set up a gaming club, with a membership fee and annual dues. Each month, we hold the lottery is a swanky hotel, with lots of amenities. If we structure it right, we could double what I now make without all the violence and risks.”

  Richey looked skeptical, but offered a positive contribution, nevertheless. “It would be a more manageable to find twenty guys who’d put up $50,000 each for ten numbers. Whatever the amount, the problem is finding these people. Remember, we live in the Midwest.”

  Their waiter arrived with a dessert menu. Marshon ordered apple pie a la mode. Richey ordered a martini.

  “I don’t plan on staying here, Richey. I was in the British Virgin Islands several years ago to attend a friend’s wedding and fell in love with the place. It’s idyllic, romantic, and unrealistic. My moving there may turn out to be a fool’s errand but, hell, we’re not really in total charge of our lives, anyway.”

  “I sure as hell haven’t been.”

  Marshon looked around again, to gauge the privacy of their conversation. “Nearly two years ago, I bought a home in the British Virgin Islands. I’m keeping the exact location a secret. I don’t want anyone following me there, unless I invite them.”

  Richey understood the qualification. “What about Gail?”

  Marshon shook his head in a gesture of confusion. “I don’t know. I asked her to think about it and I guess that’s where we are. I’m not hopeful, though. Gail and I reprise the plot of West Side Story.”

  “Or, Romeo and Juliet.”

  “We are from different worlds, for sure.”

  “Plus, women think differently,” Richey said.

  Marshon nodded. “Because they’ve been used and abused throughout history, they want their men to be protective, careful and reliable, as in make a decent living, obey the law, be sexually exclusive and help raise the kids.”

  “Been there, done that,” Richey replied. “My problem is similar. I may be in the same situation again with my new partner, Carmen Salazar. You met her at The Stadium.”

  “The divorcee with an eleven-year-old daughter,” Marshon recalled.

  “She’s about to turn twelve. Together, they are a better second chance than I’d ever hoped to get.”

  Marshon became animated. “Bring them! Come with me, Richey, and we’ll get rich. Then, you can produce a movie from a script you write. As Skinny said, you got enough money, you can do anything you want. If we’re successful, our women will be happy, or at least accepting. Keep in mind that I won Gail back even after she found out about The Wheel.”

  Richey could only bob his head in hopeful agreement.

  “It’s true that there’s a lot of poverty in the Caribbean islands. But, there’s fabulous wealth there, too. It’s a playground for the rich. And, the islands are a roadway between North and South America. It’s my experience that rich folk, most of whom are white, of course, always have expensive habits. A lot of them like to gamble, and they can afford to lose. If they do lose, they don’t pull out a gun, shoot the dealer and rob the house!”

  Richey laughed. “We’ve been in that situation a few times at The Wheel!”

  “I know a lawyer in Nassau who’s got a lot of things going in the islands. I know for a fact that not all of them are above board. He launders my money, for example. He’ll know those rich people and their habits, and then I’ll know them.”

  “But, he’ll want a referral fee, I assume. That would cut into the profits.”

  “We can get around that eventually. Maybe, in the beginning, we simply propose your private lottery as a fun diversion in the middle of a high-stakes poker game. Something we do during the eleven o’clock break.”

  “Brilliant!” Richey exclaimed. “We get some whales in a poker game, like the one I told you about in LA, where I filled in for the dealer. Minimum $250,000 per player investment. Ten guys, blinds building up to ten and twenty thousand dollars.”

  “Two-point-five million in play,” Marshon said. “In addition to our club membership fee and dues, we could make a nice income off of tips.”

  “You’re right, Marshon. Winners are very generous!”

  “We take a break halfway through the session and introduce the lottery. Suggest, for example, that each player put up five grand and each of them draw ten numbers from a fish bowl.”

  “It makes a nice $50,000 pot. At ten-to-one odds. If the lottery was won by one of the guys losing at poker up to that point, he’d be ecstatic! He’d be a talking billboard to spread the word.”

  “The lottery would create its own legend,” Marshon said. “It starts out as a side show, but we build it up as it gains in popularity, and people come to understand the great odds.”

  “And understand that it’s a game no one can rig — that is, unless they think state lottery drawings are rigged.”

  “I know it will catch on, Richey, and eventually be self-sustaining. Hardly any effort involved.”

  “Well, there’s the hard work of putting all those numbers in the fish bowl,” Richey said, pretending to wipe sweat from his brow.

  “We work out all the problems,” Marshon said. “That’s my area of expertise.”

  The waiter served Marshon his dessert and set a martini in front of Richey.

  Richey appreciated Marshon’s usual can-do attitude, which, of course, would be the difference between success and failure. It was why Marshon could do with the private lottery what Richey hadn’t been able to do. Marshon wouldn’t allow himself to fail.

  “Why do you need me?”

  “First, you’re my friend and I don’t want to get lonely in the islands. You know everything there is to know about gambling. Besides, you seem to be at loose ends right now.”

  “True.”

  “And, like I told you before, I’m black and you’re white.”

  Richey played the role of the shocked partner. “I never noticed until right now! In fact, you are always better dressed than I am!”

  “As Skinny told me a long time ago, racism will always be part of the world, no matter how much progress it seems that we’re making as a society. Hell, we have a half-black president and a goodly
percentage of folks hate him just for that — and most of the haters are rich, white people. Like I told you before, you can play the massah with them and I be your obedient, dumb black servant. Together, we’ll fleece them.”

  Richey could only nod and nod, like Dustin Hoffman, although he wasn’t entirely convinced that Marshon’s plans would actually come true.

  “Wait ‘til you see my island home, Richey. You will be impressed. So will the rich folks, once they see it. In fact, once we’re part of the rich insider crowd, it will open up other money-making opportunities.”

  “Such as?”

  “Insider business deals, for one thing, which is another reason it would be great to have Gail there,” Marshon said, and grew silent for several moments.

  Richey extended the idea, in a hopeful tone. “Rich folks like to collect art. Carmen would be a helluva guide for them.”

  “Absolutely! She and her daughter are welcome. I have plenty of room. They will love it there.”

  It sounded great to Richey, but he wasn’t certain how Carmen would react.

  “So, are you interested, Richey?”

  “Absolutely. If everything doesn’t work out, I’ll sit beside your pool and drink martinis all day.”

  “Well, it is a fabulous pool.”

  “You know, when I was in Hollywood for that year, I didn’t drink much,” Richey confessed. “I couldn’t, since I had to work evenings in the casino, sometimes even the graveyard shift, and then audition during the day. And, then re-juggle everything if I got an acting job, or a commercial. There weren’t enough hours to drink. I just wanted you to know that.”

  “I understand. It’s how you survive in purgatory, Richey. I’m offering to take you to Heaven, or someplace damned close to it.”

  “My only hesitation is … “

  “Figuring out what to do about Carmen,” Marshon said. “I understand.”

  When Richey told Carmen about leaving Biederman’s, she said they’d sit down and come up with a plan. He knew it wasn’t likely that her plan would include following him to the Caribbean, although Richey planned to make that counter offer. He’d try to convince Carmen that it would be a wonderful place for her to paint, and for Marisa to grow up. Richey just wasn’t sure he could do it.