The Money Game

by Michael A. Smith

  Ace dug into a pocket and handed Country a fifty-dollar bill. “Beer and video games are on me today, Country.”

  ∞ ∞ ∞

  Richey sat on his customary barstool in The Stadium, thinking about his conversation with Marshon two days ago. If Marshon said he could take The Private Lottery to the big time, you could bet on it. Even odds. Marshon was a doer; he should have the Nike swash tattooed on his forehead. So why was it a problem? Richey hadn’t exactly been joking when he told Marshon that he stayed at Biederman’s because of the Third Law of Thermodynamics. One part of that law of nature said that a body at rest tended to remain at rest — unless acted upon by an external force. Richey had gotten used to being a failure; maybe, in some perverted sense, he enjoyed his martyrdom. He’d become comfortable with it, and it didn’t take a large expenditure of energy to remain in that state. However, Beems and Kryck had dislodged him from his roosting place.

  Then, there was the other problem: Carmen certainly wouldn’t be enthusiastic about his new venture, even if he promised to make her an art agent. As he did with most situations likely to develop in the future, Richey rehearsed how the conversation likely would go. “Carmen, I’ve decided to join Marshon in a new, slightly illegal gambling adventure that will require me to move to the Caribbean. That’s not a problem, is it? I mean, you can jerk Marisa out of school. She’ll enjoy her new friends in Tortola, or Dominica or Barbados, or wherever, don’t you think? And, if we get in with some rich folks, you can help them buy objets d’art!”

  Richey didn’t feel like making that decision today, so he decided to “relax,” doing what he enjoyed — drinking and playing Keno. He’d exercised a great deal of self-control today and didn’t start until twelve-thirty, and then began with Bloody Marys. Vegetable juice, a celery stick, three olives and an ounce or so of vodka that was nothing more than fermented potatoes actually seemed like a healthy drink. Of course, he really wasn’t fooling anyone, including himself. He knew his life would end badly, sooner or later. He’d bet on the former. He’d wind up with a failed liver; or, more likely, he’d get into some trouble with the cops while under the influence, and a judge would place him in a “diversion” program. Since he was destined to fail at that, he might wind up in jail. It was testimony to Richey’s fragile emotional condition that such thoughts only led him to order another drink. A martini.

  He put thoughts of future actions out of his mind to concentrate on seeing a future winning ten-spot Keno game as a cartoonish baseball bat bunted the winning numbers into view. He didn’t really believe in his ability to foresee the future, but he didn’t totally disbelieve it, either. All things were possible in life, as life regularly demonstrated. Some people won lottery games, in fact. Maybe they did it by visualizing the numbers that would be drawn. If he didn’t win the big hundred thousand dollar prize, Richey soon would be forced to live off unemployment compensation. When that ran out, he’d probably wind up working for a temporary employment service that would send him somewhere like Biederman’s, where he’d undoubtedly be put on maggot patrol. If they’d even hire him, given his record of being fired for drunkenness, gambling and urinating on his previous bosses.

  Richey experienced mixed emotions as Ace walked through the door, followed by Country, who made a beeline for the video machines.

  “Here we are again,” Ace said, occupying the stool beside Richey. He signaled the bartender for a Budweiser. “This is the unemployment bureau, right?”

  Richey didn’t appreciate the joke. “You left Biederman’s by choice.”

  “I ain’t gonna work for a nigger.”

  “Calvin’s a good man. He didn’t have anything to do with my firing.” Richey was almost certain of that. On the other hand, Davron and Fax probably did.

  “Maybe, maybe not, but I don’t work for ʼem anyway.”

  Richey’s friendship with Marshon obligated him to ask the question, which he posed softly, so no one could overhear it: “You didn’t tell anybody about the incident at The Wheel?” The killings had happened exactly three weeks ago.

  Ace accepted his Bud from John and gave Richey a look of incomprehension. He leaned over and whispered: “We had this conversation before, Richey. You mean, did I brag about killing those two robbers? After leaving the scene and failing to report it to the police? Are you fuckin’ nuts!”

  Richey looked away in embarrassment. “Somebody came forward and told the details to the police, or prosecutors. There’s an ongoing grand jury investigation.”

  “And you and Marshon can’t figure out who’s behind it?” Ace asked, with sarcasm dripping from every word. “Clearly, someone wants to bring down Marshon and take over The Wheel. If I was him, or if you’re advising him, I’d suggest you look at those closest to him, who could take over that operation and run it.”

  “Yeah, you’re probably right,” Richey admitted, hoping that wasn’t the case. It would be unimaginable that Jemmy and Widja were plotting to knife Marshon in the back, especially now that he’s offered the operation to them.

  “But thanks for the warning. If I hadn’t come in here, did you plan to tell me, Richey? If the prosecutors know what went down, then they’re already looking for me. Probably want to make me a deal in turn for rolling over on Marshon.”

  “That’s what he’s afraid of.”

  “If I could afford a good lawyer, I could plead justifiable homicide. I killed those boys so they wouldn’t kill me, and the other people.”

  “That’s true.”

  “And my walking away was not technically a crime. I just left. I don’t run The Wheel.” Ace nodded positively. “I could probably pull it off, don’t you think, Richey? Now, Marshon, he certainly is guilty of some type of conspiracy here. I don’t know what he did with the bodies, but disposing of them is a crime, I suppose. The grand jury will look into Marshon’s other activities and pretty soon they’ll have a laundry list that adds up to a decade or more in prison.”

  “You know a lot about the law, Ace.”

  “Law and Order is one of my favorite TV programs, Richey. However, you seem to be overlooking an essential point. I’m the one who should be fearful of Marshon, and you. I’m new in town. I don’t have any juice. I hope you guys are not trying to pin the murders on me, just because I done ʼem!”

  “How come you didn’t leave, after taking Marshon’s five thousand?”

  Ace looked at Richey as if he were daft. “Like I told you, I’ve been busy fuckin’ Kandie and another woman. That doesn’t mean I ain’t gonna leave, especially now, after you’ve told me about this grand jury investigation.” Ace sipped from his bottle of Bud to impose a few seconds of pregnant silence. Then, he said, “I’ve made up my mind. I’ll be leaving exactly one week from today. Already moved out of my apartment. You tell Marshon, okay?”

  “I will.” Richey already had taken $10,000 out of the envelope Marshon gave him at the restaurant, leaving the remaining $5,000. He handed that envelope to Ace. “Here, this will help you make the move, compliments of Marshon. He’s been real generous with you, Ace, but there won’t be any more money. Don’t hang around this time, otherwise Jemmy Shoemaker will pay you a visit.”

  Ace opened the envelope under the bar and thumbed through the bills. He looked at Richey and smiled. “That won’t be necessary, Richey. My plans are firm. Thanks.”

  Richey was still suspicious of Ace’s motives and plans. “You were rambling on about some banker and his wife the night I got fired. You got something going on there?”

  “You mean the newspaper article?”

  “Yeah.”

  Ace looked disgusted. “We was talking about the big score in movies, remember? How there’s all these movies about heroes like Butch and Sundance ripping off banks and the Union Pacific Railroad while the audience claps and whistles.”

  Richey nodded reluctantly.

  “But even Butch and Sundance get theirs in the end, apparently shot up by the Mexican army. I figure the moviemakers gotta come up w
ith an ending where the heroes get their comeuppance, otherwise it might inspire the audience to criminal activity.”

  “Probably true,” Richey conceded.

  “Although you told me about one version of The Thomas Crown Affair where our hero gets away with robbery and gets the girl. And, in your favorite flick in this genre, Thunderbolt and Lightfoot, I guess Clint Eastwood’s character gets away with the money, although Lightfoot dies. Is that right?”

  “Yeah, but what’s this got to do with … ah, what’s their name?”

  “Cathy and James Kennedy. Nothing. They’re just real life characters who illustrate your point that rich people must have killed a lot of other people to get so much money.”

  Richey looked amazed. “I said that?”

  “Yeah, quoting some guy named Moliere. French philosopher, you said. Do you remember anything you say in here?”

  “Apparently not,” Richey said, shaking his head.

  “Anyway, you being an actor — congratulations, by the way, on getting the role of Willy Loman — I thought maybe you could come up with a stage or movie version of some Robin Hood-type story where the good guys get away after robbing rich people. Like the Kennedys. I was just using them as an example. It was bar talk to pass the time of day, Richey.”

  “Who told you about Willy Loman?”

  “Carmen told Kandie, who told me. I was gonna come, but that don’t seem like a good idea now. Anyway, you write movie and stage scripts, too?”

  “I’ve had some ideas I’ve jotted down over the years, but none of them had to do with crime movies.”

  “More intellectual stuff, huh? Problem is, those types of movies usually don’t make a lot of money, or make the actors famous.”

  “True.” Richey waved and got John’s attention. “Martini here.”

  “I didn’t have any particular reason to pick on Cathy Kennedy and her banker husband, other than they have so goddamned much money that they can’t figure out what to do with it — according to the newspaper article. They’re kinda symbols about what’s wrong with the whole society, don'tja think?”

  Truthfully, Richey didn’t think it was fair that bankers like Kennedy had so much more money than he had. How had society decided that bankers should be rich while as an actor he got to play Willy Loman basically for free if the theater run didn’t turn a profit? The $28 tickets to Death of a Salesman would barely generate enough income to cover the rental of the theater and costumes, and maybe fund an opening night party.

  Of course, Richey wanted to be rich. Everyone does; it’s the real American dream — to win the money game. He wanted that big house, those cars, and the country club membership. People fawning over him because he had coin in his pocket. Maybe the Kennedys had a Van Gogh to flaunt; artwork created by that destitute, insane genius. The degenerative order of artistry appeared to be genius, poverty, insanity, and suicide. As compensation, some became famous after they were dead. God’s wry sense of humor.

  “I used a computer at the library to Google movie genres, looking for some plot in which the good guys kidnapped some rich guy’s wife and held her for ransom. Didn’t find much. Fargo was the top choice, but I saw that movie and really didn’t get it.”

  “It’s a Coen brother’s flick. No one gets it, which is why they are cult heroes. That movie is a black comedy with social commentary overtones.”

  “If you say so, Richey. There was a movie, Ransom, with Gary Sinise and Mel Gibson that’s interesting. The guy who’s paying the ransom turns the table on the kidnapper, who in turn turns the tables on the good guy and nearly gets away with the money, except the kidnapped kid recognizes him and pees on the floor. Was that some kind of symbolism? Like you pissing on the top dogs at Biederman’s?”

  Richey ignored the smart-ass remark. “Audiences like lots of startling plot turns. It’s called suspension of belief, aka entertainment.”

  “Yeah, well, I couldn’t figure anything out, which I guess means I won’t be selling any scripts to Hollywood for several million.” Ace was a student of conversational ebb and flow. Now seemed a good time for him to concentrate on drinking beer and look around the bar as if they had exhausted that topic. Except, Ace thought he knew Richey well enough to know that the wannabe actor couldn’t help mull over a plot device, and then expound, especially when he was in his cups. The other barflies expected him to philosophize occasionally, about anybody and everything.

  “Well, you’re right about a couple of things,” Richey said, validating Ace’s assumptions. “Movie audiences like seeing rich folks lose some of their money, but moviemakers walk a fine line. They can’t give the public any good ideas about pulling off robberies and kidnappings because some people are impressionable enough, and impulsive enough, to try to implement a real life version of the film. It’s happened. John Hinkley shot President Reagan to impress Jodie Foster, after he saw her in Taxi Driver. Like he was De Niro.”

  “Man, you really know films, Richey,” Ace said, encouragingly.

  “The other reality is that the police are now professionals, more like the military. They got intelligence divisions and technology experts on staff. They have so much sophisticated surveillance equipment that it’s not feasible anymore to rob a bank.”

  “It even looks like they may cooperate with the spooks who are listening in on our phone calls,” Ace said.

  Richey nodded. “You’re not being paranoid anymore if you think someone is listening.”

  “Maybe that’s the way the cops found out about what happened at The Wheel. Someone had a warrant for a bug on someone for something else, and that person just happened to mention the robbery and what went down.”

  Richey looked both started and interested. He yelled at John, “Get me a club sandwich!”

  “And a cheeseburger with fries,” Ace chipped in.

  “I remember you telling me that new computer technology makes it easy for the cops and the banks to find stolen money,” Ace said.

  Richey nodded. “Stealing money may be old-fashioned. Going out of style. High-tech crooks today have to be innovative. They break into computer systems and steal new technology and information they can sell later to the Chinese or Russians. Or, they break into a bank’s computer system and debit a million accounts for a buck apiece. In the movie, Heat, Robert De Niro and his crew knock over an armored car, not for the money, but bearer bonds, which they sell back to a money launderer after he gets paid off by the insurance company.”

  Ace shook his head in amazement at Richey’s knowledge. “Remember the guys I told you about, who is real life got into the LA storm sewer system and then tunneled under a bank? Used a water-cooled saw to cut a hole in the vault floor and then made off with the money.”

  “I remember.”

  “You said if they put the money in a Swiss bank, it became the bank’s collateral for making loans. The crooks could live off the interest and never put the money into circulation.”

  “Absolutely true. It’s a credit economy, not a monetary economy. The monetary value of everything in the world vastly exceeds the actual amount of money in circulation, by a thousand-to-one, or maybe more.” Richey learned that from Marshon, who never even went to college.

  Richey was smart and entertaining, but the conversation wasn’t yielding anything that appeared to be of use to Ace, who looked frustrated.

  Then, Richey surprised Ace. “You want a great script, write up that LA sewer system bank robbery you told me about, and give it a new twist. The best movie ideas come from real life.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The robbers tunneled beneath the bank and used a concrete saw to get inside the vault, right? The alarms go off, but the cops can’t imagine what’s happening. They think it’s an electronics problem. A false alarm. If you want to write a script about a successful kidnapping/ransom plot, you got to come up with a similar twist: the kidnappers somehow pick up the ransom right under the cops’ noses, without the cops realizing what has happened un
til it’s too late.”

  They ate their sandwiches in silence as Ace thought furiously. “How could that happen?”

  Richey finished half the club sandwich, sipped from his martini and sat back, as if searching for the proper ending to his lecture. “So here’s an idea, borrowing from reality. Your kidnappers take a page from your LA bank robbers and tell the person paying the ransom to put money in a trash can.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The trash can has a hole in the bottom of it and is sitting over a manhole cover leading into the storm sewer system. Like the one your LA bank robbers used to get beneath the bank.”

  Richey’s idea jolted Ace like a lightning bolt. The kidnappers take the money out through the storm sewer while the cops wait for someone to show up and take the ransom out of the trash can. By the time the cops look in the trash can, the money is long gone! Just like the LA cops waited for the bank employees to open the vault, and then discovered that the robbery had already occurred and the robbers were on their way to Switzerland.

  Another image popped into Ace’s mind. Kandie lived about a mile south of Sweetwater Mall. Last Sunday, they’d put Cindy in her stroller and walked to the mall. Kandie wanted to wear out the two bigger kids so they would go to bed early. Just as they approached the southwest corner of the mall, Ace saw a large concrete pipe opening into a paved ditch. The opening was about six-feet in diameter, covered with an iron gate. The mall and the concrete parking lots that encircled it occupied a half square mile. When a big rain came down and dumped several inches on all that concrete, it amounted to a lot of water, all flowing into an underground storm sewer system.

  At the time, it was just a curiosity. Now, it was the final puzzle piece completing Ace’s plan.

  “Hey, Richey, gotta go get a new battery for my car.” He stood and dropped a twenty beside his plate, which held a half-eaten cheeseburger. He leaned over to whisper in Richey’s ear. “Thanks for the warning about the grand jury. Thank Marshon for the money and tell him he doesn’t have to worry about me. I think I’ll get on the road to Chicago and visit some old friends.” He held out his hand, which Richey took. “So, if I don’t see you again, I enjoyed meeting you and our talks about the big score.” He winked at Richey. “You never know, maybe we’ll see your idea on the big screen someday, or read about it in the newspapers.”