The Money Game

by Michael A. Smith

  “We’d take our budget on the road with us,” he said. “Same amount every month for food and clothes. How much are daily camping fees for a rig like that?”

  “An average of forty dollars a night,” she replied, “depending on what type of campground we stay it. If we stayed somewhere by the week, or as much as a month, we might find a very reasonable rate.”

  He shrugged. “It still would take three or four thousand a month to live. In a year or less, we’d be broke.” He laughed. “Hell, my liquor bill alone would sink us.”

  “I don’t figure on you sitting on your ass in a bar all day. We’ve got skills that can make us money.” She struggled to remain calm, but also hurried to make her points before he could marshal more objections. “I’ll do freelance art work for ad agencies. I’ll paint and do some craft work, maybe jewelry design. I’ll sell my stuff in campgrounds and at local art fairs. You’d be surprised how many of them are going on across the country at any given time.”

  “And what would I do? Audition for local theater?”

  “How are the rehearsals going for Death of a Salesman?”

  He frowned warily. “Okay. We got three more rehearsals before opening night, including a dress rehearsal Wednesday night.”

  “I’ll bet you’re great as Willy. You’re a good, veteran actor. Put that talent to use in our travels. Think about it. You could come up with a one-man act. Do Will Rogers, Mark Twain, or reprise some of the roles from great movie performances.”

  “Such as?”

  “Your favorites that you talked about. Brando in On the Waterfront, Jimmy Stewart in It’s a Great Life, Humphrey Bogart in The Caine Mutiny. How about Burt Lancaster as Elmer Gantry.” She was buoyed by the sudden look of interest on his face. “You could perform locally in clubs, community centers, schools, fraternal and professional organizations, at conventions, in hospitals and nursing homes. We could even rent the recreation hall in campgrounds and charge admission to the campers. I can help with advertising and promotion. I’ve got experience, you know.” She’d started to run out of steam and wanted a commitment from him, or even the courtesy of a rejection. “It wouldn’t be easy. It would be a lot of hard work, but you’d be working every day at your craft, and so would I. We’d be in charge of our lives, not someone else. It would be a great example for Marisa. Even if the lifestyle doesn’t last forever, wouldn’t it be a great year or two? Think of the places we could go; the things we would see. The things we could do. We don’t have any guarantees of life beyond today anyway, Richey. We’ve got to grab what we can — now.”

  The skepticism faded from Richey’s face and was replaced by a look of surprise, astonishment and interest. “It’s a helluva idea, Carmen. I just don’t know. I wouldn’t have thought of anything like it in a thousand years.”

  She took a deep breath and expressed her final thought. “Here’s the bottom line, Richey. This lifestyle here in The Stadium is self-destructive.” It’s just like her Dad sitting on the patio, lost in an alcoholic fog, thinking and doing nothing of any value, to anyone. “Sure, my idea is risky. So’s life.”

  Carmen hadn’t been able to persuade her father to do something different with his life, and history might repeat itself today.

  Richey sighed. “Carmen, look in the mirror above the liquor bottles. I’ve never seen you look more radiant and beautiful. You’re in the prime of your life. I’m a decade older than you and I’m used up.”

  She snorted contemptuously. “I don’t agree. You’re not exactly a doddering old man. You’ve never had a partner to team with who understood your dream, let alone one who proposed a way for you to achieve it. Not at the Hollywood level, but in a practical way we can accomplish together without the need for any luck, a big break, or a blessing from some Hollywood studio or big-shot producer. You just do it. Build a reputation from the ground up. Spread the word through social media.” She picked up a blank Keno card and tore it in half. “I’m offering you the real prize, Richey. Take it or forget it forever.” She sucked in her breath and waited.

  “Jesus, you are one pushy broad,” he said, good-naturedly.

  “I know, but do you love me?”

  He didn’t hesitate long. “Yes, of course I do.”

  “Then let’s do it,” she said, passionately.

  “Okay.”

  His unexpected agreement stunned Carmen so much she nearly fell off the barstool. She recovered quickly, wrapped her arms around him and experienced the greatest feeling of joy in her life. Feelings of love and great expectations replaced her many doubts, all of which evaporated. Total exhilaration. She wasn’t saving Richey in some sick replay of her fatherless childhood. She was making it possible for both of them to achieve their potential, and find true happiness, and love. She’d found her prince in a very unlikely place. She would save him and herself in the process.

  When Carmen broke off the embrace and sat back on the barstool, Richey said, “Hey, while you’re here, we got an invitation for dinner Saturday night, after the performance. From Marshon and Gail. You remember, we agreed to get together with them that time they were here in the bar. I’d like to keep the date.”

  “Absolutely! I loved their company.”

  Richey felt a little guilty for being somewhat duplicitous with Carmen. He’d just agreed to her plan, but he also wanted her to hear Marshon’s proposal. He thought maybe she would prefer that approach, which seemed to possess more financial stability over time. Marshon was rich to begin with. He’d be successful at something, and he would take care of Richey and Carmen, and Marisa.

  Carmen looked at her watch. “Gotta run and pick up Marisa at two. Come to my apartment for dinner. I’m gonna make burritos and refried beans. After Marisa goes to bed, we’ll talk some more, and then do something else.”

  After Carmen left, John the bartender sat a fresh drink in front of Richey. He leaned his elbows on his side of the bar and looked at Richey. “I saw you in Showboat, I guess it was six, seven years ago, now.”

  “It seems like decades, since we’re in a time warp here.”

  “My daughter was the little girl in the play.”

  “I remember.”

  “That’s how you got here. I liked your performance and invited you to stop by The Stadium. I may have offered half-priced drinks to the talented actor.”

  “Your investment paid off, John. You sucked me in with a bait-and-switch routine. I’ve probably dropped fifty grand in here since those free drinks.”

  John straightened up and pulled glasses out of the soapy water in a sink behind the bar. He set them out on a rubber drain mat to dry. “A lot of young women come in here, but very few like Carmen. It’s time for you to move on, Richey.”

  Richey held up his glass for a toast. “John, you are a classic, wise bartender. And, you can eavesdrop at a hundred yards. It’s a true talent. I will definitely consider your advice.”

  Indeed, Richey had a difficult choice to make. For years, he’d waited for someone or some event to dislodge him from his rut — from his inertia. Now, he had been presented with two radically different lifestyle choices — Marshon’s Proposal and Carmen’s Offer. What would it be? Both were extremely attractive to him, and he wanted them both. He’d given both Marshon and Carmen the impression that he would be their partner! He wanted Marshon’s friendship and the adventure and excitement of a lifestyle lived on the edge, in luxury, in an exotic location. He might become rich himself, and could thumb his nose at all of society’s hypocritical laws and rules at the same time. On the other hand, he greatly desired Carmen’s company and love. He wanted to work with her in an atmosphere of shared artistic passion. He would have a second chance to be a good husband and father.

  Carmen had blitzkrieged him to the extent that it didn’t seem an appropriate time to tell her about Marshon’s Proposal, wherein they both would have a chance to be actor and artist. In fact, Richey had taken the coward’s way out, and decided to let Marshon run with the ball. He worried that Ca
rmen, like Shirley before her, would see Marshon’s proposal as semi-illegal and that it might eventually put her and her daughter in mortal danger. She might dismiss it out of hand. Then, he would have to make a choice. Perhaps it should have been obvious to him, but it wasn’t.

  Like Carmen’s dad, Richey had another drink and stared into space beyond the sporting wars raging on television. Maybe something would happen to make one or the other choice obvious and inevitable. What Richey never considered was that the “something” would eliminate both options.

  16/Crazy Is As Crazy Does

  Marshon felt confident. It has been just over three weeks since the killings at The Wheel. Neither the cops nor anyone from the Country Attorney’s office had come by to talk to him. Either law enforcement did not have sufficient evidence to move on him or they had pulled back their horns for a reason. Maybe it had something to do with Marshon’s chat with the Chief Investigator of the County Attorney’s office. The investigator used to be a cop, and Marshon had known him for years. They’d met at a downtown hotel bar just before the dinner hour. Using a mini laptop, Marshon had shown the investigator selections from the demo video showing selected big shots from throughout the area having a good time at The Wheel, or being serviced by the professional ladies who lived in Marshon’s apartment building.

  Marshon didn’t leave a copy of the video with the investigator, but said instead that he would make every effort “to prevent this video from ever falling into the hands of the media,” or any of the relatives or friends of the actors shown.

  That chess move may have frozen the opposition in place just long enough for Marshon to get out of town, having transferred his local business interests to trusted friends. Later on, the County Attorney might decide to press his case against Jemmy and Widja, but Marshon had already talked about that with his friends. He’d told them such challenges came with the territory, and that their strategy should be to blame it on him, as the decision-maker at the time. If they wanted to indict Marshon Johnson, they’d have to find him. In less than a week, Marshon intended to pull off the greatest disappearing act of all time.

  As Marshon sat in his apartment, he went over an enumerated list of things to do before he left for the British Virgin Islands. Number one was to make another appeal to Gail and convince her to go with him. Two was to get a firm commitment from Richey. Both would either happen Saturday night when the four of them got together for dinner, or not. Three, he needed to round up cash he had stashed with a trusted relative. Four, he needed to talk to his business partners locally. Five, he needed to say goodbye to several close friends. Lastly, he needed to spend some quality time with his Nanna and Uncle Clyde, and figure out a safe way for them to visit him in the islands.

  Marshon answered a knock on his apartment door and opened it to see Jemmy looming over him.

  “Got a minute?” Jemmy asked.

  “Sure,” Marshon said, walking to the liquor cabinet. “You want a brandy?”

  “Yeah, you might want one, too,” Jemmy said, ominously.

  Marshon put their drinks on coasters on the coffee table, while Jemmy stuck a flash drive into the TV’s USB port. He grabbed the remote and came to sit on the sofa beside Marshon. He turned on the TV, picked up the goblet and took a healthy belt of Courvoisier. He activated the video, which brought to the screen the most recent action in Boudra’s apartment.

  “It starts out innocent enough,” Jemmy said, as Marshon watched Boudra on her hands and knees warming up a customer.

  “Have we seen this guy before?” Marshon asked, frowning.

  “He’s new to us as of Saturday night, but he didn’t make any secret of his name from the get-go. Michael Williams. I Googled him.” Jemmy took a folded piece of paper from his shirt pocket and handed it to Marshon, who unfolded the paper and read it.

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Saw him on TV news a few months back. He’s the architect for that new World War One Museum they’re going to build up by the memorial. A hundred and twenty million dollar project. Williams’s firm gets about ten percent of that for the architectural design. Upstanding, well-heeled citizen, this whoremonger.”

  “Yeah, he certainly is a unique piece of work,” Jemmy said, fast-forwarding the disk. “Check this out.”

  Williams now was on top of Boudra pounding away when he grabbed her throat with both hands and began to strangle her. Boudra initially reacted by pummeling his back with her fists, but that only seemed to encourage Williams. She tried unsuccessfully to roll him over. Jemmy and Marshon heard her gasp for air. Finally, Boudra called upon her considerable experience and slipped both hands and forearms inside of Williams’s arms, so she could explode her forearms outward. She busted his grip and then rolled Williams enough so that she could get up on one hip. Boudra then kneed Williams in the genitals, causing the architect to scream out in considerable pain and fall off the bed onto the floor.

  Boudra then pressed her call button and Jemmy burst through her door less than two minutes later. By that time, Boudra had her switchblade open and stood threateningly over the fallen Williams. Jemmy wrested the knife from her hands and folded the blade back into the handle.

  Jemmy put the video on pause. “So, I grab the motherfucker and slam him against the wall and ask him what the fuck he thinks he’s doing. And, you know what he said to me?”

  “What?”

  “He said he was just trying to make her come like she never had come before.”

  Marshon shook his head in disgust. One fantasy of all whoremongers seemed to be that they’d be the super, unparalleled fuck of a prostitute’s life. That she would then want to give up her profession and be his sex slave.

  “Then, he mentions erotic asphyxiation,” Jemmy said, “like it was part of the package he’d paid for. I had no idea what he was talking about at the time.”

  “Depriving one sexual partner of oxygen to increase the intensity of their orgasm,” Marshon explained. “I doubt seriously that Boudra asked him to do it.”

  “No, she was screaming that the motherfucker strangled her and planned to kill her. While I was bracing Williams, she came up with another knife and threatened to cut off Williams’s family jewels. Williams was already throwing up because she busted his nuts good. Anyway, I booted his ass out, but kept his billfold. He had about eight hundred in cash on him. I gave him a fifty for cab fare and told him to get lost and not come back.”

  Jemmy stood, reached into a back pocket and produced Williams’s billfold.

  “Is Boudra okay?”

  “That bitch is hard as nails, man. She acted like it was a typical Saturday night and called another customer and told him to come early.”

  “I assume Williams was drunk.”

  “As a skunk. Maybe high, too.”

  “He probably wanted to brag that he made a whore come like a stream engine at full throttle,” Marshon said. “Or, he may have killed Boudra just for the fun on it.” That thought made Marshon frown and get angry. “You got other copies of this video?”

  “You betcha.”

  “Copy the whole episode to my mini-laptop,” Marshon said, standing. “I’ll go on over and talk to Boudra. She in?”

  “Yeah, this is her Monday off.”

  “And I’ll pay a visit to Mr. Williams and do some business with him. I need more traveling money, anyway.”

  After Jemmy left, Marshon went across the hallway and knocked on Boudra’s door. She answered and asked him in. He stepped inside and shut the door, but didn’t take a seat.

  “Jemmy just showed me the video of this Williams freak.”

  “If Jemmy hadn’t stopped me, Williams’s testicles would be floating in formaldehyde in a fruit jar sitting on my coffee table.”

  Marshon arched his eyebrows in a gesture of disapproval. “That’s one of the reasons why Jemmy is here, Boudra. With your approach, we’d have had police and fire department vehicles and maybe news trucks out front.”

  Boudra wore an oversized gray sweat
shirt and matching sweatpants. She hugged herself as if chilled. She looked at the floor. “You’re right, of course, Marshon. I guess I have a few more things to learn before I ask to manage the building.”

  “Take it as constructive criticism. I can be objective because I wasn’t in your position. You undoubtedly saved your own life. Helluva nice maneuver to break the chokehold, by the way.”

  “Thanks. I learned it in a martial arts class.”

  “I’ll take care of this motherfucker Williams, so he don’t do anything like this again to you or anybody else. There’ll be some compensation in it for you.”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “It is for me. Anyway, about the management thing. I did a handshake deal with Jemmy and Widja about running The Wheel.”

  “You’re really gonna move on?” she asked, in disbelief.

  “Yeah. I told Widja and Jemmy that you’d be managing the apartment business, but that you’d work some type of contractual deal with each of them. Jemmy to provide security and do some of the payoffs, especially those involving the police. Widja can do maintenance and janitorial work in and outside the building. That way, you don’t have outside people wandering around, getting all kinds of ideas. Try and give both Jemmy and Widja at least a hundred grand a year.”

  “I can live with that.”

  “The rents still go into an account managed by my lawyer, Mort Saperstein. I’ll need a monthly royalty, stipend, dividend, whatever you want to call it. It’s my building. I worked hard to establish good relationships with the authorities. They know not to fuck with us. That’s worth a lot.”

  “How much?”

  “Fifteen percent of your net. You calculate it. I’ll trust you. I’ll give you a list of the bribes I’m paying now. Eventually, you’ll have to take over that part of the operation.”

  “You want the fifteen percent in perpetuity? At some point, it would be cheaper for me to buy another building.”