The Money Game

by Michael A. Smith

  She had a point, especially if she significantly increased the building income with her new ideas. Marshon decided not to argue. “Let’s say two years and then we renegotiate. If it turns out that you launder your cash with me, for a percentage, I could even give up the royalty. We might partner on some other deals. You were the one who suggested you’d probably get out of this business eventually — which you should, by the way.”

  It didn’t take Boudra long to make up her mind. “You got a deal. When are you leaving?”

  He shrugged. “I’ll let you know. We’ll get together again.”

  ∞ ∞ ∞

  Tuesday night about eight o’clock, Marshon parked his BMW in front of a building at Corporate Center, a 300-acre campus consisting of eight multi-story glass and steel buildings located about a mile south of the Beltway. The bucolic setting consisted of well-manicured lawns, flower gardens, statuary, and walking/biking paths winding through several acres of old oak trees. At the first of November, however, the grass was the color of straw and littered with falling leaves. The perennial seeds and bulbs would hibernate until Spring.

  Corporate Center was the economic engine for the affluent south and southwest suburbs. The headquarters staff of a large national trucking company occupied one entire building. A two-sided sign proclaiming the name of a well-known insurance company attached to the roof of another tower. Other buildings housed employees of an engineering firm, a company that provided students transportation for several local school districts, a public relations and marketing firm, several law firms, and doctors’ offices. Widja had a cleaning contract for several companies located in the complex.

  Marshon entered Building 1223, a 15-story pylon that had a concave design making the top and bottom floors wider than those in the middle section. Black faux marble covered portions of the exterior. Light-reflecting windows made it impossible for people on the outside to see in during daylight hours. That may have been by design. At night, the building had an ominous appearance, as if it were a monument dropped from the sky that had embedded itself in the earth. Marshon pulled tight the lapels on his cashmere overcoat.

  A security booth in the middle of the lobby provided the uniformed guard a commanding view of front and back entrances. The old, hunched back guard with a bulbous nose checked a list on a clipboard to confirm André Touissant’s appointment with Michael Williams. Dressed conservatively in an expensive pinstriped navy blue suit, Marshon wanted to be remembered as just another businessman, if remembered at all.

  The rent-a-cop told him to take the elevator to the third floor office suite of Williams, Grant and Slocum. The firm’s office occupied the entire third floor. They also rented space on the fourth and fifth floors.

  Marshon had pondered his approach. He planned to set a high price on the video capturing Michael Williams’s brutal attempt to strangle Boudra. Given the publicity that had accompanied his firms’ new contract to build the museum, Williams had the money and incentive to make the payoff that would insure the video was never posted on YouTube. A generous donation from Williams would further insure a comfortable transition from Marshon’s current lifestyle to his life in the Caribbean. While his deals with Jemmy and Widja theoretically would provide him with a six-figure income from laundering their cash, he knew those deals could go south and evaporate overnight if his partners were busted or killed. The same with his and Boudra’s arrangement. On the other hand, the Williams donation would be money in hand. Besides, the murderous bastard deserved economic sanctions.

  It bothered Marshon that Williams hadn’t attempted to hide his identity. Either the architect had been in a drunken stupor or he was one of those men who loved living dangerously — who either thought they were bulletproof or that they were too important to abide by any laws or social conventions.

  Williams answered the office suite doorbell. Marshon immediately recognized him from the video. Fully clothed, the architect looked almost respectable, except for the black-and-blue bruise on the side of his face, which he sustained either falling out of Boudra’s bed, or when Jemmy slammed him against the wall.

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Williams,” Marshon said, extending his hand, which remained suspended in the air as Williams abruptly turned and walked away — or rather limped away, trying to protect his swollen testicles. Marshon followed Williams through the reception area past an empty desk for the receptionist who worked the phones and seated visitors during office hours. Several comfortable chairs were arranged along two adjoining walls decorated with plaques, awards, and photographs of the firm’s partners and staff.

  Marshon followed Williams past restrooms and a conference room featuring a highly polished mahogany table. Williams turned left down another hallway leading past a copy center and mailroom. They entered a cavernous room segmented into nearly two dozen partitioned work cubicles. Permanent offices with doors, walls and exterior glass occupied the perimeter of the room.

  Marshon hurried to follow Williams diagonally through the dimly lit labyrinth of cubicles until they reached another conference room and library in the rear of the suite. Williams turned on the lights, took a seat at an expensive oval-shaped walnut table and nodded curtly, indicating the meeting could begin.

  “You said on the phone you had some video of me in action Saturday night,” Williams said, “with, ah, what’s her name –– Boudra?” He sneered, having given her name a French-sounding pronunciation: “Boo-dra.”

  “Yes,” Marshon replied simply, choosing to let the video create the image he needed for the subsequent “insurance policy” negotiation. He took the mini laptop from his coat pocket, turned it on, activated the video and set the device in front of Williams. Unlike his meeting with Virginia Krebs in her suburban home, when he’d been in a light mood at the beginning, Marshon felt chilled tonight, especially as he remembered Ginny’s prediction. Additionally, in the hallway, he saw the temperature on a wall thermostat: 66 degrees. It was cold in the office and a stale smell filled the air.

  Although being alone in the far reaches of a deserted office suite excited primal fears, the snub-nosed thirty-eight in the holster attached to his belt at the base of his spine gave Marshon a measure of comfort. He’d never had occasion to use the weapon in any similar negotiations and Williams seemed an unlikely type to cause trouble, especially now that he appeared sober and hobbled with injuries inflicted by Boudra.

  As the video played, Williams’s demeanor changed drastically. No longer businesslike and cold as ice, Williams became animated. He laughed loudly, sighed, sometimes covered his eyes, flung his arms skyward, mumbled incoherently, and genuinely seemed to enjoy his performance, including the bashing he took at the end from both Boudra and Jemmy. Marshon grew increasingly nervous. Williams’s eyes were wide, vacant, and crazy looking. He appeared even thinner in person that in the video filmed only a few days ago. In fact, his cheeks were sunken and his skin pale. Clumps of Williams’s hair had fallen out.

  When the video reached the end and stopped, Marshon never moved nor said a word, while Williams became silent and pensive. The architect frowned, formed the fingers of both hands into the shape of a pyramid, and stared through it. The silence became louder and louder.

  “You want to sell me this video,” Williams said, finally.

  “I think you’d be proud to own it.”

  “Indeed, I would. It’s sad that I wasn’t allowed to complete my little plan, don’t you think? Then, either Boudra would have achieved the ultimate orgasm, or I would have. Tell me, Marshon, from your considerable experience as a pimp, if you strangle a whore to death, does her vagina clamp down on your dick at the moment she expires? Would I have had the ejaculation of a lifetime?”

  “A million dollars for the video,” Marshon said, without emotion. “You can do a wire transfer.” He’d already made arrangements with lawyer Dahlgren to have the funds transferred directly into Marcus Jones’s Road Town bank account. A temporary account number had been issued for this transfe
r only. Even if Williams gave the account number to the FBI, they still would need a warrant to find the cash. In the British Virgin Islands, judges seldom issued such warrants, because those who appointed them didn’t want foreign governments, or their agencies, meddling with the colony’s most lucrative source of income. Besides, Marshon didn’t think Williams would complain about paying the blackmail.

  Williams laughed softly. “And how much next month?”

  “It’s a one-time fee. You never pay again.”

  “What guarantee do I have of that?”

  They all asked the same question. “If I come back for seconds, you’ll go to the cops and that’s very bad for my business. I’ve learned that it doesn’t pay to be greedy.”

  Williams laughed insanely and seemed suddenly energized. He jumped to his feet and declared, “I could easily afford that amount, as you probably know. You look like a smart guy, whatever your real name. You know about the firm’s new contract?”

  “I’m certain the memorial museum will become globally renowned, and generate substantial additional business for your firm.”

  “My partners would gladly pay your blackmail. You really should have talked to them. That was your first mistake.”

  Marshon suddenly had a bad feeling, but he couldn’t show his fear. A frightened, tentative salesman never closed a deal. “Look, it’s just a business deal, Mr. Williams. Like you said, you can afford it. Hell, your accountants will undoubtedly find some way to charge it to your new museum project!”

  Williams stroked his chin, feeling his beard stubble and frowning, as if still trying to make up his mind. “I just don’t wanna pay,” he cried, jutting out his chin as he unbuttoned his suit coat.

  “That’s too bad,” Marshon said, making a smooth transition to the next level of his sales pitch. “I’ll have to send copies of the video to your partners, your staff, your neighbors, and your minister. Your wife. She may pay an even higher price for the video because it could be the leverage she needs to get a piece of this.” Marshon motioned with one arm and hand to take in the firm and its obvious assets. He signed and delivered the coup de grâce. “At that point, I might even to post the video on YouTube, and notify members of Congress of its existence.”

  Williams responded with a snicker that intensified to a crescendo of howling. He stopped abruptly and the coldness in his eyes and the pallor of his skin caused a shiver to run down Marshon’s spine. He felt the hairs on his arm stand up.

  “I like to live dangerously,” Williams admitted, “as you can tell from the video. I plan to experience everything. Quickly. Saturday night I got stinky drunk, did cocaine and fucked a black whore! A tall, leggy black whore with big tits! After she sucked my cock! I can cross all those things off my bucket list. You see, I have an aggressive brain cancer and I’m not long for this earth, Mr. Touissant. My wife and partners are about to get everything, anyway. Once I’m rotting away in the grave, I could give a fuck less what all the living people think of me.” An impertinent, twisted expression took over Williams’s face. “Tonight is another unique opportunity for me. There’s something else I’ve never done.”

  “What’s that?” Marshon asked, shifting nervously in his seat.

  Williams moved amazingly quickly to the doorway, causing Marshon to stand.

  “Tonight, my office will be a hunting preserve! After I kill you, Mr. Touissant, I think I’ll mount your head out in the foyer, where everyone can see it when they come to work in the morning!” Williams laughed insanely as he flicked off the light switch and disappeared into the darkness.

  Marshon drew the Smith and Wesson Bodyguard thirty-eight from its holster and moved rapidly to the front wall. With his belly pressed against the wall, he inched toward the door with his gun hand pointing in that direction. Before he got there, the hall lights also went off and Marshon found himself disoriented in the darkness. Waiting until his eyes gradually adjusted to the dark, Marshon quickly poked his head through the doorway, glancing both ways. To his left, he saw a faint reddish light.

  Marshon had to develop a plan of escape, quickly. If he stayed in the conference room, Williams eventually would have to come to him. One option, therefore, was to stay put and hope to overpower or outgun Williams. But, what if Williams already had called the security guard downstairs? Told him the nigger’d gone crazy and had a gun! Then, Marshon would have to deal with the police, maybe a SWAT team. He decided to move out of the room and not let himself be cornered.

  Marshon exploded from the conference room across the hallway where he pressed his back against the wall. He held the gun in front of him with both hands so he could swing it left or right. He walked sideways to his right so he could look around the corner and determine the source of the eerie red light.

  It illuminated an exit door about twenty feet away. Three desks not surrounded by partitions occupied this rectangular area, which also featured several file cabinets, copiers and printers and two drawing tables. Marshon scooted around the corner and squatted beside a desk, trying to remember the layout of the office.

  Then he panicked again, thinking that Williams could be crouched on the other side of the desk, or in the hallway behind him. Marshon stood, extended his gun hand and looked cautiously over the desk. Williams wasn’t there, so Marshon quickly took that position. Now he had the desk between him and the hallway outside the conference room where they’d watched the video.

  He stood again, hesitated a moment and scurried toward the exit door. He grabbed the horizontal door bar with his free hand and pushed. Locked! An irrational thought popped into his mind: that’s a violation of the fire code! How in the hell could these office workers escape if there was a real fire in the office?

  Marshon moved to a steel file cabinet and squatted beside it. Suddenly the red light above the door went out! Marshon involuntarily uttered a small cry, like a frightened, hunted animal. He yelled, “Okay, Williams, I don’t want to play this game! Keep the laptop and video. It’s yours — for free! Now turn on a light and let me out of here, man!”

  There was a flash of white light off to his left and Marshon heard the impact of the bullet as it ripped into the file cabinet above his head. Without any cerebral command, his body catapulted straight ahead toward an opening leading into the maze of cubicles. Beyond that to the right were the other hallway, reception area, front door, and freedom. His brain caught up with his muscles and told him that there was no noise associated with the gunfire. Williams had a gun equipped with a silencer! He’d probably been in the room directly across from the conference room. The circuit breaker had to be there. That’s how Williams had turned off the red light above the door. He’d flipped another breaker switch! Marshon considered that Williams most likely had now also moved into the cubicle area, planning to cut off Marshon’s avenue of escape.

  Fear got the best of Marshon and he turned into a cubicle, kneeling just inside the opening. He waited, although it was foolish for him to feel safe behind walls made of pressed wood.

  Marshon saw movement off to his left in a pathway between the cubicles and the wall of the conference room where they’d watched the video. He instinctively fired twice in that direction and ran to his right. He quickly turned a corner, stopped, and pressed his back against the wall. He looked toward the back of the suite and experienced hope for the first time. It seemed to him that he was between Williams and the front door.

  Marshon worried that Williams might have locked the entrance door electronically, so that a code had to be entered for it to open. Could the security guard have heard the shots three floors below? What if the security guard had summoned reinforcement!

  Marshon cursed silently and entertained a jumble of thoughts. No matter what happened now, the laptop would incriminate him. The cops knew Boudra and knew that she lived in the building owned by his grandmother and uncle. His grand plan was in danger of backfiring. Soon, the County Attorney would have additional evidence to add to the laundry list that he was in the process
of presenting to the grand jury. Marshon undoubtedly would face charges that might land him in jail for as much as twenty-five years. All because he’d been greedy. The night Judge Thomas told him about the grand jury, Marshon should have driven or flown to Miami, to catch attorney Dahlgren’s boat to Nassau and freedom.

  He heard the splat of the silencer again and saw the pinpoint explosion of fire from the barrel of Williams’s gun! While he’d been equivocating, Williams had maneuvered into a shooting position.

  “Bang, bang, nigger!” Williams shouted and began giggling madly.

  Marshon fired again in Williams’s direction, turned, and began running toward the reception area. Suddenly, he felt a searing pain in his back, causing him to trip and fall to the floor. The gun flew out of his hand. He rolled immediately to his right through an open door into a room. He rose to one knee, closed the door, and felt the doorknob for a lock. There wasn’t one! His gun was somewhere in the hallway!

  Marshon twisted his left arm around to feel the wound on the lower left side of his back. Warm, sticky blood oozed through his suit coat and stained his hand. Where was his overcoat! He couldn’t remember. He wasn’t in a lot of pain, probably because of all the adrenaline pumping through his body.

  Knuckles wrapped loudly against the door. Williams, his voice laced with hysteria, said, “Knock, knock! Any niggers inside!”

  Holding the door shut with one hand and knee, Marshon felt along the top of an adjacent desk until he grasped a letter opener. He immediately sat behind the door and then lay back on the floor. He bent his knees and positioned his feet about fifteen inches from the door.

  The door splintered in two places as Williams fired shots through the upper half. A few seconds later, the door opened slowly. The faint light filtering into the office suite through the darkened external windows outlined Williams’s head and shoulders as he leaned forward to peek into the copy room. At that moment, Marshon thrust both legs forward, causing the door to crash against Williams’s head.