The Money Game

by Michael A. Smith

  “Darieon is taking care of the apartment and getting the equipment to storage,” Jemmy said. “I called all the hookers and they agreed to lay off business for a few days. You’ll love this: Boudra says some of them are talking about taking a cruise in the Caribbean and planning their future strategy. I’m sure they’d try to do some business on the high seas.”

  The irony wasn’t lost on Marshon, who smiled and then started to laugh, except he quit immediately, since it caused his wound to ache.

  “What now?”

  “I gotta find Widja and take care of him and the others,” Marshon said. “A security guard caught them trying to remove Williams’s body.”

  “They gonna hafta go on the lam,” Jemmy said, emphatically.

  “Absolutely. They can’t stay here.”

  “Shit. Guess Widja and I ain’t gonna partner on nothin’.”

  “That’s right. It’s all yours now, but we’ll talk about that later.”

  Jemmy handed over a prepaid phone. “Gimme your smart phone, Marshon. Use this burner to call me and Widja. We’ll switch again tomorrow after you get settled. You got a place in mind where you can recuperate?”

  “I got an idea about hiding in plain sight. You’re really in charge of everything now, Jemmy.”

  “I’ll take care of it, boss,” Jemmy said, reaching for the door handle to his car. Marshon put out a restraining hand. He thought furiously, fighting through the pain. If he forgot something important now, it could be fatal. “I’ll need another fake driver’s license, with a matching credit card. You know Maleeka Mankin, who runs that print shop over on Mason Avenue?”

  “Yeah, we done some business with him.”

  Marshon counted out twenty-five hundred dollars from the cash in the zippered pouch. “Tell him it’s a rush job. The best he’s got. Something good for a week. If he needs a photo of me, tell him to copy the one off my Facebook page, but alter it to make me look older, with gray hair.”

  Maleeka’s print business was a dying service, but not so the illegal operation he ran on the side. Many people on the East Side knew that Maleeka would buy the driver’s license and credit cards of people who died, especially if it was a nonviolent death. Maleeka had a laser-etching machine that would etch out the existing photo on a driver’s license. Then, he would superimpose another photo, leaving intact all the other information on the card, including the hologram designed to prevent forgeries. Those who sold these cards to Maleeka delayed reporting to the credit card company that their relative or friend had died, and that his or her I.D. and credit cards had disappeared or perhaps been stolen. In the meantime, the person who bought the I.D. and credit cards had time to use them before they became hot.

  It was a great business for everyone involved: grieving friends and relatives earned a few hundred dollars to help with funeral and burial expenses; Maleeka made money selling the forgeries; those who bought the cards were rewarded with clothes, expensive electronic equipment or ATM withdrawals. Best of all, friends and family of the deceased were not responsible for the debts, since they’d dutifully reported the theft or disappearance of the I.D. and credit cards as soon as they became aware that they were gone.

  Marshon was juggling many balls and he didn’t want to drop one. He needed to get out of town without being recognized and arrested. He couldn’t afford to have the police learn about Marcus Jones and confiscate that I.D., since that would eventually lead to his island home and his offshore bank account. If he lost the house and his money, then the last seven years had been for nothing other than a sparsely furnished six-by-eight foot jail cell without a window. Marshon couldn’t leave the Marcus Jones’s identity in his apartment safe, although he hated carrying it around, but there didn’t seem to be another option. He might have to toss it out the car window in an emergency.

  Marshon figured the BMW wouldn’t be hot until daybreak, so he drove over to Jake’s Original Barbecue, arriving shortly after midnight. He sat in a booth near the rear exit and the pay phone that might be the last one in the city. He asked the waitress for a double Johnny Walker Black on the rocks and gave her a fifty. “Keep an eye on the street, Shaquira. Let me know if you see the heat coming.” He owned part of the place and they would protect him. There was a trapdoor behind a washing machine in the back that opened into a small crawl space beneath the building.

  Marshon washed down the painkillers with the Scotch and waited. He heard the weather report on a radio playing in the kitchen. The weatherman predicted rain possibly turning to sleet for this first weekend in November. The pay phone rang and Marshon flinched at the sound, which made his wound ache something terrible.

  He got up gingerly and answered the phone, “Yeah?”

  “Widja.”

  “Where you at? We need to talk right away.”

  “Autumn Valley Park. Be there in fifteen minutes. Park on Memphis Avenue near the picnic shelter closest to the lake.”

  As Marshon drove to the park, he thought about his grandmother’s saying that bad luck ran in threes. He’d got shot, the old guard blew the cover-up. What next?

  He sat at a table in a far corner of the pavilion so he could see the road in both directions. He had the thirty-eight in hand, hidden from view. It was very cold. When Marshon shivered, his wound hurt.

  Within a few minutes of their appointed time, Widja walked over a steep hill to the south of the shelter. He’d obviously been waiting in the dark, and watching. Paranoia was as thick and pervasive tonight as the clouds in the sky that obscured the moonlight. It had begun to rain lightly.

  “Now what?” Widja asked, sitting across from Marshon.

  “We gotta figure the cops’ll put it all together sometime tomorrow.”

  “We’re all fucked,” Widja replied angrily. “I fucked myself. I never should have done this in the first place. It was dumb. Dumb! I figured I owed you, Marshon, especially since you’ve always done for me. First, my business and now you turning The Wheel over to me and Jemmy. That’s all shit now, and jail is a real possibility.”

  Marshon understood. Recriminations were the first order of a defeated team, even among teammates. Widja, Angela, and Leon were totally compromised, just like him. They all had two choices: turn themselves in or go on the lam, and the latter choice cost money. If Marshon didn’t help Widja and the others, they’d have to give him up. It was the code of the street.

  Marshon took all the remainder of the cash from the pouch and counted out fifty thousand, which he laid on the table. “I had Jemmy get all of my cash out of the safe in my apartment. Seventy-five thousand. I gave five to The Knife and had to give up twenty-five hundred for another service. Here’s fifty for you guys. I’ll need the rest. It’s the best I can do on short notice, Widja.”

  Widja shook his head in disbelief. “You doin’ a million-a-year business, Marshon, and this is all the cash you got on hand?”

  “Swear to God, man, I ain’t fuckin’ you over. Call Jemmy if you don’t believe me. Besides, you saw my account sheets a few days ago. I told you, I put most of my money in an offshore bank. Plus, I made too many local investments too fast lately. I’ve been strapped for cash for some time now. Why you think I was shaking down that bastard Williams?”

  “I’ll have to leave my wife and kids behind,” Widja said. “They’ll need money. I might not ever be able to come back. There’ll always be a fuckin’ warrant hanging over my head. I’ll have to buy some new I.D. for all three of us, which’ll cost plenty.” Widja held up the money like it was nothing. “This’ll hardly do me, Marshon. I can’t guarantee what Leon and Angela will do.”

  There it was, out in the open, and both of them understood. Marshon calculated the odds as three-to-one that one of the three janitors would turn state’s evidence in exchange for immunity. Besides, Widja was right. Less than twenty thousand apiece wouldn’t last long if the three of them relocated to New York, Miami, L.A., or Detroit. Marshon might have been better off keeping all of the money, but although he was
a crook, he also was a faithful friend.

  Marshon sighed. “Look, I got about two-hundred-and-fifty grand in a safe deposit box that my cousin Jolanda is keeping for just such an emergency. As soon as I think it’s safe, tomorrow or the next day, I’ll get that money. Give me a few days to recuperate from this gunshot wound, until I find out whether or not I need surgery. I need to get out of town myself. I will get back to you soon, Widja, and do everything I can to help you. Tell you what. Two weeks from today, I’ll put an ad in the Star personals that will say: If you lost my number, it’s such and so, and I’ll sign it Marcus. The phone number will be a prepaid burner. It’ll be good for that one call between you and me. By that time, I hope to have access to the rest of my money. I promise I’ll make things right with you, Widja, as well as with Angela and Leon. I’m gonna be doing business somewhere, man, and hopefully making even bigger money. Don’t think of this as the garden spot of the world.”

  Widja thought it over, sighed and said, “Don’t worry about me, brother. Nothin’ was guaranteed. I’m out of here and I’ll probably be able to persuade Angela and Leon to go along. No way that the cops will give us a pass, and even a year or two inside is too much for me.” He picked up the cash. “Maybe we’ll start up a whorehouse somewhere.”

  That comment stung. As Marshon watched Widja walk away into the darkness, he turned his attention to thinking about a safe place to sleep and recuperate. Individual and institutional bookies who post odds on various human events and games are generally objective, which is not usually the case with players and fans. They oftentimes let their prejudices and emotions — including hope beyond reason — override the objective facts of the situation. The events of the next week would test not only Marshon’s odds-making ability, but determine whether he was fundamentally a lucky or unlucky man.

  19/It’s Weird Out There

  Wednesday afternoon, Richey arrived at The Stadium about four p. m. and ordered a draft beer, which caused the bartender, John, to frown. Before he could ask the obvious question, Richey answered, “Got a dress rehearsal for Death of a Salesman at seven p. m. I want to arrive relatively sober, so serve me three beers between now and five-thirty and then order me a hamburger.” They’d had six rehearsals beginning the last week of October. At the last rehearsal, the boy director told the cast they were nearly ready and would iron out any problems during the Wednesday dress rehearsal at the Cranston Theater. Then, a day off to catch their breath and reflect. The play opened Friday night.

  Richey had with him an RV magazine he’d purchased several days ago at a bookstore in the mall. He sipped his beer and paged through the magazine, trying to get a feel for the nomadic lifestyle proposed by Carmen. It didn’t take long for him to conclude that there weren’t any articles that would help him choose between Marshon’s Proposal and Carmen’s Offer. The magazine was primarily about all the accouterments of the RV life that one could buy to make one’s travels easier and more enjoyable.

  Richey sighed and sat back. The decision shouldn’t be that hard. The fact that it was suggested a deep inner conflict. Obviously, he should go with Carmen. Her plan took him off the bar stool and propelled him into a lifestyle where he could practice his chosen profession — or, attempt to, anyway. Heretofore, he had waited for the opportunities to appear in some miraculous or serendipitous way. Waited for his talent to be recognized. Few things happen that way in real life, so he had wallowed in his sorrows and nourished his excuses.

  Carmen had called his bluff. Now, he could write his own script, and produce his own performance, be they snippets from Shakespeare’s plays, memorable songs from popular Broadway plays, or his modern-day version of Mark Twain’s pithy social observations. Or, he could perform famous movie scenes by celebrated actors — Marlon Brandon as the Godfather, James Dean portraying teenage angst in Rebel Without a Cause, or Burt Lancaster delivering a brimstone and hellfire speech from Elmer Gantry. He’d advertise his performance by nailing handbills to telephone poles. Perform in picnic shelters, at nursing homes, maybe a local fire station. No average member of the public would pay an entrance fee to see such a performance, of course, so he’d have to rely on donations. If you liked my performance, there’s a tip jar over there. Richey didn’t like the whole scene as he envisioned it. It could generate humiliation and depression. He doubted it would raise any real money, but it did amount to taking control of his life.

  Richey paged through the RV magazine again, searching for the advertisements regarding campground fees. There was a wide range. Lots with a view of the mountains or the ocean cost as much as a nightly stay at a Hilton. Other campgrounds advertised monthly fees of between four and five hundred dollars. If he got thirty or forty bucks in tips every performance, he could pay the rent. Richey yearned mightily for a double martini.

  Did he really want to live his dream as a working actor, especially when it might not work? When success might be defined as simply making the rent? Or, did he actually prefer to sit here in this dark and dingy bar, getting high with all the other marginal people. Suddenly, Richey viewed Carmen’s plan with great suspicion. In reality, it might simply be an intervention, forcing him to confront his true inner self. Maybe Carmen and Shirley had concocted the whole thing. A one-two punch. Shirley came into The Stadium to remind him of the wreckage wrought by his lifestyle; Carmen followed with a proposal to put his shattered life back together. If he failed, they’d get together and say, “Aha!” And lots of other negative things.

  Richey motioned to John. “Another beer.”

  John looked at his watch. “It’s been ten minutes.”

  “You a timekeeper or a bartender?”

  Richey got back in touch with his sanity, at least momentarily. Carmen had never met Shirley. He was fairly certain of that. Carmen loved him. She not only made physical love to him, she proved her love by simply propping him up. She was always there. She came to The Stadium, even though it was obvious to everyone who knew her, or even the barflies who saw her for the first time, that women who looked like her didn’t ordinarily hang out here. It was a juke joint, not a place where classy women dressed up to the nines sipped white wine. In addition, if someone talked to Carmen for a few minutes and realized her level of intelligence, they would immediately ask themselves what she was doing here — or why she was talking to them. Richey imagined that some of his stoolmates might have considered that she was a cop, waiting for them to make an inappropriate proposal, so she could slam their heads against the bar and cuff them.

  No, she loved him, even though he wasn’t worthy of her. What was wrong with her, anyway? He loved Marisa, too. Fatherly love, or potential stepfatherly love, of course. He had a chance to reprise the father role he’d screwed up with Ethan. Every actor learned from every performance. But wasn’t that the problem? Did he love Carmen, or was he acting as if he loved her? What was the difference, anyway?

  Richey took his Droid smartphone from his pocket and did an Internet search for the meaning of love. Not surprising, there were several, depending on the type of love. Love was a collection of feelings, which might differ according to whom or what was the recipient of one’s affection. There was love as lust, familial love, brotherly love, compassion, love of God, love of chocolate ice cream. Richey sighed and put the Droid on the bar, knowing it would soon go to sleep by itself. It was perfectly at home in The Stadium.

  Richey loved to conjure future scenarios, although they usually didn’t come true, much in the same way that the winning Keno numbers he envisioned were never actually drawn, at least not as he selected them for any given game. Carmen’s plan was loaded with potential time bombs. They would be cooped up day and night in a recreational vehicle, probably about thirty-four-by-eight feet. They’d get on each other’s nerves. What would be the sleeping arrangement? Marisa would probably sleep on a foldout sofa, only feet away from the bedroom with its thin walls.

  Driving the monster vehicle would be intimidating, let alone backing it up and maneuvering int
o tight camping spaces. It was a mobile home, a cross between a car and a house. Double trouble. The number of systems that could break down and need repair seemed endless: transmission, radiators, brakes, mufflers, tires, the gas-electric refrigerator, roof air conditioners, generator, toilet, stove, the mechanisms that expanded the walls, et cetera.

  What would happen when they ran out of money? He’d be right back working at the equivalent of Biederman’s, running his private lottery on the side, and sitting in The Stadium or someplace like it. What was the use of leaving in the first place?

  He held up the empty beer glass. “Refill this with a Blood Mary.”

  John looked at the cook standing across from the bar near the kitchen, and said, “Pay me.” The cook walked over and handed John a five-dollar bill.

  Even half drunk, Richey figured he could get through a dress rehearsal for a part in a play he’d performed several times. He might even be better.

  He dredged his memory for details of the conversation he’d had with Marshon in the Lamplighter restaurant and bar located in The Shops. When they were done talking that day, he’d felt exhilarated. Marshon could help him take his private lottery, The Richey, to the next level. They’d be Sundance and Butch. He’d be Butch with all the ideas, and Marshon would be Sundance, providing backbone and protection. It made Richey think of Ace. Maybe the three of them were alike in some way that he really didn’t want to consider.

  With Marshon’s plan, he didn’t have to worry about failure, because Marshon didn’t tolerate failure. He always turned lemons into lemonade. Richey would get the chance to hobnob with rich people, which was an actor’s paradise, since rich people always acted as if they were better than they possibly could be. That was one of the prerogatives of being rich. He could out-act them, which would be a way of making fun of them. He and Marshon would then take their money, and the rich people would give it up gladly and probably say, “Thank you for the good time.” They’d certainly admire their chutzpah. It would be high adventure with delicious danger always lurking in the background. And, Richey would always have a drink in hand. Marshon wouldn’t care, so long as Richey did his job.