The Money Game

by Michael A. Smith

  Carmen’s hand flew to her mouth and her fingers trembled. “Oh, my God, I always felt like he was extremely dangerous!”

  Richey couldn’t tell her how dangerous, as he recalled the knife-throwing exhibition at The Wheel.

  They continued while walking toward the parking garage attached to The Shops.

  “Why did the detectives question you?”

  “Because I saw the first fight between the four of them, in The Stadium, a couple of weeks ago.”

  “I remember Kandie telling me about that. No wonder you’re shook up.”

  “I gave them your name and address, too, because they wanted to know how I knew Kandie. I said I met her through you.”

  “That’s true.”

  “I’m telling you all this because those two cops, Sizemore and Cavett, probably will question you.”

  “I’ve got nothing to hide, but I won’t alibi Kandie for last night, if that’s what she’s expecting. Why didn’t you tell the cops she was lying?”

  He stopped walking and again faced her. “I was stunned. I guess I didn’t want to get her and her kids in trouble. Maybe I should call the cops. The one detective, Sizemore, gave me a card. Oh, and by the way, Ace was in prison recently for burglary and theft. He’s also a suspected rapist.”

  They pushed through double doors leading into the parking garage, walked up a half level, and found Richey’s car. After they got inside, Richey didn’t start the car immediately. He tried to think through the consequences of several different actions. Telling the detectives about Kandie’s lie wouldn’t do anything to help them apprehend Ace. Or, would it? They’d watch Kandie and might catch Ace if he came to see her again.

  If they arrested Ace, didn’t that bring the feared scenario into reality? He would attempt to deal down his prison sentence by implicating Marshon in the killings at The Wheel. Marshon already was in hiding or on the run. Nothing Ace could tell the cops would put them any closer to arresting Marshon. But Ace could tell the cops that Richey was an accomplice — that he was Marshon’s bagman.

  “Let’s get through this weekend and hope they find Ace, and we don’t have to harm Kandie and her kids,” Richey said. “They probably have someone watching her now, anyway. If she knows where Ace is, she’ll lead them to him.”

  “And, then she will lose her kids.”

  “Like you told me the first night she met Ace, she’s an adult and gets to make her own mistakes.”

  “Unfortunately, her kids may have to pay for them.”

  Richey drove out onto Main Street. He debated whether to tell her about Marshon’s problems. Carmen hadn’t mentioned seeing the newscast, but she probably would see it before the weekend was over. Richey didn’t know what to tell her about the killings at The Wheel that tied him and Marshon and Ace together. It almost made the three-way relationship sound like a conspiracy, which is what Marshon had always feared would be people’s reaction. Plus, at some point, he had to tell her about Marshon’s Proposal. Just not now. Maybe after the play was over Friday night, everything would become clearer.

  As they drove south on the Interstate, Richey saw a road sign for a convenience store and gasoline station. He’d stopped there often, and then took several side streets to The Stadium. He remembered the long, rectangular building located behind the gasoline station. Suddenly, impulsively, he took the exit and drove to that store. He turned down a cul-de-sac and parked his car in a space near the front of the building, identified by a sign as Toliver’s Gun Shop and Shooting Range.

  “Why are you stopping here?” Carmen asked, as Richey put the car in park, opened the door and got out. Carmen opened her door, stepped out and repeated the question.

  “I just decided to look at their guns. Maybe buy one for protection. You might consider it, too.”

  “You mean, because of the thing with Ace?”

  “That, and things in general. We’ve been talking about camping out in the woods, remember? There are all types of wild animals out there, four-legged and two-legged.”

  “I’ve always been afraid of guns, Richey. Besides, I could never shoot anyone.”

  “You ever shoot a handgun?”

  “No,” she admitted.

  “Well, then your fear is not based on experience. As for shooting someone, what if he was assaulting Marisa?”

  “Don’t even say something like that!” Carmen protested, but followed him into the store nevertheless.

  “I just want to look around,” Richey told her when they were inside. “We won’t be long, I promise. Pretend you’re me when I accompany you on a shopping expedition.”

  The retail portion occupied the front one-third of the building. On both sides of the room, glass-enclosed cases displayed handguns. In the far right corner of the shop, a hallway led to the range in the back. From afar, the gunfire on the range sounded like corn popping at a frenzied pace.

  Toliver’s was doing a thriving business between the lookers and those heading for the range. The shooters had their handguns in holsters or small cases, although several men carried various types of sheaths presumably holding shotguns or rifles.

  Richey stopped in front of a display case for large forty-four and forty-five caliber guns, as well as three-fifty-seven magnums. “Dirty Harry guns,” he said, striving for a light note. “When we’re on the road, I could reprise Clint Eastwood’s role in Dirty Harry, and say, ‘Make my day!’ Shoot a blank into the ceiling. How do you think they’d like that in nursing homes around the country, Carmen? Would they give me a larger tip?”

  Carmen shook her head and forced a wan smile.

  “Can I help you folks,” a clerk inquired.

  “We don’t know much about handguns,” Richey admitted. “Aren’t thirty-eights the standard?” He looked to the clerk for confirmation.

  “It’s a popular caliber. You looking for a revolver, or an automatic? Single-action, double-action?”

  Richey shrugged helplessly.

  “Let me make a suggestion,” the clerk said. “Try a couple of different guns on the range. That’ll help you make your decision.”

  “You let people do that?” Carmen asked, truly astounded. “Shoot your guns?”

  “Sure. No problem. Car dealers let you drive their cars, right? We copy your driver’s license and a credit card first, though. And there’s a range fee and a charge for ammunition and targets, all of which I’ll waive if you make a purchase.”

  “You got any recommendations?” Richey asked.

  The clerk looked them over and said, “Yeah, we got a couple of specials going on two guns that might fit you. A Smith & Wesson, five-shot thirty-eight revolver for the lady. A popular defensive gun for women. Weighs fifteen ounces. And, for you, my friend, a nine-millimeter Sig Sauer, a popular brand with law enforcement.” The clerk put the guns on the counter, along with two boxes of ammunition, and two targets. One target was the classic bull’s-eye design, while the other was in the shape of a man, with various numerical values assigned to different parts of his body.

  “By the way, my name is Wayne Renfro,” the clerk said. “You’ll each need clear plastic protective goggles and ear plugs. Those are free.”

  “Let’s give it a try, Carmen,” Richey pleaded. “What’s it gonna hurt? It might be fun.”

  Later, Carmen would wonder why she decided to shoot targets that night with Richey. Was it because she didn’t want to make a scene, and embarrass him? Maybe Richey’s story about Ace had scared her. Obviously, there were rapists out and about. What would she do if one targeted her and Marisa? What could she do? Or, had it simply been fate preparing her for what was to come.

  Once inside the range, both Carmen and Richey realized the value of the ear protection as a dozen or more shooters took aim on hapless targets with an overwhelming arsenal of handguns, rifles and shotguns. The noise was both deafening and frightening. The smell of gunpowder permeated the whole range, and smoke had accumulated at the ceiling level, where it hung like a blue acid cloud. Carmen
’s hands shook so badly that Richey put the guns on the ledge in their cubicle, took her into his arms and gave her a reassuring hug.

  Richey used a wheel and pulley apparatus to reel in a metal clip that attached to the targets. He wheeled the bull’s-eye target out to a distance of about 40 feet. He helped Carmen load the thirty-eight as they communicated by miming and reading lips. He told her to go ahead but she shook her head. Richey loaded his gun, which held 13 bullets, including one in the chamber. He stepped up to the shooting line, grasped the Sig Sauer with both hands as he’d seen actors do in the movies, and squeezed the trigger. The spent shell ejected through a side port, and bounced off the wall onto the floor. Richey looked at Carmen, smiled, and gave a thumbs-up sign.

  He emptied the nine-millimeter at the bull’s-eye and reeled it in so they could inspect the results. Both looked astonished to discover that all the hits were within the circle of numbers, although no bull’s-eye.

  Richey picked up the Smith & Wesson and handed it to Carmen. She sighed, stepped forward, held the gun as he had and aimed. She closed her eyes and squeezed the trigger. The recoil wasn’t as violent as she had expected. Carmen opened her eyes and fired four more times, each time a little faster and with more confidence.

  She only hit the target three times and had no idea where the other two bullets went. The back wall looked to be some kind of absorbent material. She hoped she hadn’t shot anyone else’s targets. Both of them took comfort from a sign inside their cubicle indicating the sidewalls were lead-lined, apparently in case there were other wild-shooting novices on the range.

  They re-loaded the two guns, changed targets, and fired at the paper man until they ran out of ammunition. They hit him in every part of his body, which surely would have dissuaded him from any nefarious purpose. A cloud of blue gun smoke had formed above their cubicle. They looked at each other and shrugged — a gesture indicating it hadn’t been a bad experience, and they had gained a measure of confidence about using handguns.

  “How’d it go?” Renfro asked, as they came back into the retail portion of the building.

  “Unbelievable,” Carmen said, shaking her head and laughing nervously. She also seemed a little excited.

  “Good,” Richey countered. “Except the thirty-eight seemed to generate a lot of smoke.”

  “Yeah,” Carmen agreed, coughing.

  “That’s primarily because of the reloads,” Renfro said. “You don’t get much smoke with regular ammunition.”

  Richey looked at Carmen. “So what do you think?”

  “I don’t know. It was more fun that I thought it would be.”

  “Target shooting is getting to be a more and more popular sport,” Renfro said, trying for the sale.

  “I liked the nine-millimeter,” Richey said, with conviction.

  “Like I told you in the beginning, there’s special pricing on these two guns through the weekend. That revolver ordinarily is about five hundred, and the Sig Sauer, over eleven hundred. I can reduce those prices by 20 percent each, plus another five percent off for a combination sale. It would come out to less than thirteen hundred with tax, plus I’ll throw in a box of ammunition free for each gun.”

  Richey said, suddenly, “Done! And, we’ll need a couple of cases for the guns and whatever equipment is necessary to clean them and keep them in shape.”

  Richey eventually charged $1,485.24 to his credit card, which Carmen declared to be a lot of money. Maybe she thought of this purchase in comparison to what the same amount of money would buy in camping paraphernalia.

  “These guns can give us some piece of mind,” Richey said, “and maybe we’ll have fun to boot.”

  “Listen to your friend, lady,” Renfro said, bobbing his head knowingly. “I’m an off-duty cop. Things are getting weird out there.”

  Carmen read a counter sign indicating that federal law required a three-day waiting period to allow a background check of gun purchasers. “What’s this for?” she asked.

  “It’s to make certain you don’t have criminal records or are mentally incompetent,” the cop explained.

  “Carmen’s okay. For me, one out of two ain’t bad,” Richey joked. He added, seriously, “I really wanted to take the guns with us now.”

  Renfro’s eyes darted about the shop as he spoke softly, “I could postdate this application, although that wouldn’t exactly be according to the letter of the law.”

  “We don’t want to get you into trouble,” Richey said, but smiled and nodded.

  “The bad guys don’t pay any attention to the law,” Renfro said. “You two look like upstanding citizens wanting to protect yourself from those folks.”

  “You got that right.” Richey had a momentary image of Ace throwing his knives, and knew that a gun wasn’t an absolute guarantee of protection in all circumstances.

  Renfro completed the sales documents, put all the items into a large bag and handed it to Richey. “Keep these out of sight for the next three days. Then come on back and I’ll give you free time on the range.”

  “Thanks, Wayne,” Richey said, flashing his most winning smile.

  Outside in the parking lot, Carmen asked, “So, this is our new hobby?”

  Richey laughed. “Why not? Let’s come next Wednesday night. Did you see the sign indicating that’s ladies’ night? You don’t have to pay the range fee. Besides, like I said, you never know when this experience may come in handy, Carmen.”

  That proved to be the understatement of their lives.

  20/Exploring All Options

  It was nearly 4 a.m. Wednesday morning before Marshon got to bed after being shot by Michael Williams. After Max the Knife treated his gunshot wound and Marshon had paid off Widja, he carefully considered the safest place to recuperate for a few days. He chose the Hyatt at the Convention Center, the same hotel where Marshon, Gail and her parents had attended the fundraiser for mayoral hopeful, Benjamin Dewhurst.

  Marshon knew Rinaldo Morgan, head of security for the Hyatt. In fact, Marshon had tipped Morgan off about that job when it came open two years ago. Morgan had been a sergeant in the Marine Corps, and commanded a Military Police company. They weren’t fast friends, but they’d known and respected each other for years. Morgan had channeled quite a bit of business to both the apartment and The Wheel, and Marshon had rewarded him accordingly. Now, the shoe was on the other foot. Marshon called Morgan and told him he needed a room, off the books. He’d picked the Hyatt for several other reasons, too. He could hide there in plain sight with many people around, mostly from out of town. The complex consisting of The Shops, the two attached hotels, the parking garages, The Link, and nearby convention center gave Marshon multiple means of escape, if necessary.

  Marshon didn’t tell Morgan about his wound at first. He didn’t offer any excuse for lying low. He just gave the hotel security chief $2,500 and told him he’d need the room for two, maybe three nights at the most, but didn’t want anybody to know he was there.

  About noon, someone knocked on the hotel room door. Marshon put on a bathrobe, checked the peephole, and let Morgan in. The head of hotel security carried a tray of room service food.

  “Thought you might be hungry,” Morgan said, setting the tray on a table.

  “Thanks.” Despite the antibiotics and painkillers, Marshon felt worse, as The Knife had predicted. If surgery became necessary, all undoubtedly would be lost.

  Morgan picked up the TV remote and turned the set on. He punched in the number of the local news channel. “You might want to see a report they started running an hour ago, about a local architect named Michael Williams who was killed last night out at Corporate Woods. It first caught my attention because they showed photos of Widja and his crew. Apparently, they tried to smuggle Williams’s body out of the building. Then, they showed your photo and said you were a person of interest.”

  The cat was out of the bag, quickly. “That’s why I’m here, Rinaldo.”

  Morgan turned down the volume on the TV as Marshon sat
at the table, and poured himself a cup of coffee. He kept one eye on the TV, waiting for them to recycle the news of the day. “It was a business disagreement between me and Williams, and the crazy motherfucker shot me. He has a brain tumor and killing a nigger was on his bucket list.” Marshon had to make ever attempt to garner sympathy. “I had to kill him or he was gonna shoot me again.”

  “Again?”

  Marshon stood, opened the robe and turned sideways, so Morgan could see the bandage.

  “That must hurt like hell. You seen a doctor?”

  “Yeah, and that’s why I need a safe place to recuperate for a spell.” Marshon knew another business negotiation was about to ensue. He had to be sharp.

  “I guess Widja and his crew fucked up the clean-up?”

  “I wouldn’t say fucked up. It was more bad luck. They ran into a security guard who was overly suspicious. Probably thought that black janitors were stealing from the offices they cleaned. He insisted on inspecting their trash cart.”

  Morgan sat in the other chair across from Marshon. Morgan was a stocky, powerfully built African-American who had served twenty years in the Corps. As a result, he projected a “let’s get things done” attitude. “First, you’re safe here, Marshon. I wouldn’t have this job except for you. There are over a thousand rooms in this hotel. Some weeknights, a third of them are empty. The maids, janitors and most of the security staff are brothers and sisters. Ain’t no one gonna punch nine-one-one on you, man, although you might expect the cops and the media to turn up the heat.”

  “I do expect it, and if the money I gave you ain’t enough for you to take this chance, just tell me what you need. I’ll try and get it, although I’m cut off from my cash right now.”

  “You got some outs, Marshon?”

  “Absolutely! In fact, I was preparing to move on anyway, which is what the meeting with Williams was about, in part.”

  “What’s gonna happen to The Wheel?”

  There it was, out in the open. Morgan might want more money, but he was much more interested in a new business investment arrangement.