The Money Game

by Michael A. Smith

  On a piece of the stationery he had purchased, Marshon wrote this note: Gail, if you want to see me, come about eight o’clock Friday night. I’ll be in the bar near the dining room where you and I and your parents recently had dinner. Come alone or don’t come at all. Don’t bring your cell phone, or call me on it. M. He folded the note and put it in an envelope. He wrote Gail’s name and the address of the accounting firm where she worked and took the letter to the concierge desk.

  “Can you get a messenger service to deliver this? I’d like it delivered yet today if possible.”

  “Certainly,” the woman said.

  “What’s the charge?”

  “We can bill it to your room.”

  “I’d rather pay in cash.”

  She paged through a notebook. “That would be fifty dollars, deliverable within the hour.”

  Maybe it wasn’t smart for Marshon to contact Gail, or give her a day’s notice regarding his location. After she saw the TV news, it could be the last straw for her. She might even call the cops. Maybe he’d change his mind tomorrow before they met.

  Marshon went back in his hotel room and collapsed onto the bed. He again turned on the local all-news television channel. Within fifteen minutes, they re-issued the news report Rinaldo Morgan had told him about. Michael Williams, well-known local businessman, had been stabbed to death in his office. The reporter portrayed the dead Williams as a saint — prominent architect, past member of the county zoning board, church deacon, and husband and father. They obviously didn’t know that Williams also was a whoremonger and a diseased lunatic who considered it sporting fun to hunt a nigger in a dark office arranged like a maze.

  The police were looking for the three named janitors who pictures were shown. Captain David Fisher, Essex County Sheriff, reiterated that Marshon Johnson was a person of interest wanted only for questioning.

  Marshon knew their tricks. They wanted him to come in voluntarily, making their job easier. At that point, he probably would never get out of the station house, except to be arraigned before a judge and transferred to another jail.

  The knocking on his hotel door again caused Marshon’s heart rate to elevate. He looked through the spy hole and saw Jemmy.

  “You sure you weren’t followed?” Marshon asked, opening the door.

  “This whole complex is like a maze, Marshon, with all the underground parking lots and tunnels and The Link. I’m sure I didn’t have a tail, but if I did, I lost ʼem. I parked over in the mall parking garage. So, what’s the latest?”

  “I paid off Widja, and I guess they’re gone. You haven’t heard anything?”

  Jemmy shook his head.

  “I just saw the TV news reports. You seen it?”

  Jemmy nodded.

  “I could only give Widja fifty grand, but I promised him more. Told him we’d keep in contact through the newspaper personal ads. I hope they can hold out long enough.”

  “The hookers shut down for a whole evening,” Jemmy said, in disgust. “Told me today they had to get back to make a livin’.”

  Marshon smiled. “I figured as much. I couldn’t exactly see them on a cruise ship together. At least, it’s generating income for us. Now, about The Wheel. Rinaldo Morgan knows about my problems, of course. He wants to manage The Wheel. I had to lead him on, Jemmy. He’s got me by the nuts, right now. You can still outmaneuver him with the information I can give you.”

  Jemmy sat at the table. “I been thinking about everything since you and me and Widja had that conversation when you said you was gonna leave and we could take over. Well, Widja ain’t gonna be around now. I decided I don’t wanna run The Wheel, Marshon.”

  Marshon arranged two pillows on the bed, so he could lie down but yet be propped up and talk to Jemmy. “Why?”

  “Several reasons. I been with you since you took over The Wheel, Marshon. I’ve had my run. Like you said when we talked, The Wheel is yesterday’s news to some extent. It’s a magnet for problems and it requires too much grease.”

  “That’s all true. It also nets nearly a million-and-a-half each year.”

  Jemmy smiled. “Yeah, there’s that, but I’m me, Marshon, and you is you. I loved being your lieutenant and playing my role, but I don’t think I can be a show dog like you.”

  “Show dog! So you see me sitting in a corner licking my balls.”

  They had a good laugh over that image.

  “I can’t do you, Marshon, and, truthfully, I ain’t all that ambitious. But you said a couple of other things that appeal to me. I’m thinking that I’ll keep my apartment in the building and do the security there, if I can work a deal with Boudra.”

  “I already talked to her about giving you a hundred grand for security and some payoffs. Now that things have changed, I’ll ask her to double that, if you take care of maintenance, too.”

  “One other thing: I want your old apartment, Marshon. In fact, I’d like to have Boudra move into my apartment, so I could have the entire top floor of the building to myself. I could host private card game for whales in the other two apartments, like you suggested. Get paid with tips.”

  “What’s this shit about you always telling me you’re a dumb ass!” Marshon said, with enthusiasm. “This is a brilliant move, man. You’re gonna make out like a bandit! You and I ain’t done working together.”

  Marshon carefully got out of bed, walked over and kissed Jemmy’s bald head. “Okay, I’ll make a deal with Rinaldo Morgan tomorrow regarding The Wheel. I’ll ask him for $250,000 for the equipment and my various lists — and offer to let him do half of it on a payment schedule. I’m gonna let you collect the payments and keep the money. I’ll offer to launder Morgan’s profits from The Wheel. I’ll do the same thing for you, for free.”

  “I’ll take care of everything, Marshon.”

  “Stay with me here in the hotel this evening, Jemmy. We’ll order in dinner. There’s a pull-out sofa. It’ll be safer, and you can run me out to Mackeyville tomorrow morning. I got some cash in a bank out there and I’ll make it worth your while. Besides, I don’t feel like driving.”

  “No problem, Marshon. I’m just as soon stay away from the apartment, in case the cops come back. Oh, I almost forgot.” Jemmy reached into a pocket and brought forth two plastic cards — one a driver’s license and the other a Visa card. “Maleeka did this work and it looks very good. Your new name is Caleb McDear. Also, Max the Knife says he can check you out tomorrow morning. I told him I’d pick him up at the hospital.”

  “I got a better idea,” Marshon said, standing and going back to his bed. “Call The Knife and tell him you’ll meet him in the lobby downstairs at nine tomorrow morning. If he doesn’t have a tail, bring him to the room.”

  Jemmy wrote a telephone number on a piece of Marshon’s stationery. “This is the number of my new burner phone. You still got the phone I gave you at the hospital?”

  “Yeah, and I ain’t called nobody on it ʼcept you.” Marshon now had three burner phones.

  Jemmy took some cash out of his pocket and laid it on the table. “I got fifteen grand for the BMW at the chop shop.”

  “Jesus Christ, talk about crimes! That car was less than a year old and cost over nearly seventy grand brand new!”

  Jemmy shrugged. “I wasn’t in a great bargaining position.”

  Marshon nodded. “You keep five, give me the rest.” After making a few more payments, Marshon figured to have about twenty-five thousand in cash. While that probably was enough to get him to Miami, Marshon knew there was no such thing as having too much money while being in the wind. It certainly wasn’t enough for Nassau lawyer Dahlgren to risk his boat, business and life. Marshon had to consider every possibility, including Dahlgren turning him in and seizing his island home and bank account. Marshon knew where to find another two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, which he would need. Although Marshon wouldn’t admit it even to himself, he’d already made a decision about whether or not to turn himself over to the law.

  ∞ ∞
∞

  Friday morning, Max the Knife examined Marshon in his hotel room at the Hyatt and announced that Marshon’s wound seemed to be healing nicely, so long as he didn’t over-exert himself. Marshon paid the resident physician another $2,500 and Jemmy issued a veiled threat about Max keeping quiet. Then, Marshon used his new I.D. to order a rental car from Hertz, which delivered it to the front of the hotel by ten-thirty. Marshon then drove into the Hyatt parking garage and met Jemmy on the third level. Marshon moved into the passenger’s seat and Jemmy drove toward Mackeyville, a suburb on the far east side of the metropolitan area.

  On the ride out to Mackeyville, he and Jemmy didn’t talk much after Marshon gave him directions to his cousin Jolanda’s house. Jolanda controlled Marshon’s last substantial stash of cash, which he wanted not only because it was his, but also in case some other unexpected event came up and he got caught short.

  “You carrying?” Marshon asked.

  “No, in case we get stopped.”

  Similarly, Marshon again left his gun in the hotel room safe, not wanting to get shot again by anyone for any reason. Nor did he want the police to confiscate the gun that fired bullets inside Michael Williams’s office suite.

  Jemmy parked outside Jolanda’s house, and they both walked up and knocked on the front door. Marshon could hear movement inside and whispering voices. After about a minute, Jolanda opened the door, along with her husband Donyell.

  They didn’t invite them inside, but instead came out onto the porch. The sun was approaching mid-sky, but there was a cool breeze blowing. Marshon sensed this was an ominous sign as he pulled up the collar on his stinky overcoat.

  “Hey, Marshon, what’s happenin’, baby?” Jolanda asked. “Almost didn’t recognize you with the disguise and all. Heard the TV news about your problems.”

  “I thought we might go over to the bank and you could get most of my money out of the safe deposit box,” Marshon said, decided not to beat around the bush with small talk. “I want you to keep twenty thousand for all your help.”

  “Right now, baby?” His cousin wore tight black slacks and a black sweater, neither of which hid double fat rolls circling her waist.

  “If it’s not too much trouble,” Marshon said, forcing a smile.

  Donyell laughed. “Twenty thousand is fuck-you money, Marshon!”

  For the first time, Marshon noticed the gun stuck into Donyell’s waistband. He was a big bruiser with a nose so flat it couldn’t be broken anymore. Marshon looked at Jemmy, who looked equally grim, and studied his shoe tops.

  “Those fuckin’ whores o’ yours spend that much every month on penicillin shots!” Donyell added.

  Marshon watched Jolanda rock with silent laugher at her man’s outrageous sense of humor. “How much do you want?” Marshon asked, a sick feeling in his stomach.

  “How much we want?” Donyell parroted. He bobbed his head as if calculating. “Let’s see. How’s ’bout two hundred and fifty grand.”

  The knot of fear in Marshon’s stomach made him temporarily forget about the pain of the gunshot wound.

  “There ain’t no money right at this moment, Marshon,” Jolanda admitted, finally, looking legitimately sorry. She had her arms crossed against the cold and stomped from one foot to the other. “I took it all out of the safe deposit box.”

  Marshon shook his head in amazement. And to think he’d given her authorization to use the box in case something happened to him. Jolanda was family. His dead uncle Cletus’s child!

  “We needed it for the house and the car,” Jolanda explained. “And, then, there were some medical bills. My daughter, Krystol, got bad asthma.”

  “You run The Wheel, Marshon,” Donyell said, sneering. “Everybody knows that’s a gold mine. You don’t need that money, not like we do.”

  Jolanda grimaced as she looked at Marshon. She seemed genuinely sorry for stealing from him. “I was hoping we could put some of it back, Marshon, you know, in time. I didn’t think you’d ever need it.”

  “And don’t be thinkin’ you can squeeze it outta us,” Donyell threatened. “’Cause all we gotta do is make a phone call.”

  Marshon turned palms up and shrugged. “What’s done is done. But, about that phone call, Donyell, you might want to reconsider. If I get arrested, I’m damn sure gonna tell the cops about the money you been hidin’ for me. You’re right, it’s illegal gambling money. Hidin’ it is a felony. If you claim I gave it to you, then the state and feds are gonna want their tax money, which would be about $80,000. Y’all be goin’ to prison, too.”

  Jolanda glared at her husband. “Ain’t nobody in this house makin’ no phone calls, Marshon!”

  Jemmy pushed back the hood on his parka and stepped closer to Donyell. “And if you was to make that call, motherfucker, you won’t live another twenty-four hours and this house will get accidentally burned to the ground. Everybody in your family’ll be dead before tomorrow morning. That’ll happen even if you was to shoot both of us here on this front porch. Maybe it’s different out here in the ʼburbs, but folks on the East Side don’t allow snitches to live, especially if they do bad to someone they love, like Marshon here. Maybe you remember my brother, Darieon?”

  Marshon thought Jemmy’s threat was pure bravado, but Donyell didn’t say a word. As they turned and walked back toward the car, Marshon expected at any time to feel the bullets enter his back. He’d been fucked by his own blood and couldn’t really could do anything about it. He certainly couldn’t afford to raise a fuss. At least he knew the bad luck Nanna had warned him about likely was over. The threes are filled in. Williams shot him, Widja lost the body to a security guard, and Jolanda and Donyell stole his biggest stash of running money!

  What next?

  When they arrived back near the Convention Center complex, Jemmy got out of the car several blocks from the Hyatt. Marshon drove to the hotel and turned the rental over to a valet, who agreed to return it to the nearby Hertz facility for a $50 tip.

  Inside, Rinaldo Morgan intercepted Marshon before he could get to the elevators.

  “Can we have that talk now, Marshon?”

  “Absolutely, Rinaldo. Let’s go to your office.”

  Once they were inside that first floor office, Marshon took out one of the five-gigabyte flash drives from a pocket and handed it to the hotel security chief. “When we talked about The Wheel yesterday, I mentioned lists of invaluable information, including players, locations, equipment, people who need to be bribed. It’s all on that flash drive.”

  “You talked to Jemmy?”

  “He doesn’t want to run The Wheel. He’ll be taking care of some other business interests of mine.”

  “I’m surprised.”

  Marshon sat down, to rest his aching back. “Jemmy’s a very smart man. He knows his limitations, and you should know yours, too, Rinaldo. Don’t fuck with Jemmy or his business interests, or I will take it very personally. If he wants to run a private card game out of his apartment, that’s his business, and it ain’t gonna take any money away from your action. Because those big stash players don’t come to The Wheel. Also, Jemmy controls the equipment for The Wheel, which includes eleven gaming tables. The cost of the equipment is $250,000. I’ll take a hundred grand now and you and Jemmy can work out a payment schedule for the rest. That’s a helluva good deal, by the way. If you don’t want the equipment, Rinaldo, I’ll sell it to someone else.”

  “I want it and it’s an acceptable price. I’ll send someone by with the money tomorrow. For your information, Marshon, ain’t nobody stupid enough to fuck with Jemmy Shoemaker.”

  “Now, I thought about also asking for a monthly dividend from you, Rinaldo, just like the one I paid to Skinny for several years. I think that would be legit, but I ain’t gonna do it. Instead, I’m gonna offer to clean your money for a 15 percent fee. I’ll put your money into an offshore bank account that only you can access with your own private password. Every now and then, I may suggest some other investments for you. The best fin
al free advice I can give you, Rinaldo, is to begin putting together your exit plan tomorrow, ʼcause you’ll eventually need it.”

  “How can I contact you, Marshon?”

  “Through Jemmy, at first. Then, we’ll work something out.”

  Rinaldo stood and held out his hand. Marshon shook it, but held on, to issue one final warning. “You been good to me so far, Rinaldo, and this is a straight-up deal. We might even do some other profitable business down the line, so do your best to make sure I don’t get arrested before I can get out of town. Then, Jemmy will step in and you’ll be involved in a war you’ll lose, especially after Jemmy puts out the word that you rolled on me.”

  Morgan looked hurt at even a vague suggestion he might turn Marshon in.

  “Because if I wind up in a jail cell, all that information on that flash drive goes to law enforcement as I attempt to deal down my sentence. And your name is now among those names.”

  “I understand perfectly, Marshon. You need anything to get out of town, I’ll do it if it’s at all possible.” He handed Marshon a business card. “Call me on my cell phone at any time.” The next time Marshon called, what he needed most desperately was a key to the stairwell doors in a parking garage.

  ∞ ∞ ∞

  Shortly before eight o’clock that night, Marshon left his room, wearing his disguise, including the overcoat. He put the dark glasses into his shirt pocket. On a sudden whim, he opened the wall safe and took out the thirty-eight, which he put into another coat pocket. The smelly coat contained his future.

  He regretted still being in the city, since the news media, obviously prompted by law enforcement, continued to broadcast the report that Marshon Johnson was wanted for questioning in the death of Michael Williams.

  In a way, that was encouraging. They could never prove he killed Williams, only that he had been in his office complex the night someone killed the architect. There were four suspects, and three of them were on the run.