The Money Game

by Michael A. Smith

  On the positive side, Marshon had approximately one million dollars in a briefcase on wheels. However, the hurdle ahead seemed as high as a mountain. Could he get himself and his money out of the country without falling victim to greedy intermediaries, principally Phillip Dahlgren? He didn’t have any specific reason to fear his business partner; just a gut feeling.

  During the next day’s drive, Marshon had lots of time to think about everything that could go wrong in the Miami area. One scenario in particular concerned him. No matter his disclaimer, Dahlgren knew Marcus Jones was Marshon Johnson, and probably knew all about him and the events that transpired in Kansas City. He worried that Dahlgren’s yacht crew would pick up Marcus Jones on Key Biscayne and then dump his body into the Atlantic Ocean, somewhere between Miami and Nassau! Dahlgren would then have his money and probably the house, too, since he had brokered the sale. More crimes were committed in fine print than Marshon had ever perpetrated. Why would Dahlgren do this? Because Marshon/Marcus was too hot. In addition, it was a multi-million-dollar deal. Maybe Dahlgren owed law enforcement, and serving up Marshon would pay that debt. There could be even more reasons.

  Marshon thought of several plans to prevent this from happening. One option was to put most of the million dollars into a storage facility in the Miami area. Then, if there was a plan afoot to rob him, he could strike a bargain.

  However, Marshon eventually settled on another solution. At a Denny’s shortly after noon on Monday, he used the restaurant’s Wi-Fi to create a Microsoft Word document on his new laptop, detailing all the events in his life that began when Ace killed the two robbers at The Wheel. He even revealed the Marcus Jones identity and the location of the house on Scrub Island, as well as his bank account in Road Town, and his relationship with Phillip Dahlgren.

  He then accessed Marcus Jones’s Outlook account and created an e-mail timed to be sent a week from today to Mort Saperstein. It said, “Mort, if you receive this e-mail, it means I am dead. The attached document explains everything. Please seek justice on my behalf.” He signed it, Marshon Johnson. Then, he composed a second e-mail addressed to both Saperstein and Phillip Dahlgren, which said, “Phillip, Mort, If anything happens to me over the next week, Mort will received an e-mail providing extensive details about recent events and all my financial relationships over the past seven years.” He signed it, M, and sent it immediately. The two lawyers would figure it out. The e-mail probably would compel them to investigate each other. It would put Dahlgren on notice. Marshon would be safe.

  About 6 p.m., Marshon arrived in Miami and returned the Buick to a Hertz facility near Miami International Airport. He called a cab to pick up him and take him to an address on Key Biscayne. The cab dropped Marcus Jones at Nelson Richard’s house on Harbor Drive on Biscayne Island and Marcus pressed the buzzer on the gate keypad. Soon, a muscular blond came running to let him in.

  “I’m Olaf, second mate on the Dream,” he said, shortening the boat’s name. “Mr. Dahlgren said to take good care of you, Mr. Jones. Mr. Richards is waiting on the patio.”

  Marcus followed the sailor through a living room onto a large patio partly covered by a sunshade attached to the exterior wall of the house, although the sun had already set. Comfortable wicker furniture was located between the entrance to the house and the pool. There was a bar at one end of the patio. A walkway led out to the dock, where the sailors had moored Islands in the Dream. A cool breeze wafted across the patio, although the outside temperature was in the low sixties, which seemed warm compared to the weather Marcus has just escaped.

  Richards greeted Marcus warmly and introduced him to the other young Swedish sailor, Gus, the first mate. From their previous meetings, Marshon/Marcus remembered Richards as a classic raconteur who undoubtedly was gay. He and the two young sailors seemed to be having a rousing good time. Richards steered Marcus to the bar and pointed out a snack tray.

  “Get a drink, Marcus, and come listen to the stories these two sailors have to tell,” Richards said, walking back to his chair located near a space heater, its coils a brilliant orange. “They are nomads, in effect, isn’t that right, boys?”

  The two sailors nodded and affirmed the title in their lyrical English. “Yaw. We roam the warm waters of the earth, having a gud time.”

  “This, Marcus, apparently consists of sailing, drinking, eating, fucking and sleeping in late!” Richards said. “I’m rich, and I seldom have that much fun!”

  “You forgot the diving and lying on the beach,” Gus said, smiling broadly.

  Marshon chuckled and sat in a soft upholstered chair, where he sipped an expensive brandy. He inhaled the sea air and felt his body relax just a bit from all the trauma of the past days, and all the tension that invaded his life beginning with Ace Semanski expertly killing two robbers.

  By midnight, they decided to be on their way. Richards’s house and boat dock were located on a large cove that accommodated perhaps fifty homes. In turn, the cove outlet allowed passage into Biscayne Bay across from the city of Miami.

  Gus and Olaf showed Marshon to his quarters below deck, which consisted of his own bedroom with a solid door and deadbolt lock. They hung his clothes bag in the closet and wheeled his laptop case to a position near the built-in desk.

  According to the two sailors, the world-class Feadship had a ten-thousand-mile cruising range, and the latest in electronic gadgetry. Marshon agreed that the Terence Disdale interior was exquisite.

  “What’s this thing cost?” Marcus asked, after he came back up on deck, wearing a waterproof blue jacket he’d found hanging from a hook on his door.

  The two sailors looked at each other, and Gus said, “About ten million U.S., I’d guess.”

  Marshon watched the fading city lights, as the wind picked up and snapped the sails. He feared seeing a Coast Guard cutter bearing down on them, with an officer yelling through a loudspeaker for them to pull over and give up Marshon Johnson before the Dream reached international waters. He also had a vision of Richey wading into the surf near the shoreline, imploring Marshon to wait. In this nightmarish vision, his friend was still alive.

  There was a new feeling, also. Suddenly, he was standing on the deck of a boat, ploughing through the waters of earth — rising and falling, creating a spray of water that soaked the deck and everyone on it. He was on the earth, not huddled inside a house or building, or riding in a gasoline-powered box from one location to another. On the vast ocean, Marshon thought big and expansively. All was possible, even if it was a bit terrifying.

  The combination of the wind supplemented by a twin-screw, diesel-powered Caterpillar engine quickly propelled them to a cruising speed of 30 knots. After a half hour, Marshon calculated that he had actually survived the events in Kansas City and escaped. After the crazed architect Williams shot him in the dark office suite, and Marshon killed him, he still had calculated his odds of getting away scot free as only one in three. Those odds had skyrocketed when he was trying to get out of the convention center, after the exchange of money and the shootout in the garage. He had beaten the odds. However, it wasn’t over yet.

  It turned out to be incredibly easy to get out of the United States to a foreign country. Dahlgren, of course, also lived in a mansion located in a cove near the southeast end of Paradise Island, across from Nassau, The Bahamas. Near dawn, the two seamen expertly maneuvered the yacht into the basin and tied it up at the dock. The layout was very similar to Richards’s property on Key Biscayne. Beyond the dock were a manicured lawn, garden, swimming pool, expansive patio and two-story house protected by a wall and iron gate at the head of the driveway.

  Marshon slept on the yacht until shortly before nine a.m., at which time a servant promptly knocked on his door and announced that breakfast would be served in the house at precisely nine-thirty.

  Marshon dressed in his new suit. He carried the rolling laptop case up on deck and Olaf put it on the dock. Marshon took over and pulled it behind him.

  The breakfast room ove
rlooked the gardens. Dahlgren appeared every bit the British lawyer, probably in his late forties, or fifties. Tall, his hair black and wavy, he wore a blue blazer, gray trousers, starched white shirt and patterned blue and red tie. He even had an aristocratic gap between his front teeth, along with a well-maintained pencil thin mustache.

  “Marcus, I trust your passage was uneventful and enjoyable,” he said. “I got the e-mail you sent to me and Mr. Saperstein. I understand your caution. Understand it very well.”

  “I was hoping you would.”

  “You’ll be going on to your house on Scrub Island?”

  “Yes.”

  “I have a private jet that can fly you into the Reef Island airport. You can get a water taxi from there.”

  Marcus/Marshon glanced around the breakfast room and what he could see of the rest of the house, calculating that this was old money. He’d met Dahlgren several times before, once in Road Town, and several times thereafter in the Miami area.

  Seeming to read his mind, Dahlgren said, “My grandfather moved here from London, where he was a barrister, and my father and I have followed in his footsteps, although the nature of the family legal practice has changed considerably over the generations. The Bahamas were originally a British overseas colony, although we proclaimed independence in 1973. We have commonwealth status, of course. The British Virgin Islands are still an overseas colony of the United Kingdom, as are the Cayman Islands, Anguilla and Montserrat. I have offices and interests in all those places. Road Town, where you have a bank account, has in recent years come to rival George Town, Grand Cayman, as an international center for offshore banking. The British Prime Minister and Members of Parliament are very sensitive about any insinuation — usually made by the American media — that these financial centers are tax havens or depository for illegal funds.” Dahlgren grinned and chuckled, as he sat at the breakfast table and gestured for Marcus to also take a seat.

  Surely, Dahlgren had a purpose to his conversation, and Marcus decided to broach a sensitive subject. “That’s all good to know. As I told you, I still have business interests in the United States and will continue to transfer cash from the mainland United States to my account in Road Town.”

  “It will be business as usual between us then,” Dahlgren said.

  Marcus took a deep breath. “In fact, I have with me today in my case here approximately one million dollars in cash. All in one hundred dollar bills. It’s entirely possible the serial numbers have been recorded and that use of this cash in the marketplace might draw attention.”

  Dahlgren nodded in such a manner that seemed to signal not only his understanding, but sympathy. “That’s really not a problem. My usual fee of twenty percent applies. The remaining eight hundred thousand dollars will be wired into your Road Town bank account, clean as a whistle as they say.” The third generation British expatriate flashed a wide gap-toothed grin over his little joke.

  “Great.” Marcus Jones would then have a bank account totaling more than $6 million. It was a comfortable cushion to begin a new life. As soon as the ransom money cleared, Marcus would visit his Road Town bank and make certain that Dahlgren didn’t have any way to access that account. If Marcus had any doubts, he’d change banks. At some point, he might have to change his alias.

  While buttering his toast, Dahlgren said, “Ordinarily, if I do not have to involve a third party, as I will in this case, my money processing fee can be as low as, say twelve-and-a-half percent. This is a special rate for customers with whom I have a close business relationship.”

  Marcus/Marshon visibly relaxed, drinking his orange juice. All his fears that lawyer Dahlgren might turn him into the authorities were diminished, if not entirely dispelled. Still, Marcus felt that he was in the presence of a kindred soul, who understood that the process of making money within the current economic system was a neutral one by nature. Talk of legality and illegality were simply semantic discussions.

  Dahlgren shifted his weight in his chair as an indicator of additional concerns. “Other than managing your American enterprises from a distance, and enjoying your wonderful home, what do you plan to do in the islands, Marcus?”

  He sensed an invitation, which was perhaps why Dahlgren had just reduced his money-handling fee; maybe it was the real reason he hadn’t ripped Marcus off. “I definitely have some ideas and plans, but I’m open to any opportunity.”

  Dahlgren drank from his coffee cup, his little finger extended aristocratically. “The islands of the Greater and Lesser Antilles are endlessly fascinating. Their natural beauty can take away your breath. One always has the feeling of being part of an exotic adventure. The economic dichotomy of the islands is manifested in its extremes of income and wealth. The vast majority of the population descended from African slaves live in poverty, while transplants such as you and I are much more comfortable. There is no interstate highway system here. Getting around is a bit more challenging, and usually done on the water or in the air. There’s the complicating factor of unpredictable weather, especially during hurricane season in the summer months and early autumn.

  “Also, in the Lesser Antilles alone, there are eight sovereign states and at least sixteen colonies or dependencies, mainly those of the UK, France and the Netherlands. The sheer magnitude of competing and oftentimes conflicting laws and regulations is a challenge to any law firm, including mine. On a daily basis, we are asked many times by many different clients about the legality or efficiency of moving raw materials and supplies into and out of the islands, which form a natural bridge between South and North America. Many times, we issue a preliminary legal opinion, and suggest that our clients move ahead with their activities until we can further research the situation or bring it before the appropriate government agency or even a court.”

  Marcus knew there had to be a purpose to this discourse about the relationship between commerce, the law and government. “How might I figure into this process, Phillip?” he asked, helping himself to a bowl of scrambled eggs.

  Dahlgren rose and walked over to the patio door to look out at his yacht. “Upon many, many occasions I have need for a certain type of individual. I believe in America one might refer to such a person as an advance man, a ramrod, or a fixer. An agent who can get out front and get things done, and do it with daring and aplomb, while I and my legal staff work out other solutions in the background.”

  “Can you give me an example?”

  “Several, in fact,” Dahlgren replied, returning to the table. “Most islands restrict, prohibit, or require a license for any importer or resident to bring into their jurisdiction certain medications, fruits, animals, firearms. Pharmaceuticals. If an importer is able to make an immediate deal for a quantity of any such items at an incredibly attractive market price, he naturally wants to make the sale as quickly as possible, deliver the goods, and get onto the next deal. As that businessman’s lawyer, I might consent to his decision to go ahead and bring his goods temporarily into the islands while I work out the legal problems — so long, of course, as my client understands there may not always be a legal solution. In such a hypothetical instance, I would ask my agent to work with this businessman in the interim.”

  Clearly, Dahlgren had done his research on Marcus Jones if he thought his client, who now had made the decision to relocate to the islands, would understand this obtuse explanation.

  “In summary, I have need for a business associate who can not only deal effectively with men and women from all socio-economic classes, and many different nationalities, but get things done quickly, efficiently — and with great imagination,” Dahlgren said. “Frankly, Marcus, you strike me as such a person. Are you interested? The compensation would be quite attractive.”

  Marshon/Marcus understood that Dahlgren was talking in part about smuggling and drug running. He hoped it had nothing to do with arms dealing and the slave trade. It could all be incredibly lucrative, but more dangerous than the businesses he’d just left — and The Wheel and his “apartme
nt business” had turned out to be deadly dangerous indeed. Marcus had never dealt with an even more dangerous breed, such as the Mafia, Russian mobsters, or South American cartel types. And, he didn’t want to start now. He had planned a more genteel lifestyle in the islands, perhaps involving high-stakes gambling, as he and Richey had talked about. Now wasn’t the time to offend Dahlgren, however, not before the lawyer had cleaned the ransom money, and Marcus had time to acclimate and build up his defenses.

  “I’m always interested in money-making opportunities, Phillip, but I’m desperately in need of some vacation time to unwind and recuperate.”

  “Of course. Whenever you’re ready, we’ll sit down and talk in detail.”

  Marcus/Marshon smiled broadly and nodded his agreement. He had one more leg on his journey home. When he was fresh and fit, he’d figure out a way to deal with Dahlgren, make some money and preserve his independence. Marshon believed he was up to the challenge, since he had already survived the fires of hell.

  28/The Odds Of Being Lucky

  Carmen sat in her apartment staring out the sliding glass doors and beyond the patio, trying to reconstruct that horrible day in the parking garage at the convention center complex. At the time, she had been so traumatized that she couldn’t think straight, and even now weeks later she wasn’t certain about exactly what had happened. She felt immensely guilty that every second of that horrible evening and the following day wasn’t burned into her memory in greater, lasting detail.

  As hard as she tried, there were only bright flashes of memory unconnected to each other by time. It was a slide show, not a movie. She remembered graphically being choked in the parking garage of The Shops until she blacked out. She’d thought she was dying and could only ask, Why? Why? She remembered being indignant at the time because she didn’t know the answer. It seemed so unfair.