by Ben Mezrich
Which was exactly what it felt like Absolute Poker was doing, now that it was up and running. Every time they refreshed the screen that displayed new registrations, there were twenty or thirty more—and now a good portion of those included credit card payments, mostly through Neteller, one of the biggest online depositors around, and also PayPal, maybe the most respected online commerce facilitator on the Web. They were the real deal now, still lean compared with a handful of competitors that had moved into the market since they’d opened their doors—hell, it seemed like a new poker company was appearing out of thin air every second of the day—but making money hand over fist.
But despite their extreme success, their new digs were indicative of how professionally they were handling the cash flow. Other than the moderate salaries they were now paying themselves, almost all the money was flowing right back into the business, and nearly all of it was being spent on marketing. Because the most important thing they’d learned was that advertising and marketing were the lifeblood of their business. At the moment, Garin and Hilt were handling most of those concerns, but Brent knew that building a marketing department was just one of the main things on their wish list for the coming six months.
As for his own role in the company, things had finally shifted in a positive direction. He’d handed off the customer service job to a pair of Costa Rican employees with better-than-basic English skills and had moved into “fraud protection”—a kind of creative way of saying that his job was to monitor both the game play, looking for anomalies, and, more important, the financial flow coming in through the depositing agents. He was spending a lot of time on the phone with the online credit companies and the various big U.S. banks, making sure all their accounts were in order. Although there were a few banks that eventually decided not to accept transactions pegged toward gambling, most, including many of the biggest banks in the United States, were very happy for the business.
And why not? Business was good and getting better. Brent couldn’t help but feel amused when he thought back to Pete Barovich’s belief that nobody would be comfortable playing poker over the Internet for real money. The truth was, people were begging to play poker over the Internet for real money. And not just college kids, though they made up a huge part of their market. Adults were turning what started as a hobby into a profession; some of the bigger accounts they’d received were earning close to six figures through careful and skilled daily play. Some players were playing eight, ten hours a day—and earning hundreds of dollars a session. AbsolutePoker.com was making good money off that rake, but to Brent, it was also providing a market of sorts—really, directly akin to a stock market, or any other market that provided a place where someone with a lot of skill, and a little luck, could earn a good living.
Everything was coming together, better than Brent could have imagined. As he knocked back his glass of champagne, letting the bubbles caterwaul down his throat, he locked eyes with his brother, still up at the front of the room next to Hilt. Scott looked tan and happy but certainly not content. But that had always been part of Scott’s allure—he was never entirely content, because he was always driving forward. And always driving fast.
CHAPTER 16
The thick, humid night air whipped against the face shield of Scott’s motorcycle helmet as he hunched forward over the slanted steering column of his bright red Ducati racing bike, trying desperately to keep the damn thing in the middle of the road. He didn’t dare look at the speedometer; he could tell by the way the bike was trembling against his body that he’d passed seventy miles per hour when they’d hit the last straightaway, and there was a good chance they were way beyond that now. His headlight was little better than a flashlight at that speed, and against the inky black of the long, desolate stretch of blacktop that bisected what looked to be sugarcane fields on either side, it was almost as useless as shouting into the wind. Which he was doing anyway, though he knew there was no way in hell that Shane could hear him.
Shane was about a hundred yards ahead, streaking through the blackness on his Kawasaki Ninja, visible only by the tiny, jerking blur of his taillight. Scott was desperate to catch up to him, but even though the Ducati was a much more powerful bike, he didn’t dare try to push it any harder. He was only thankful that they had chosen one of the few paved roads in the area; had they taken a left at the last turn instead of a right, they’d probably both be dead by now.
In retrospect, of course, neither one of them should ever have been in this situation. Going much too fast, driving recklessly—in Costa Rica for such a short time and already living recklessly. And with Shane, specifically, Scott and the rest should never have let it get to this point—and Scott definitely blamed himself. All the signs had been there, and anyone who wasn’t blind or stupid should have been able to see them for what they were.
Sure, it had started simply enough, way back at the Del Rey that first time. Shane, drunk off his ass, pawing at the hooker strolling behind their blackjack table. The kid they’d all known as a straitlaced, under control—if a little obsessive—social star breaking character in the face of sudden, unregulated temptation. Looking back, of course that was the first sign, but hell, pretty soon they were all drinking just like he was; they were all grabbing cookies from the cookie jar until they couldn’t eat any more.
When Shane had shifted from alcohol to weed, again nobody raised any eyebrows. They’d all smoked a bit in college, and now that it was basically a phone call away, there didn’t seem to be anything wrong with a joint now and again. After all, they all worked so hard, and as long as everyone made it to their desks on time, who cared what they were smoking when they got off work?
But the cocaine—that was where it had all started to go wrong. It had begun real simple—in the back of a cab, asking the driver if he could get them some more weed. Well, what about coke? And the driver had simply smiled, pulling a plastic bag out of his glove compartment. Eventually, for Shane the taxis became a personal delivery service, bringing whatever he asked for, whenever he wanted.
In retrospect, all of them should have seen it happening. Shane’s gradual deterioration, his leaving the bar a little earlier each night, having these strange side conversations with the taxi driver when he thought nobody was looking. Then, when the rest of them got back home at 3 A.M., Shane would still be wide awake, alone in his room with the air conditioner on full blast, talking a mile a minute to himself. Eventually, as he began showing up later and later at his computer station, he reacted angrily when someone pointed it out.
And after that—well, after that it just got weird. Scott would never forget the day they’d all come into the house to find a long blue cable stretching all the way from the power outlet in the basement, across the living room, up the stairs, then under Shane’s door; he’d moved his computer station into his room so that he could stay there day and night. And that’s exactly what he did. For weeks on end, nobody saw him. And when he did finally come downstairs, he looked worse than shit. Skinny, his hair falling out, his eyebrows completely gone. Had he plucked out the hairs in a neurotic coke haze, or had they fallen out naturally? Regardless, he was clearly out of control.
The final straw came about a week later, when Scott and the others officially moved out of the house—Scott, Brent, and Garin to the house Scott had rented in the hills, Hilt and his girlfriend into an upscale apartment in a gated complex near downtown. Everyone had just packed up and moved out. And then, a day later, Shane had finally wandered into the new office and asked if anyone had had a chance to pick up any groceries for the fridge. Everyone had just stared at him, shocked. They’d cleared the entire house out—even the furniture—and Shane hadn’t even realized that they’d gone.
At that moment, every one of them knew that something had to be done. Scott knew he shouldn’t have waited another minute—at the very least, he should have sat Shane down and said something. But instead he’d decided to give it another day to think the next step through.
And now here he was, screaming into his helmet as the three-hundred-pound aluminum-and-fiberglass beast between his knees fought to stay on the pavement, chasing a little red flash of taillight in what seemed to be infinite darkness. As far as he could tell, Shane hadn’t been on drugs when he’d shown up at Scott’s house, helmet under his arm, wearing nothing but shorts, a T-shirt, and a pair of flip-flops, revving the engine of his Ninja, asking if Scott wanted to join him for a ride. But even though he was sober at that moment, Shane was in the midst of a growing, dangerous addiction. Still, when Shane had donned his helmet—thank God—and taken off down the driveway, Scott had only grinned and torn right out after him.
And then, right there, as Scott leaned into a soft curve, it happened. One second he was looking at that taillight, red and wobbly, and then suddenly he was seeing Shane’s headlight shoot straight up into the air. There was a terrifying squeal of metal against pavement, then a fountain of sparks sprayed out above where the headlight used to be.
Scott hunched farther forward and took the last fifty yards as fast as he dared. As he pumped the brakes, putting himself into a controlled skid, he caught a glimpse of the scene in front of him in the glow of his own light. The road had curved to the right—and Shane had been unable to take the turn or stop in time, hurtling directly into what appeared to be a highway construction site. A long braided wire hung at about waist level; Shane had managed to lay the bike down—and the Ninja had skidded out and gone under the wire. Shane had gone over.
It took Scott a full beat to see where Shane had landed—a good ten yards from where the bike had gone down. Shane was lying facedown on the dirt, his hands splayed out at his sides, not moving.
Scott cursed, tearing off his helmet as he leaped off the Ducati. He hurdled the braided wire and raced toward his friend. Christ, he thought, he can’t possibly have survived that.
And just as he reached Shane’s side, Shane rolled over onto his back and started trying to push himself up off the pavement. His T-shirt was shredded, and there was blood everywhere, spilling from gashes and cuts up and down his chest, arms, and bare legs.
“Dude,” Scott gasped. He couldn’t think of anything else to say. He looked at Shane’s helmet and saw the huge crack across the front shield, running all the way to the back. But other than that, and the road rash up and down his body, Shane didn’t look broken, at least not on the outside.
Before Scott could stop him, Shane yanked the helmet off. His eyes were glazed, but he was conscious. He tried to stand, but Scott stopped him with a hand.
“You’re a fucking mess,” Scott said. “You need to stay still.”
Shane mumbled something—an apology, it sounded like, though he wasn’t making much sense—and Scott told him to shut up and try to stop bleeding so much. At that, Shane cracked a little smile. Scott didn’t know whether he wanted to punch his friend or grab him in a hug.
First he had to get him to an emergency room, to get X-rayed, scanned, and stitched up like a rag doll.
And then he had to get his friend the hell out of Costa Rica.
It was a hard phone call to make. Scott, Garin, Hilt, and Brent gathered around the receiver as one of them dialed, then they took turns with the phone, because at first Shane’s mother refused to believe what they were telling her. They finally got her to understand how bad things had gotten. Since the motorcycle accident, Shane had grown even more isolated, the bandages that covered half his body a perfect excuse for him to lock himself in his room for days on end. His mother had immediately connected them to Shane’s uncle, who was a rehab counselor and a former addict, clean and sober twenty years now.
Shane’s uncle didn’t ask any questions—he simply bought a ticket to Costa Rica and got on a plane the next morning. When Scott picked him up from the airport, Shane’s uncle showed him a first-class ticket back to the United States with Shane’s name on it; he wasn’t going to leave without his nephew.
The intervention took place at the small apartment Shane had moved into after he’d finally realized that nobody else was living in the house anymore. They surprised him in the kitchen; when he eventually came out of his room, looking for something to eat, they were all gathered around his kitchen table. Although Shane’s uncle led the conversation, by the end nearly all of them had gotten emotional; Shane had been there since the beginning, and it was crazy to think of the group without him. But he needed to get help, and he needed to get better.
By two in the morning, they were all helping him pack. When his uncle led him to a waiting cab, to take him to the airport for his flight back to the States, he had his head down, watching the ground beneath his feet. Hunched over, skinny, covered in bandages, eyebrows gone—he was a sobering sight for all of them.
But as the cab pulled away and they headed for their own cars, there was little talk of slowing down; if anything, Scott felt it was time to step things up. Shane had shown them—in the world they lived in, if you lost sight of where you were going, you ran the risk of ending up facedown in the road.
CHAPTER 17
Two months later, January 2005, and the party was just getting started.
It was the end of a regular workday. Brent followed the team back to Scott’s newly rented house high in the hills above their former home office. Brent and Garin would be staying there as well, and although Brent had toured the place a few times since Scott first moved in, he was still awed by its scale. The building itself was massive, an old Spanish-style mansion with at least six bedrooms, a living room that could have doubled as a ballroom, and multiple decks overlooking downtown San José—a vista of sparkling lights, bolstered by the pulsing flare of the constant traffic that threaded between the buildings, like a radiated circulatory system feeding that ravenous urban sprawl.
The party was mostly confined to the house’s massive pool deck. A DJ had set up shop on an elevated stage, the music from his spinning CDs blasting out of massive twin speakers that had been built right into one of the house’s exterior brick walls. At five minutes to midnight, Scott strolled through the party, pulling everyone he could find out of whatever trouble they had gotten into to lead them to the farthest railing that looked out over the city. There was a Colombian girl on Scott’s arm—Brent hadn’t quite caught her name, but he thought it might be Clara. She was wearing a black bikini bottom and nothing else. There was a tattoo of a tiger on her lower back, and her dyed blond hair was tied back in an elaborate ponytail, held in place by a band that sparkled with what may very well have been diamonds.
By the time Scott made it to the railing, Brent, Garin, and Hilt were right behind him. Shane, just back from rehab, followed a few feet after, a bottle of water in his hand. Although Shane walked carefully, still on the road to a full physical recovery, the color was back in his cheeks; now that he had returned to the team, he was dividing his time between the office and NA and AA programs. A living, breathing, walking reminder of what life in a place like that could become if you let yourself lose control.
When the team had gathered around him, Scott leaned back against the railing, his arm around the topless girl’s shoulders. Brent, Garin, Hilt, and Shane made a small semicircle, wondering why he’d brought them to the edge of the deck.
“You know all those stories we keep hearing about the crazy gringos who live up in the hills, living like rock stars, spending money like they’re printing it themselves?”
He waited a beat, then grinned his trademark grin.
“From now on, those gringos are us.”
And right on cue, the midnight sky above their heads exploded in a brilliant wash of fireworks, streaks of Technicolor sparks raining over the city below, so many explosions in such rapid succession, it seemed like the show could somehow go on forever.
CHAPTER 18
Ten hours in the air. Three more in a rented Mercedes convertible, going seventy miles per hour with the top down, buffeted by a fierce wind heavy with the scent of lush hills, ancient lakes, towering pines—the P
acific Northwest distilled and funneled through the senses.
By the time Scott found himself standing next to Hilt in the leather-paneled elevator, racing up the spine of a glass-and-steel office building in the heart of downtown Portland, he should have been exhausted. But in the months since Shane’s rehab and return, Scott had been operating on less and less sleep. Every minute of the day had been dominated by the company; despite the initial skyrocket of growth that had put them on the map as one of the premier online poker sites, things had started to turn—and not for the better.
“We’re simply not getting enough for our ad dollars,” Hilt was saying, continuing the conversation that had carried them through much of the trip from San José. “I’ve done the calculations. With all the Web ads, the promotions through the poker blogs, the magazine pullouts—we’re paying about three hundred fifty dollars per player. It’s just not sustainable in the long run.”
Scott grimaced, his palms feeling the cool leather of the elevator walls. He knew Hilt was right. Over the past few months, he’d grown much closer to his business-minded friend. Hilt had become more and more his consigliere—the guy he turned to first when he had questions about the business. Garin had been there from the beginning and was his oldest friend, but especially since their intervention with Shane, in Scott’s opinion—though Garin probably felt quite differently about it—Garin seemed to have taken a step back. Maybe Scott was reading too much into things. After Shane’s stint in rehab, there were plenty of discussions about being careful, maybe trying to attain a little more balance rather than continue with their full-throttle, business-first mentality. But Scott had only one setting, and balance had never been one of his strengths. And Hilt was fast becoming his day-to-day partner.