Them Hustlers

By Jeffrey Manber

Be honest. What's the chance that something really, really good will happen to you today? That's right. Today.

And how often does good news come your way? Once a month? Or once in a blue moon?

Most of us have a platonic relationship at best with Lady Luck.

Not Phil Greene, the down on his luck Washington businessman. Lady Luck was just one of the many women he had flattered and courted throughout his life. And Greene had the numbers to prove it. Since before he was a teenager good news of some sort struck once every 23 days.

How did he know this extraordinary fact?

From the numbers. Everyday Phil struggled to connect the dots. He believed in horoscopes and tarot cards. In hidden forces for good and evil.

He cared little for the Washington scene of 1998, only about finding the right woman to become his wife. But had not Phil been drawn into the battle by congressional politicians gunning for more power and this is true, Bill Clinton may have lost his presidency over his affair with that intern. Should Phil not connect the dots on the greatest political scandal in our history, his very life may be in danger.

Backed by allies that include the ex-sailor fortune teller of Annapolis, a young powerful AP writer, and even the most infamous smut publisher, Phil’s hunt for the perfect wife pushed the unseen forces into full view. And changed not just Phil but the country forever.

This is the Washington never seen by tourists and voters but one where scheming and scandal are the perpetual motion machines of the political world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jeffrey Manber
• Release date: Dec 21, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466110229

Jeffrey Manber

I think it is because I grew up in New York City that I have always had a fascination with the lives of colorful and complex characters. It seems a big city has room for all sorts of paradoxical figures.My books, whether the novel "Them Hustlers," or the examination of how Lincoln shut the anti-war newspapers in "Lincoln's Wrath," or the memoir about my time with the Russian space program "Selling Peace," all reflect different sides of the same coin: the world is not black and white. There are shades of good and shades of evil and sometimes that makes for the best story of them all.

Book preview

Part I

Unlikely Hero

August, 1998

Be honest. What's the chance that something really, really good will happen to you today? That's right. Today.

And how often does good news come your way? How many times does luck shine on you in a week? Once a month? Or once in a blue moon?

Most of us have a platonic relationship at best with Lady Luck. Right?

Not Phil Greene. Lady Luck was just one of the many women he had flattered, cajoled and courted throughout his life. And Greene had the numbers to prove it. Since before he was a teenager good news of some sort struck once every 23 days. How does he know this extraordinary fact?

From the numbers. This otherwise unexceptional businessman had maintained a log of events his entire life: getting a girl to agree on a date, catching foul balls at a Washington Senator games, passing a critical test or getting laid were the first categories. Later was added a row for tracking customers for his used merchandise business or holding court in Atlantic City at a crap table for five or more tosses and other more adult subjects.

Numbers.

His numbers.

Early on Greene developed rules to assure his tracking Lady Luck was accurate. Teachers that treated him well. Kisses on a date. At some point, getting laid was only recorded and hence a good news event when involving a new girlfriend. Or a girl still fairly new, meaning that the opportunity for spending the night together was not a given. After all, sleeping with a current girlfriend was often far from a good news event. At least that's how Greene saw the nights of a waning relationship.

So Greene knew that without any doubt throughout his 20s and 30s the chance of having a lucky event stayed pretty constant. But then the ratio began to grow higher, meaning his life was less and less lucky. First an extra five days. Then an extra 10 days. Now, in 1998 good luck visited only once every 46 days. That is a long haul of slogging through the boredom of life.

Why the slump? Why now wondered Greene? Dumb chance or some evil force working against him? Maybe his stars were aligned in a lousy way. In the blind sort of way that most of us get older, it never occurred to Greene that Lady Luck herself may have turned away because of his advancing age.

Greene gave a lot of thought to astrology. So too about the world we know only through hunches. Intuition. Or dreams.

You know what I mean.

Did you ever get up from a deep sleep and wander into the kitchen in the dead of night only to discover the oven was left on? Maybe it never happened exactly like that. But you would allow that it happens and it is not earth-shattering, not like some lucky bastard who at the last minute decides not to board a plane only to have it crash. Some call that coincidence, but that's just a lazy excuse to ignore the complexities of the series of events that takes one from under the covers of a comfortable bed and into the kitchen for no decipherable reason.

Any discussion of coincidence must begin with the scientific fact that we comprehend only a tiny portion of what is detected by our senses. Maybe on a very deep level the hot oven could be smelled. Maybe the temperature was infinitesimally higher and this could be sensed in the stillness of the night.

But the scientific facts notwithstanding, when the unobserved world does bubble to the surface it is shrugged off by educated people, belittled with labels such as intuition, hunches, gut feeling, clairvoyance, coincidence, occult, spirituality, anything but the reality that there is a world just beyond our normal senses.

Our unlikely hero Philip Greene shrugged nothing off. He believed in magic and the stars and horoscopes and tarot cards. He believed in fate and destiny.

There is something else about this unknown businessman that should be mentioned. And this is critical. Until his recent engagement to a high-powered inside the beltway lobbyist, Greene had nothing to do with Washington's number one industry: politics. Wait, that's not exactly true. Greene knew an awful lot about local government workers, the foot soldiers of the political world. By this is meant the tax collectors, trash regulators or equal opportunity lawyers. This small business owner knew what liquor they liked at Christmas time and he knew how much to stuff inside an envelope to keep them happy. That's what Greene knew about the government.

But here is the strangest fact that you may ever come across. Without Philip Greene and his never ending quest to find meaning in his life by connecting the dots and this is true, Bill Clinton may have lost his presidency over his affair with that intern.

But the fate of Bill Clinton is not the main point of this story. Nor the hypocrisy of the politicians that attacked the president. Nor the reality that the most honest man in Washington during the impeachment was a smut publisher.

No, no and no.

Our tale is instead about the hidden world that bubbles just beneath the surface and how Phil’s hunt for the perfect wife pushed the unseen forces into full view. And changed not just Phil but the country forever.

~ ~ ~

Chapter 1

When faced with a personal crisis, Phil could obsess for hours on a single subject. Rather than letting his mind wander over the finished day he would instead focus on one woman or one client or replay everything revealed at the last psychic reading.

Over and over.

From every angle.

This past week was one of those times. Every morning Phil woke up thinking of nothing but his upcoming marriage. Each determined step taken by Tanya was making him more uncomfortable, more aware of his own nagging doubts. Random actions taken by a girlfriend that might otherwise be sloughed off as strange chick behavior now was viewed by Phil in a more sinister light. The troubling discrepancies with the bank accounts tugged at him. So too the whispered conversations with her powerful congressmen clients.

Why the whispering now and not before? Why the rush to get married? Something was afoot. Look, Phil did not believe himself the best catch for a powerful lobbyist like Tanya Lyn Owens. She was good looking with a lean body from years of playing lacrosse. Sexy still at 37. Young compared to his 43. Earning a top salary. Powerful inside the Washington beltway. Why the sudden push to marry a down on his luck broker for used merchandise?

The anxiety produced a renewed focus on the numbers. Kept on his side of her king sized bed was a notepad and a stolen hotel pen. Each page contained neat rows of numbers. The dwindling number of signed contracts for his used merchandise, the ratio of women dated to women slept with, the times he entered a casino and won, patterns of good phone numbers, the frequency of a recently recurring dream in which he discovered a chest of gold in his bath tub, and so on.

These scraps of paper were Phil’s Holy Grail; as he vainly searched for the perfect single number or predictable set of numbers that would slam dunk the relationship with Lady Luck. Typically for Phil the quest remained a still-born mystery, as even the rudiments of basic statistics were beyond his grasp. But that didn’t stop him from spreading the pages out on an empty bar or during a quiet moment in the warehouse and staring intensely at the lists, searching for a signal that would unlock the mystery that was the bumpy road known as Philip Greene’s life.

Now he wrote down numbers related to his time with Tanya. How many days spent together, how many times they made love, what time they made love, how much money she had given him.

Numbers.

Rows of numbers.

Searching for a pattern.

* * *

As a 5th grader the young student realized he spoke and thought far more carefully than his classmates. A daily look back on the entire day, came to believe young Phil, was required for him to understand the school-yard taunts from the other boys and the teasing of the girls.

By high school his classmates took notice of his quiet manner. Always there were the notes to himself containing numbers. How many girls spoke to him vs. how many dates. Was there an optimal relationship? What about when he arrived at school? He came to calculate that the later he arrived up to the first bell, the more likely he would have a date that Friday.

So there was young Philip, lingering by the yard when everyone else was already in class and then, just before the bell sounded, dashing wildly into the building--all in the hope of scoring that weekend.

That's when the nickname Carnac took root--after the clairvoyant dressed in a cape and ridiculous hat played by Johnny Carson on the Tonight Show. Carnac the Magnificence would deduce an answer to a question sealed inside an envelope. Then the envelope would be opened and the question read aloud.

Carson as Carnac would dramatically announce the answer while his sidekick Ed McMahon would hand him the sealed envelope.

Holding the envelope to his forehead Carson might announce: The answer is: Executive action.

Ed McMahon: Tell us O great Carnac, what is the question?

And then Carson would theatrically tear open the envelope:

What does a president look for in a singles bar?

Yeah, Carnac's jokes were stupid. But Phil didn't mind the moniker. His best friend Gary gave him the name because of his interest in the occult and it stuck with him. Fine. Whatever. Laugh if you want but you also can't deny how much takes place unobserved right in front of our noses. And when his life was out of whack, Phil never hesitated to turn to fortune tellers to find the answers.

On this morning Phil lay alone on the four hundred dollar single thread Egyptian white bed sheets that Tanya had bought while in New York two weeks before. In vain he had argued to his fiancée that he could find a Middle Eastern broker who could supply the very same sheets for no more than $100. Even when he had the money it hurt to pay sucker prices. But Tanya’s view was that where you bought a suit or dress or sheets was a tangible part of the enjoyment. Because of buyers like her, shuddered Phil, elite fashion names that were nothing more than middlemen prospered. Not like the days of his father when it took quality and tradition to be recognized as a fashion brand.

Greene realized he was overloaded with incoming data. A condition brought on by one question only. Marry or not marry? For that, Phil knew he needed some relaxation time. That meant today would be devoted to playing craps in Atlantic City. Just throwing the dice and seeing what numbers came up might tell Phil all he needed to know. And maybe he would get lucky, meet another Japanese girl visiting Atlantic City with her mother.

Oh man, that was a stroke of incredible luck, a once in a lifetime score. On that Thursday evening eleven weeks ago Phil had arrived at Atlantic City and spontaneously elected to start playing at the Tropicana. He played first one and then a second craps table, but nothing was clicking. Within forty minutes he was down a few hundred bucks. So he walked over to the Trump Plaza. What a move! At the first table he found his rhythm. Couldn’t do any wrong. Threw winning numbers 12 times, including the usually impossible 4 roll. Phil walked away after half an hour up $1900, went to the bar to celebrate and there bumped into the cutest doll-like Japanese girl, with pigtails and an I love Michael Jackson skimpy pink top.

He bought Komugi or maybe it was Komaki, no, it was definitely Komugi, he prided himself on remembering a girl’s name; anyway, he bought her a drink, and after a second drink, something fizzy and sweet, he was rewarded by being introduced to the mother.

The mother was in her mid-50s, chubby for a Japanese woman. She was anchored in the first row of slot machines, a jumbo cup of coins in her left hand leaving her right hand to methodically pull the lever over and over. Phil babbled on, his salesman grin plastered to his face, about his enjoyment in doing business in Tokyo and how much he loved the Japanese people. The mother finally waved him off.

My mom don't speak English, Komugi laughingly revealed as Phil continued his sales pitch.

Had I known that I would have said more what I was thinking.

Like what? She flirted.

Phil was never one to back down but you had to be careful with the Japanese. Like her daughter is really sweet looking.

Sweet looking won’t do it, Phil-friend.

Sexy looking I meant to say.

That was the key that unlocked the hotel door. You want make out? Komugi just up and asked.

Six minutes later he found himself in a hotel suite kissing and groping the daughter while her mother fed Susan B. Anthony coins into the slots 23 floors below. What an evening! Not that he completely had his way with her, still for a Japanese girl to even make out like that was a real coup.

Later that very same week he signed the biggest contract for his business in two years. The deal kept the warehouse doors open and wouldn’t you know it? It was with Haruki Ibuka, his long-dormant Japanese partner. Lucky. Lucky, lucky.

Somehow, it was all connected. Yes it was. Having the stars align to have him make out with the cute Japanese girl and also signing the new contract with Haruki. And what were the right numbers for that whole series of events?

Phil remembered exactly. The Trump Plaza was his 2nd casino of the night. He had lasted 12 throws before quitting. Spent 30 minutes at the table. Komugi was the first girl he flirted with. The suite where they made out was on the 23rd floor. For the next week he played combinations of 1, 2, 12, 23 and 30 for the D.C. and Maryland daily numbers. The numbers didn’t win but it was worth the try. Always, it was worth a go.

There were, believed Phil passionately, no coincidences in life.

* * *

He swung out of bed, stepping straight onto a squealing Elizabeth, one of the two Shih Tzus dogs who had only recently come to terms with his presence. Elizabeth let out a yap and a whimper. Victoria, on the satin red pillow on the far end of the bed, looked up concerned; then contentedly put her head down. Phil yapped back. Speaking of coincidences, maybe it was time to visit with a fortune teller. Why not? Today’s my lucky day, Phil shouted. Yes it would be. Today would be a turning point. You just watch and see. Lucky…Lucky

~ ~ ~

Chapter 2

Honey, honey, honey, just give me a moment, hon. Phil was shouting, his cadence like that of a rapidly beating heart. Tanya, he knew, was racing into a Congressional hearing.

What?

I have to go to Philadelphia, he lied. A guy has ten containers of designer jeans to unload. It was a risk, like most lies. Tanya was from Philadelphia and could push him further if she wanted on exactly where he was going and why. But he was prepared if it came to that.

So? Pause to show her identification to the Congressional guard. You have money?

Instinctively Phil touched the left back pocket of his five year old jeans, where he had a thousand dollars from his first customer in a week.

With her hyper type-A personality Tanya jumped on the microsecond of silence as an admission. Sure, go. Maybe I can get you the money. Pause to take a deep breath. Don’t dare miss the party tonight. Got to go. Bye. Call.

He thought he heard a love you as the phone clicked off, but it was not like the tightly wired lobbyist Tanya Lyn Owens to be intimate in the halls of Congress or whenever surrounded by her political clients.

Her clients were a contingent of southern politicians who had climbed out of the marshy earth of small towns along the banks of the Mississippi as local politicians or newspaper publishers, the fortunate few that clawed high enough to reap the rewards of national politics.

No matter their whirlwind six months together his fiancée still thought of these men, not him, as paramount in her life. It was to Congressman Tommy Tucker (D-LA) and Congressman Rodney Wilkes (D-LA) in particular that Tanya emotionally clung, marveling almost every day how this one or that one had leaped from the Bayou and arrived in Washington as United States senators and congressmen.

Phil had to admit that the life stories of Tanya’s clients were a large part of the attraction he felt for this woman, what with her boy-like figure not up to the curves he usually sought in a lover. Especially one he had agreed to marry. Her sexual attraction was in some ways the naughtiness of the Washington night life she had shown to him. Through Tanya Lyn he had met not just the politicians but also the mistresses and trophy wives of the Washington power players, experiencing their feuds and rivalries as all jostled to gain more influence, more money, more prestige or hit the political holy jackpot and grab all three.

One dinner reception had included at the head table, just opposite him and Senator Bob Dole, a radiant Princess Dianne. Phil with his salesman confidence was sure that the Princess was eying him and if not for the blocking presence of the scowling Bob Dole, he just might have scored that night. He wasn’t being vain, as a girlfriend had once complained; it was just the experience of a veteran hunter. He knew the stories he told about his business in Japan and his jokes in broken Japanese were the highlights of the otherwise dull evening.

Look, strip away the lofty title and the British Di looked to Phil no different than any young, pretty, lonely married woman sitting at a boring dinner in a foreign land. Prime opportunity for a fantastic one-nighter.

Because of Tanya, bountiful opportunities to dip into the well-hidden Washington excesses abounded. A rolling fetish party was a recurring event for her boys, as she called her politicians, complete with girls dressed in skin-tight red leather costumes and diamond-encrusted masks, some with whips and one with a large paddle board to spank errant congressmen. And the secretaries in their Capitol offices were always eager young arrivals from the best families. Pretty young thing, now ain’t she? An influential southern congressman had teased Phil after introducing his latest assistant, while poking his elbow into Phil’s side.

Yeah, the scent of temptation was ever-present. At a small dinner three months before sat a classy looking arts buyer from California, rumored to be a recent lover of the president. Of the United States. It was the talk of the group for days. This was the zest for life that sprang from Tanya’s Bayou clients, their lovers, friends and even enemies that more than likely was not present in a delegation of say, Midwestern congressmen. Nor in the world of unsold product lines and second hand merchandise that occupied Phil’s life.

He thought to himself more than once that maybe he was enamored with this woman’s life, and not to the woman herself.

* * *

Relieved at having created a block of free time with minimal interrogation, Phil prepared for the drive up to Atlantic City. Damn, but he had forgotten about the celebration, a surprise bash for Tommy Tucker, Tanya’s most important congressional connection. Well, if possible, he would return from Philly in time. If he got lucky, met a girl, he could always explain it off by saying the meeting ran too late.

As he threw on the bright green sports jacket that Tanya had brought back from a trip to London, with her boast that it cost only $800 bucks stinging in his ears every time he touched the jacket, he tried to remember if every relationship began from the first day with small lies that grow into larger lies that become the unsustainable foundation between two people.

While adjusting the jacket in the full length mirror that Tanya had carefully made sure could not be seen from the bed, he was about to conclude that no, there had been a time when he entered into new relationships with a mental tabula rasa, drawn by a physical attraction, a certain scent or smile or firmness of the breasts. Later came the inevitable desire for a bit of freedom. And so a small fib would begin, and the unaccounted event created by the lie would be the incubator to grow in a different direction, and not be swallowed up as an undivided duo.

Leaving the house he stepped out into the driveway where two cars waited. His ten year old Jeep Cherokee, once the pride of a decade younger man, was inadequate for Tanya’s world and so rarely used. Phil instead opted for her black two door Lexus sports car. Slipping inside, he adjusted the mirror, flipped on the radio to the one station still playing hits from the 1970s and turned onto Queen Street.