The Street Gamble

By John S. Goscinski

John S. Goscinski THE STREET GAMBLE

Hal Sweeny is streetwise as he is educated and has a passion for taking risks. His biggest risk is walking away from the only life hed ever known and marrying out of his social class. But when he hires on with Hkg Securities the prestigious New York Investment Banking firm owned by his father-in-law, with whom he has an irreversible strained relationship, he raises the stakes to a whole new level. One morning, three years into his newfangled life, he finds himself demonized by the same cast of characters who make a business out of destroying other peoples wealth. Embroiled in a world of trickery and deceit, overflowing with consummate liars and at odds with his own moral conscience, Hal must reach deep within himself to overcome his abiding sense of guilt, and outwit a den of thieves where the stakes are higher than he ever bargained for.

Its the fall of 2002 and a bear market is raging out of control. Beckman Corporation, at the direction of its Investment advisor Hkg Securities is running a Street gamble, which it thinks it can win. But Hal Sweeny uncovers their game and must choose between family and career or standing up to the pervasive corruption on Wall Street, gone unchecked with relative impunity for many years. With the help of his assistant Mary, Hal unweaves a web of corporate malfeasance, spanning the far reaches of East Asia and the Caribbean and ending up on the gaming tables of Las Vegas.

Besides telling a capricious story of how stock holder equity is lured away in pursuit of internet gaming riches, The Street Gamble does a masterful job drawing sleek comparisons between the risks investors face on Wall Street, everyday and those taken by gamblers pressing their luck at the brick and mortar casinos around the world. It also takes a well deserved critical look at some of Wall Streets despicable behavior that preceded the last bear market and the fraudulent wealth it helped create.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Apr 11, 2007
• ISBN: 9781467809221

John S. Goscinski

If you ever thought of writing a novel than you owe it to yourself to read the newest release by John Goscinski called “The Water Fall.” He may be just like you, an accomplished author of numerous peer review publications in his chosen field of expertise when one day he decides to step out of his comfort zone and take a shot at creative writing. As the saying goes, everyone has one book in them, but for John this will be his second experiment following the release of “The Street Gamble,” in 2007— this time he has the chemistry just right. His newest effort tells a clever, suspenseful story centered on our most precious commodity, water and to what lengths depraved and devious minded individuals will go to control it. The story could take place at any time in our future but our author chose the 2004-2007 timeframe characterized by unprecedented drought conditions in the U.S. and what we now know was a self inflicted real estate bubble that eventually created a long and protracted financial crisis. Our author has a humorous way with words making the story all the more enjoyable especially when he describes some of the shenanigans in Washington and on Wall Street which brought the house down. But the story offers much more. Intertwined in “The Water Fall” is life’s most perplexing question— where do we go from here and while we’re here why should we even care to do the best for ourselves and our fellow man?

Book preview

Prologue

Call it an epiphany, that morning you wake up and suddenly realize that running the table is no longer an option and the operative word to describe your pathetic situation is lost. You’re far from home, not having traveled a lick, and all that was ever near and dear to you is a distant memory. You feel disarmed, even immobilized by the very thought of who you’ve become. As hard as it is to admit, you can’t even say you like yourself anymore. Then you remember a telling story of how a life can change in a fraction of a second, like with the roll of the dice, and the way you measure up to that challenge will forever define you as a player or a spectator on the rollercoaster of life.

You never think it will happen to you, but when it does, you’re like an ice cube waiting to melt in a summer swelter, slow but sure. Then it hits you, like back-to-back blackjacks during a bad night on the felt, those long summer days and seemingly endless nights you once enjoyed as a seat-of-the-pants kid come shining through like the innocence of youth. It commands you to do the right thing, no matter what the consequences, and you do the unthinkable, what most people can’t or haven’t the nerve to do. When the wheel of fortune turns up double zeros, you hitch a ride on the next train leaving Dodge with your name on it.

You might have reached for the next pop culture drink or miracle drug, only to persevere a little longer, but instead, you throw in your hand of thirty years and tell yourself with the greatest conviction, A bluff is good until it’s called.

Hal was staring down at another freaking sixteen as he rhythmically swirled the ice inside his drink glass before inserting another dead soldier in the tin cup holder alongside his chair. His right hand busy on the felt signaled for a card as his eyes glanced down at another pretty picture for the dealer. He couldn’t remember a time in his life when he’d been dealt such a deluge of unplayable shit at a blackjack table. But then, his life, like his game, was in the toilet, so why shouldn’t his cards follow suit?

It was certainly a humbling experience, digging out of one hole after the next. It reminded him of a summer job he’d once had with a road construction crew, manually preparing trenches in hard-to-reach places. No different this time, he thought, laboring over twelve’s and thirteen’s with a dealer shoveling a card or two in his direction. But when the dig was done, countering with a respectable eighteen or nineteen was often not enough, as the dealer who stood before him, smiling and seemingly disappointed, clubbed him to death with a king or a jack or whispered sweet nothings to his wallet with a queen. Too many fuckin’ marriages of royalty on the wrong side of the felt he thought, with another pastor other than himself presiding over the ceremonies. Still, he continued to throw good money after bad at the tall brunette dealer with the ivory skin and a set of choppers that Crest toothpaste would be proud to call their own.

Over the past three hours, Hal had been sitting in the same chair at the same table, fielding hot grounders from the third base position, leaving only twice to relieve himself. During that stretch, he’d made only four unforced errors in his play, at least as far as he could remember, and still was down five C-notes and sinking fast. The pretty brunette was back for her third encore, having already made short work of the other players at his table. While those turnstile losers passed like fleeting ships in the night, she made each feel vindicated for having tempted fate until there was only one lone survivor left to do their bidding.

Hal found himself playing heads-up against Little Picasso, the nickname he’d given the pretty brunette dealer for her propensity at shooting from the hip with twenties in the paint. At first he caught a gust of wind in his sails, only to have it deflate his ego and his wallet at the same time. As he raised himself up from the chair and turned to leave, looking a bit flushed, he nearly missed the dealer’s offer to meet for a drink after her shift was over.

As he fought off the clanging of the slots and the throbbing in his brain, made all the more poignant after eight Johnnie Walker Black and sodas, his innate senses kicked in and he said in a shy monotone voice, I’m sorry, but did you say something?

Just that my shift ends in fifteen minutes and after the thumping, well, that you just took at my hands, I thought the least I could do would be to buy you a drink.

A drink would be fine on most occasions, but I’m afraid not this time, as I’ve had a bit more than my share.

Then coffee instead, she said, snapping her head back smartly while her silky mane headed skyward, and added, and with some sobering conversation.

You’re on, said Hal playfully as he headed for the corner bar, hands signaling to the dealer toward his final destination, all the while dreading even the idea of anything resembling true confessions.

It had already been more than five months since Hal had seen his wife of four years and his newborn son. He’d thought of pressing his luck in the courts to establish visitation rights, but had thought better of it when he saw the harsh treatment handed down to his other friends and colleagues in similar situations. Although he felt exonerated in his mind at what he had done, he was certain to face unyielding opposition in the New York court system, which was plagued with cronyism down to its rotten core. He hadn’t the stomach or the funds necessary to wage a long, drawn-out custody battle, where everyone was a loser except the legal shysters who played the system for all it was worth. Lifetime judges and mediocre lawyers loved those types of bare-knuckle bouts, as they were of no consequence in legal terms, at least for another twenty years, when the full impact of the decision rendered would finally be unleashed on society. More importantly, they supported everyone’s nasty habits, since each opposing side had to ante up five grand to open, and justice, if there was any, began at twenty large.

Anyway, the gambler in Hal still held out hope that his wife would come to her senses over what seemed to be inconsequential nonsense. But then, her father, who’d been picking up the tab over the past five months, had the resolve and the bankroll to go the distance and would use whatever means at his disposal to block any attempt at reconciliation. Hal knew his father-in-law had many weapons in his arsenal ready to unleash and least among them was his longtime relationship with the New York legal establishment. The fact was that their trial separation, which had been forced on Hal, was never about a rift in their marriage at all, but about a deep-seated hatred her father had developed for him, almost from the very moment their courtship broke from the starting gate. Theirs was a marriage of unequal proportions, a clash of cultures from opposite sides of a fence, higher and more visible than the New York skyline itself. It was equivalent to oil mixed with vinegar: shake the dressing long and hard enough and you had a homogenous liquid, where the differences between the two were hard to distinguish, but stop the hand action a while and eventually you had an emperor with no clothes staring back at you in the mirror. That’s just how Hal felt, after stumbling into the street gamble, bare to the bones. He also knew that if his chances at reconciling their marriage were posted on the morning line, the oddsmakers would have him a two-to-five favorite to reach divorce court before the winter was out.

As Hal sat down at the corner bar, he was greeted abruptly by a loud bark coming from a bartender serving another customer five chair stools down from him.

His snake-bit eyes drilled down into Hal as he asked, What can I get for you?

Recalling what he’d told the dealer just seconds ago, Hal tossed back a qualified response as if he just crapped out at the tables, Coffee, black.

However, after a moment of reconsideration, he immediately fell prey to his irrational exuberance and belted out music to his ears, Make it a tall Johnnie Walker Black and soda with a twist, instead.

When the bartender arrived with Hal’s drink in hand he seemed amused and remarked, That’s one hell of a swing in tempo, I mean, from coffee black to scotch!

Hal, a bit lost for words, chewed on his lower lip as if he had something thought provoking to say but began again with no more than a measly, Yep, while his mind was thinking more intuitively. He began reminiscing about his own life and how it had changed from coffee black to scotch and soda and that he wasn’t dealing with the transition very well. At least as he sat there on the bar stool working on his ninth drink of the night, he was his own man, and no one could take that from him, not even the great Jon Humbolt who he’d left holding the bag at the McCarran airport five months ago. Was it all worth it he wondered, as he sat and sipped his drink and recounted the events that had changed his life forever.

Chapter One

The Ante

Hal was running late that morning, but for him it was a treat. The day before, on a perfect fall Sunday, the Bronx Bombers finished off the regular season against the scruffy Boston Red Sox, taking them out behind the woodshed for a twin-bill shellacking, and he’d been there to see it all, in the flesh, with his wife Maria of a scant three years. Say what you will about the Boss, not only did he field a competitive team, but a clean-shaven one to boot, even if the sports commentators had it right about their arms having too much Old Spice flowing through their veins.

Yesterday had been a first in nearly six months, a bona fide date, if you will, without that little someone, in the hopper, tagging along, umpiring their every at bat. The occasion for celebration was Hal’s reward for reaching thirty something, with nothing but wind at his back and potential in his sails. But cascading on whitecaps didn’t come cheap. Hal’s excessive work schedule was taking its toll on their marriage, not to mention Maria’s late stage pregnancy, which recently kept them apart, whether they were together or not.

On most weekday mornings, Hal was in the office before 7:30, and at that early hour, the sun’s budding rays had little time to work their magic on the windows of Wall Street. The unpredictability of the sun’s awakening and the delicate way it splashed its beams onto the imposing glazed structures fascinated him. Its late afternoon encore highlighted the many faces of Battery Park, letting his mind wander aimlessly, escaping the drudgery that was now his job as junior account executive for one of the most prestigious brokerage houses in New York City. Hal always felt the sun’s daily battle to assert itself as it slithered down the many nook and cranny streets that only New Yorkers could love as the ultimate in contrast to the visions of refreshing green that characterized snooty Greenwich, Connecticut, where he now called home.

That Monday morning, there would be no window show for Hal as he climbed behind the wheel of his spanking new BMW 325 I sedan to showcase his chauffeuring skills and deliver Maria and their newborn son, Pauley, safely to LaGuardia Airport. As if he were made for the profession, Hal effortlessly weaved his way through stop-and-go traffic on Route 95 South like a snake slithering through tall summer grass, fleeing the sound of an approaching lawn mower in overdrive.

As they crossed over the Whitestone Bridge, now only seconds from the airport, as the crow flies, but still thirty or more clicks for road-weary mortals having to wheel it, he inquired in his very best English accent, trying to make conversation with Maria who was still struggling with the early morning hour, What airline would madam be flying today?

Maria, nestled alongside Hal in the adjoining passenger seat, with tired eyes and disheveled hair made baby talk while playing with their two-month-old son with outstretched appendages that reached back to the baby seat behind her. Annoyed by Hal’s buffoonery Maria eyed him with an edge of impatience and said agitatedly, Oh, Hal, must you always be the jokester—and so early in the morning, no less? I know that you know I’m flying American.

As if he hadn’t heard a word she said, Hal fired back, his voice overflowing with intrigue in every sound bite, as if his ability to reason was impaired somehow by his desire to stay sickly positive, which is exactly how he wanted it, And what would madam’s destination be on such a magnificent fall morning?

With frustration now showing on her delicate face, her eyes racing toward his, as if to say she was unwilling to play her part in their playful charade, Maria responded caustically, If you insist on being a joker, and so early in the morning, no less, let me be your Queen of Spades in your game of Hearts. The last time I checked, I had a date with the Duke, at John Wayne Airport, so maybe I’ll just hitch a ray of sunshine with him and go on to Hong Kong, or even Bali instead!

Touché said Hal, although I doubt your father, the Duke, would enjoy the ride. But if you must, I vote for Hong Kong. Close enough to Macau to place a bet or two for me. Deal me in."

Is that all you ever think about? said Maria, shooting a disparaging glance his way out of the corner of her eye.

Hal turned his head at an angle, as if as if to deflect some chin music at the dish, all in an effort to be more poignant.

With one eye on the road and one on Maria while flashing his always-engaging smile, he said, "Well, it’s my only vice and what’s wrong being a feisty little rabbit running alongside the greyhound bookies, as long as I don’t wind up as someone’s rabbit stew? The action keeps my blood flowing and my business skills finely tuned for the big show. Not to state the obvious, but it’s what I do everyday, just in case you hadn’t noticed. From the opening bell until the boxers scream, ‘No Mas,’ I play referee, waiting patiently by the phone and placing bets for would-be suckers in a no-sum game, where the house wins all the time. At the end of the bout, after the gavel comes crashing down in ceremonious fashion hurled by the lead suit and joined by his aspiring clan of one-armed bandits, I tally up the score cards and declare the winners and losers for the day. Since I work for the house, I don’t have to hang with Barron’s or the New York Times business section every Sunday morning or pray for our portfolio as Father Gilhoully cry’s out to his sheepish flock from the bloody pulpit during one of his syllogistic sermons, syncopated to the crap shooters cry, ‘Baby needs a new pair of shoes.’ Good for Pauley and good for you, wouldn’t you say? As for your travels today, the house strongly recommends you stay the course, ride out the sure thing and keep your original bloody date with Mr. and Mrs. Stealth."

As you say, Maria cackled, but as my personal bookie, let me give you some sure fire advice. Don’t ever let my parents hear you use that symphonic military colloquialism on them.

Touché again, cried Hal. It can only provide them bigger, more sumptuous nails for my coffin. Have no fear. I’m not the moronic type who’d also spot them a hammer. Anyway, they’re already heavily armed with a litany of reasons, longer than an airport runway, as to why their only daughter was completely misguided in gambling her life away on a long shot like me.

Hal grimaced half-jokingly, his laugh fading while feeling the pain of rejection.

The truth be told, I embezzled that descriptive military verse from your real West Coast chauffeur, Mr. Charles, who, in my humble opinion, is one of the good guys. And I always calls them, as I sees them.

Maybe he is, said Maria, dialing up the heat again in her voice, but if he wants to keep his job, he’ll keep his acrimonious thoughts to himself.

You’re right. He should be more careful, keep his motormouth shut, stay as low to the dashboard as his driving skills will allow, and just like the Energizer Bunny, keep going and going and—

Stop it! cried Maria. I know you and my parents don’t get along as well as you should, but who in the world does? I mean, get along with them.

You do, don’t you? I mean, get along with your mother, at least. As for your father, that may be too much of a stretch, even for you,

Before Maria could even answer, Hal yelped briskly, Allrighty then, the more things change, the more they stay the same. You, more than anyone, should understand that a dog can take only so much rolled-up newspaper from his master before he begins to bite back. I can’t and won’t be dog-digity around your father. We don’t like each other, plain and simple, and more importantly, I don’t like the way he treats others around him, especially when his passion to win clouds whatever sense of fair play might be lurking in those deep recesses of his mind. He thinks he’s the house and always deserves the edge. But alas, tomorrow’s another day and hope springs eternal. And I can, for you and only you learn to be more submissive in this cold war, if your parents, I mean your father, can be equally more tolerant of this humble Irishman sitting beside you!

Oh Hal, sometimes you’re irrepressible, but I love you all the same, and not even my father can change that.

Well, I’d hope so, for both our sakes, and that of little Pauley.

Thinking back, Hal knew he’d be in for the fight of his life when he’d put all his chips in the pot and Maria had called his hand, consenting to marry him. She was a can-do filly with trifecta potential written across her program—beauty, brains, and bosoms, but it was her big heart, just like Secretariat’s, that won him over. But even Hal had not bargained for a war without an armistice day when he placed his bet. A slew of never-ending battles waged and wagered between him and his father-in-law had left him trapped in a perennial bad dream where he continued to handicap a war that his heart told him he could never win. He’d plowed ahead anyway, against an enemy to whom winning was everything and the stakes were unacceptably high for the loser, which Hal could only believe would eventually be him. Hal never feared that Maria would break down in the stretch, but the impact the feud between him and his father-in-law was having on their relationship, as well on as their marriage, was undeniable. He wondered if Maria would be strong enough to support him in his time of need, when and if judgment day came.

Three years ago, after they’d tied the knot, he would have bet the ranch that the answer was an unequivocal, resounding yes, but he wasn’t so sure anymore and knew that a prudent gambler would already be hedging his bet. Still, Hal wasn’t ready to throw in the towel just yet,and give up playing tough hands just because the cards were being dealt from the bottom of the deck.

They could hear the roaring sound of jet engines overhead as Hal judiciously sandwiched their BMW between two SUVs, parked in front of the American Airlines skycap check-in counter. Their conversation couldn’t have ended a moment too soon. Hal reasoned that further dialogue would have left Maria with a bad taste in her mouth even before she boarded the plane to Orange County, California, to pay homage to his obstinate and sometimes enigmatic in-laws.

Are you sure you have everything? Hal asked quizzically.

I think so, sighed Maria in less than convincing fashion. You know me. I can be absent-minded at times. I guess I’ll find out when I get to California and unpack.

In a sardonic tone of voice, Hal fired back, Now you’re starting to sound like some of my clients, who can’t ever decide when to hold ‘em or when to fold ‘em before the curtain comes crashing down on their final act. They agonize over whether it will be Door #1 or Door #2, all the while thinking that one of those faceless passageways will lead them to the promised land, while their portfolio’s get dinged some more.

Hello, Hal. I’m not one of your investors, or suckers, as you prefer to call them. For me, it’s a simple matter of forget me not.

Hal, unfazed by Maria’s response, fired back while flashing a playful smile, Like I said, you’re not alone. Millions of investors do it every day without breaking a sweat.

I’m not sweating, and either should you, piped Maria. I’ll bet you I can find whatever it is that I forgot somewhere in my parents’ house.

You mean in that big, imposing structure that hovers over the Pacific like some eagle ready to take flight? Hell, I won’t take that bet, unless you’re ready to give me some hefty odds. On second thought, I’ll take the pass line with you.

As soon as Hal killed the engine, Maria shouldered open the front seat passenger door and jumped out onto the pavement. In rapid-fire succession, she began waving a stylized envelope in the air, bearing the distinctive logo of Elaine’s Excursions, for the Big Apple’s home-and-away crowd, in eye-shot of their vehicle to see.

At least I have my airline ticket, she bellowed loudly in a playful amorous voice that even the hearing impaired might appreciate.

Hal smiled back, savoring the moment, thinking to himself how lucky he was to have found such a fun-loving, intelligent girl, who was model gorgeous and the mother of his child, no matter how overbearing her parental baggage could be. While Maria was wrestling Pauley from the grasp of the backseat baby restraint, Hal slipped his lanky body out from behind the steering column and marshaled his own two wheels onto the pavement. He proceeded directly to the rear of the vehicle and unloaded Maria’s luggage, handing all three Tumi bags to the skycap attendant, along with a fistful of singles. Living in New York, you couldn’t have enough chump change, he thought. The only problem was that it always had to be the folding kind. The planes flying overhead roared even louder now, darting in and out of the morning sky as if they were winking at their earthly observers.

Maria finally lifted her bundle of joy out from the vehicle and, with widened eyes, murmured in dramatic cadence, And now that I have Pauley, what more could a girl need or want?

Acting more alive than at any time since leaving their house in Greenwich, Maria approached Hal from the side and flirtatiously whispered softly in his ear, And I haven’t forgotten, I have you, too, which is more than any girl could hope for.

Pausing momentarily, like a wayward sparrow with her young planted in her nest, Maria kissed Hal gently on the lips.

As they parted their embrace, she added, I hope the traffic heading into the City is less congested than it was coming out here.

Hal stood silently, acquiescent and mired in thought as he watched Maria and Pauley inch closer to the entrance to the American terminal with their skycap blazing the trail. Before they were firmly inside the retractable glass doors, Hal began to feel a curdling sensation in his stomach that he often experienced when he had a sizable wager on the gaming tables and had to wait for the dealer to read him his last rights.

Before Maria and Pauley disappeared from view, Hal conjured up a belated smile and yelped in a broadcaster’s voice, Gridlock over here is child’s play compared to where you’re headed. Out there, they don’t just shoot horses, they take out the jockeys too, so be careful.

The rain was coming down fast and furious in a town awash in gamblers. Street flooding was prevalent everywhere in Sin City, better known to the masses as Las Vegas. Rain of any kind, at any time, was nothing short of a miracle, a gift from the gods to the residents of that sun-baked desert oasis and gambling capital of the world. An unusual shift in the West Coast weather pattern in late summer made the odds of a generous drenching a much more appealing wager.

Sheltered from the elements sat three men, perched around a nineteenth-century Brazilian teakwood conference table, high on the thirty-sixth floor of one of the world’s most palatial casinos. As they dined on a late night snack of prawns and caviar chased with Dom Perion, they peered down onto the strip below, surveying the mass of humanity toting umbrellas and papers of any kind to cover their rain-soaked heads. They watched with amusement as the marks fanatically danced around puddles and a seemingly endless river of stop-and-go traffic, moving hastily to their next destination in the hope that they’d be the lucky few who would leave Las Vegas a winner. From the get-go, the odds would be heavily stacked against them, whether it was the slots or baccarat which finally caught their fancy and tagged their wallets. The more they wagered, the more they’d lose, eventually, that is. For these pigeons, it would be a game of timing. They’d have to get lucky and quick and have the mental fortitude to walk away a winner. It was easy to say, but harder to do, especially when the greed factor kicked in. And still they came, anyway, from all corners of the globe, to capture that feeling of freedom and opportunity that kept their juices flowing and made them feel alive again.

Rain or shine, it was time to get down to the business of making money the newfangled way, stealing it. The three lone men were assembled that night for one reason and one reason only, to execute a plan months in the making that would provide an undetectable, under-the-radar entry into the world of Internet gaming.

A well-groomed handsomely dressed man, about sixtyish but made to look fifty, spoke first in a smooth, subtle voice with a fine articulated delivery, I think it’s time to make the move, and as your investment banker, we can help put the wheels in motion. It won’t be easy, but if we move now, I think we can guarantee results. My political contacts, of which I have many, assure me that all the stars are aligned just right this time. All the palms have been properly greased and the troughs filled to capacity, with hungry pigs ready to fleece the American public one more time, virtually guaranteeing passage of the Internet gaming bill when it reaches the floor of the Senate next fall.

A younger, leaner, equally dapper man rifled his fingers through his slick jet-back hair, acknowledging his approval. Meanwhile, a heavyset man with a mustache that was too small for his pudgy, well-tanned face cradled a coffee cup in both hands and listened attentively while his narrow, beady eyes seemed to shift back and forth like the swinging arm of a grandfather clock. He said nothing, but his fidgety, doughy fingers gave his nervous demeanor away. Had he been in a Texas Hold’em poker game thirty-six floors below, such a tell would have tipped off the other players and he would have left the game with an empty wallet. Here the stakes were much higher, and none of these three men would know beforehand how the turn and the river cards would play out, until they finally hit the table.

After biting unmercifully at the body of a prawn and intently sucking its head, the younger, leaner man finally spoke with the voice of authority, exuding a sense of cockiness as if he were the mouthpiece for the doughy-fingered man, We concur. Not a day goes by that we don’t hear reports of another start-up in Internet gaming. Meanwhile, we have to sit by helplessly handcuffed as these cyberspace jockeys piggyback on all the fine work we’ve done all these years conditioning the minds of would-be gamblers. Hell, we’ve even enticed the Average Joe, the working-class-schlemiel, to come play with us. But our best work has been portraying Vegas as a family destination. What a subterfuge, wouldn’t you say? Now these Internet gaming sites are multiplying like rabbits, with no end in sight. Take your pick—Belize, Costa Rica, Antigua! You name a Caribbean island and our guys can find you an establishment there to place a bet. And those Limees don’t seem to have any problem joining in on the fun. It’s about time our government came to their senses and got in on the action, just like they did when they handed the tobacco companies a free pass on the phony premise of saving the youth of America from a Marlboro. I agree with you, this time around our politicians won’t be able to resist the potential tax revenue that legalizing Internet gaming will bring in. I also feel the hair of the wolf at the door and I fear it, like the three little pigs did. If nothing is done, the brick-and-mortar casinos, which up to now have had a monopoly on the gaming industry, will be eaten alive, one choice morsel at a time. I even hear there’s a no-limit Texas Hold’em site being developed by a software company in Canada. I can imagine what that will do to our poker room traffic when the average player can get his opponent to fold his hand on a bluff made in his skivvies, or better yet on the toilet, where a hole-in-one really is a crap shoot and bullshit reigns supreme. We owe it to our shareholders to act now.

The doughy-fingered man just sat and listened, not saying a word, but not disapproving, either.

Meanwhile, the elder statesman who had initiated the discussion smoothly seized the momentum like a cheetah might, waiting patiently on its prey but ready to go zero to sixty in six seconds to cull out his victim from the herd, Then it’s settled. We’ll move forward, for a fee, of course. My team is just waiting on me to give them the word. We’ve already nurtured the contacts and we have the right people in the right places, ready to make the deals happen when I say so. Only the foolhardy establishments will refuse to accept our generous offers. Give me the green light tonight and in six months we’ll have your company positioned years ahead of the competition, just in time to usher in the new Internet gaming legislation. You need to trust me on this. Your brick-and- mortar gaming empire will be poised to consolidate the fragmented Internet gaming space before the other jokers in your industry ever get out of the deck. Gambling is part of the American culture. Where would we be today if the incubators of capitalism like Edison, Carnegie, and Rockefeller hadn’t possessed the entrepreneurial spirit that made this country great? Those guys were the purist of gamblers who’d risk everything to win it all. They refused to compromise or share, just like us sitting here tonight. American’s love a winner and that fact alone draws them to Vegas like flies to shit. Internet gaming is a more convenient way for players to feed that urge, and we need to be in that space, providing the easy fix to all those hooked on the feeling.

The doughy-fingered man looked squarely at the elder statesman with eyes of stone and revealed nothing. He continued to stare blindly at him for a few seconds as quiet filled the room.

His fingers stopped their fidgety movement and he responded in a rough-and-tumble voice, When you put it that way, how can I resist? Being in the gambling business the last thirty years has taught me one thing: only a fool with too much money avoids the warning signs. Let me know what you’re funding needs will be and I’ll see that you get them. Remember, I want this to be at arm’s length, but I want to be kept informed through my second in command every step of the way.

You got it, but one thing more, said the elder statesman. A man can never have too much money.

Hal’s trip from the airport into the City could only be described as one heck of a snarled mess as he toiled through the always pervasive rush hour traffic and the human toll it inflicted on its commuters every morning of every day. The parking lot pathway into the City gave Hal time to reflect, and it made him angry. It worked him into a frenzy just thinking how his in-laws wouldn’t leave their opulent surroundings in warm, cozy Laguna Beach, to visit their only daughter and newly born grandson. So what that they were on the cusp of