Chapter 18
On a glorious Saturday morning in early September, with a chill in the air and the golden leaves falling from the oaks and maples, Simon rose early in The Closet and left to do what he now dreaded: stand away from the crowd and watch his talented nine-year-old daughter chase a soccer ball around the field.
Kickoff was eight-thirty, so he arrived ten minutes early to make sure Janie saw him, which she did.
Paula had watched the last game. This one was his.
The tag-team approach worked because they had no choice.
Simon was startled when Paula suddenly said, “I brought you a coffee.” She handed him a tall white cup with a lid.
“Thanks. What are you doing here?”
“It wouldn’t be a real Saturday without soccer, now would it?”
“I thought you were at a swim meet with Danny.”
“He quit.”
“Danny quit swimming?”
“He did.”
“When?”
“This morning. He wouldn’t get out of bed, said he was quitting.”
Simon wanted to celebrate. Of all the sports the kids had tried so far, swimming was the worst because it was year-round. Danny had been a fish until he was twelve years old, then the other kids caught up. Now he rarely won a race and was losing his love for the sport.
The ref blew her whistle and the game was on.
“How’s Janie’s attitude these days?” he asked.
“Who knows? One day she’s okay, the next she’s in a mood. She’s having a rougher time with the divorce than the boys. Our house is a pretty gloomy place these days.”
“Then let’s get the divorce behind us and move on.”
“Move on to where?”
The great question. Where were they going? What was their endgame after splitting the family? Was that supposed to make life fulfilling again? Simon had no answers, nor did Paula, but the only thing they were sure of was that they could not stay together.
She said, “There’s something else.” Then silence.
Ah, now the real reason for her unscheduled appearance at another soccer game too early on a Saturday morning. He waited without a word, refusing to help her.
“The Glen is being sold, another merger of some variety. I’m not sure what it means for me.
” She had a master’s degree in business administration and earned $72,000 a year as the finance director at a midrange retirement community called The Glen.
It was owned by a large, shifty corporation that changed its name every three years and had a reputation that was not exactly stellar.
“We had our first round of layoffs yesterday.”
“And what are your chances of being laid off?”
“Not sure, but the place is in full panic mode.”
The last thing they needed was more uncertainty. Her steady salary had been the one constant in their otherwise unsteady finances.
“Any idea when the second round will take place?”
“No. The big boys aren’t saying much, probably because they don’t know and they’re scared too. The decisions are being made in San Diego.”
“I’m sorry.” And he really was. A layoff could only add misery to what was already a forgettable year. The pressure on him to produce even more would get ratcheted up. They would probably be forced to broach the subject of selling their home.
Like clockwork, Janie scored the first goal, a twenty-yard-line drive that landed high in the net and stunned the other team. Simon managed to clap his hands together, the proud father. Paula yelled something that could not be heard.
Regardless of his firm’s revenues and expenses, Simon managed to cook the books enough each year to net more than his wife.
It was a matter of pride. He was a lawyer, with seven years of higher education and membership in an old, honored profession.
He was expected to earn big bucks! Never mind the fact that most of the lawyers up and down Main Street were grunting out a living and taking home less than a union truck driver.
“Why don’t you sign the property settlement so we can get it filed?”
“Because we need a little cash around the house.”
“What else is new?” Simon asked in frustration.
“I will not be reduced to begging you for money, Simon. These are our children we’re talking about.”
Kelsey, from the morning coffee club, appeared from nowhere and went through the silly ritual of quick hugs.
She was a horrible gossip and probably couldn’t withstand the temptation to butt into the Latches’ latest soccer spat.
The rumors of a breakup were rampant and Kelsey, of course, was dying of curiosity and eager to see or hear something she could report to the others.
Simon and Paula forced some small talk about the kids and school.
Kelsey finally took the hint and said so long.
“They’re all watching,” Paula said.
“Let’s get the divorce filed and be done with it.”
“I need twelve thousand dollars, cash.”
“For what?”
“Driving lessons for Buck, braces for Danny, piano for Janie, plus a transmission for the car, four thousand there, and a new oven. Give me a check for twelve thousand and I’ll sign the property settlement on Monday, at my lawyer’s office.”
“And who may I ask is your new lawyer?”
“Myrna Covington.”
“Never heard of her.”
“She’s not from around here.”
“And how much of the twelve thousand goes for her fees?”
“Can’t say. That’s privileged.”
He mumbled to himself and left. He walked past field after field, game after game, hundreds of happy kids and thousands of proud parents and grandparents, all watching and dreaming of future soccer glory.
Simon didn’t have a spare $12,000 lying around, unneeded, in a bank account.
He did have a line of credit with a friendly banker down the street, a loyal pal who’d been loaning him small sums for years.
Most lawyers in town needed an occasional bump when the fees ran thin, and this banker in particular had always rolled the dice with them.
Ironically, the funds Paula needed equaled almost exactly Simon’s current deficit down at Chub’s.
Saturday was a big day in college football, with showdowns in every major conference, and Simon had studied the board all week.
He’d read the game summaries, followed the handicappers in Vegas, or at least the ones he trusted, pored over gamblers’ cheat sheets, and listened to podcasts, and he was convinced the day was perfect for bold, unconventional action.
He went online and spread $7,000 over seven games. He called Chub and put $3,500 on the same seven.
There was no way to lose.
By 8 P.M., Simon was the smartest guy in the world and ready for a drink.
He walked into Chub’s with a smile on his face and took a seat at the bar.
He’d won the first five bets and was up $7,500 for the day, minus the juice of course, with two games to go.
He had never had such luck. Valerie brought him a bourbon and ginger ale.
LSU was at Florida and Clemson was at NC State, the games side by side on the big screens.
Chub, always the good sport, soon made his way over and said, “Why are you smiling?”
“Might be one of those days, Chub.”
“Don’t get cocky.”
“Not in this business.”
“I’ll get it back,” Chub said with a laugh.
“I’m sure you will.”
They laughed and watched the LSU kickoff.
Valerie called Chub away for a business question.
The bar was crowded with drinkers and gamblers.
A band played in a distant corner and dancers lurched around it.
Even though it was against the law, Chub allowed smoking in his club and a thick blue haze hung low and obscured the lights.
The bar was loud, even raucous at times. It was, after all, Saturday night!
A man dressed like a cowboy took the seat next to Simon and stuck a twenty-dollar bill into the video machine.
Valerie eventually made her way over and he ordered a draft beer.
Simon tried not to speak to strangers in bars and ignored the guy.
He was up seventy dollars in video poker and was quietly relishing his biggest day ever.
Softly, the cowboy said, “Yolanda says hello.”
Simon hesitated for a second but did not look at the guy. In his life he had known only one Yolanda. When Simon did nothing but shrug, the guy said, “We work together.”
Yolanda had been a girlfriend in law school where they dated off and on for two years before calling it quits.
From there she joined the FBI and moved around.
Last he heard, she was in the Richmond office.
They’d had no contact since their ten-year reunion.
As far as Simon knew, she was married and dedicated to a career with the FBI.
Simon glanced at the guy, who was concentrating on his poker and did not look up. “Nice girl.”
“Uh-hmm. Super nice. She asked me to say hello.”
Simon took a drink and watched the games.
The FBI was there, in Chub’s Pub. An old friend had just tipped him off.
The small knot in his stomach suddenly felt like a brick.
The cowboy, and Yolanda, were doing the unthinkable: compromising an undercover operation.
They must consider Simon to be such a small player that he was not really necessary to their plan.
They were going for Chub and the big gamblers. Simon was not important.
The conversation was definitely off the record; therefore, the cowboy was not wired. Simon finally said, “Where is she these days?”
“Around.”
This guy would give him nothing more.
“Tell her I said hello, and thanks.”
“Will do. Don’t drag your feet.”
Simon’s feet were ready to sprint out of the bar and run and hide somewhere.
But he played some poker, watched both of his teams fall behind, tried unsuccessfully to ignore the palpable tension emanating from the cowboy, and waited.
The guy had not touched his beer, an unprofessional move that would tell anyone watching that he was not a regular and did not belong there.
As far as Simon could tell, no one was watching. The cowboy left without another word.
Simon drank a third bourbon and ginger ale to settle his nerves.
At midnight, he was sitting at his desk, in his boxers, in the complete darkness, trying to analyze the situation.
Was it possible that he and many others had gambled with Chub for so long, and with no consequences, that they assumed they were safe?
Gambling was so pervasive everywhere and at every level that enforcement had become a joke.
Look at the billions made legally by casinos in virtually every state.
Look at the billions of illegal bets made online at offshore sites.
The disaster scenario was sickening. If the Feds moved in with all their tools—wiretaps, hidden cameras, subpoenas, warrants, press leaks, news conferences, SWAT teams—then Chub and his partners, whoever they might be, along with dozens, perhaps hundreds of good customers, including Simon, would be disgraced, humiliated, or worse.
He could lose his license and his livelihood. What would his kids think?
Though he was not a criminal lawyer, he knew quite well the power of the federal government.
The FBI could be brutal, unfair, unforgiving, even ruthless.
The prosecutors could be unsympathetic, ambitious, and were always fond of publicity.
With over five thousand criminal statutes on the books, there were ways to nail just about anybody.
He had to devise a plan but no two thoughts stuck together. Fear overwhelmed every thought. He slept on and off and was up at daybreak with a pot of coffee, still in his boxers, still roaming around his office.
At 7 A.M. his phone dinged and he grabbed it. A text from Paula:
Janie has a soccer game at 9. Rain make up from Wed. Are you going?
You gotta be kidding. Soccer on a Sunday morning? But he knew it was true because it had happened before.
I don’t know. Forgot about it.
Of course. She slept with me last night, quite upset. We should be there.
Okay.
He showered quickly—all showers in The Closet were ramped-up—and left his office. He walked down the street, bought a Sunday newspaper, and settled into a booth at Ethel’s Diner for eggs and bacon.
He needed to talk to Spade.
One dark corner of Chub’s was reserved each Sunday afternoon for men who smoked long, black, and extremely strong cigars.
Spade brought a box of them to share, claimed he got them from a Cuban smuggler.
He was sitting with two friends, puffing away, watching three games at the same time.
He did a double take when Simon approached, then smiled and asked, “What brings you here on Sunday?”
“Had to get out of the house.”
“Want a smoke?”
“No thanks.”
“Who you got?”
“Dallas, tonight.”
“Same here. Same all around. That’s a bad sign.”
They laughed, puffed some more, watched the games. Simon was paranoid to the point of breathing erratically, but managed to appear calm. What if some of these guys were wired? What if the FBI was watching with hidden cameras?
When one friend left for more beer and the other stepped away to talk on his phone, Simon leaned in close to Spade and said, “The Feds are here.”
Spade took it calmly but his eyes said it all. Simon had his attention. The lawyer was not a player in the underworld but he was still a lawyer, with contacts. And he was a gambler who’d been a regular at Chub’s for years.
“Fibbies?” Spade mumbled.
“Yep.”
“Contact?”
“Last night. Here.”
“You talked to them?”
“No, they talked to me.”
Spade drank his beer. Simon whispered, “Can you tell Chub?”
Spade exhaled and rolled his eyes as if that might not work. He shrugged and said, “Don’t know. I’ll think about it.”
The friend with the phone sat down and the conversation was over. But the message was delivered. Simon hung around for another beer, then said goodbye. At the bar he chatted with Valerie. Surely she wasn’t wired. He looked for Chub but didn’t see him.
It was getting dark when he stepped outside, and looking back he wondered when, if ever, he would be back.