Unload!

(To all the samurai who wake up in the dark for that daily duel to the death on the beach at dawn. You are not forgotten.)

“He was ... a degenerate gambler. That is, a man who gambled simply to gamble and must lose. As a hero who goes to war must die. Show me a gambler and I’ll show you a loser, show me a hero and I’ll show you a corpse.”??- Mario Puzzo

Three months out of the Marine Corps, I found myself outside the open door of my hotel room at the Harbor Island Apartments in Las Vegas. It was 105 degrees and nearly one in the morning. Metro police officers inspected my broken window. My three-year-old daughter was crying in the living room. My soon-to-be ex-wife sat on the concrete steps in handcuffs, her makeup smeared, heels scuffed, talking shit to a female officer who rummaged through her purse.

"Fuck all you motherfuckers," she said, "Tupac gave me a thousand dollars for a VIP dance tonight at OG's. That's my fucking money!"

She was actually telling the truth. It sickened and emasculated me but after all, Christina had come to Las Vegas in possession of two of the city's most precious yet disposable commodities: youth and beauty. She'd been selling them to the highest bidder at the Olympic Gardens for the past three months. I had come to Las Vegas to talk her out of it and somehow convince her to come back with me and Zo? to California. Or at least that's what I kept telling myself. My brother-in-law recounted his version of the night's events to another officer on the catwalk above the swimming pool. Christina had pulled up in a convertible Mercedes around midnight, drunk as fuck, pounded on our door demanding to see Zoe, then punched a hole in our living room window.

The female officer placed a hand on the back of Christina's head as she guided her into the backseat of the patrol car. The officers left just as the front desk clerk climbed the staircase to hand me a notice to vacate the premises within 24 hours.

"Thank you for your service!" I said as he walked away.

24 hours. That's a lifetime in a combat zone. I had no choice now. Ten miles and a few well-played phone calls could change everything for everyone. I put Zo? back to bed, set my alarm for one hour, then stared up at the ceiling.

4:00 am.

I lept from my bed, put on golf shorts, running shoes, rolled up my Tommy Bahama shirt then stuffed it into my backpack so it wouldn't get wet from my perspiration.

I ran in the predawn light, down the strip, past the Stardust, the Mirage, Ceasars... three miles into my ten-mile daily run to the office. Let's just say I was given a very interesting and lucrative job opportunity, by a group of Italian businessmen from Buffalo who were in the Sports Gaming industry. They were all millionaires and had no idea that I didn't have a vehicle, and now, not even a place to live anymore. I turned onto Tropicana at the Excalibur then picked up my pace. I still had three more miles to go. The sun would rise soon and our mandatory "steam meeting" was at 5 am, before the East Coast calls would start lighting up the switchboard. A horn honked twice.

"You're an animal, Rash!" shouted Frank Russo from his convertible Ferrari. He sped down Tropicana towards Decatur. My thighs burned. Sweat poured down my face and body. One by one, luxury cars passed me by, honking their horns, cheering me on but never stopping to offer me a ride. Everyone at the office thought I ran to work because I was a motivated, hard-charging Marine. Not because I had no other choice. Just before dawn, I climbed the steps, two at a time, to the offices of Dan Pastorini Sports. I shut the bathroom door behind me and collapsed to the floor, attempting to catch my breath. I toweled off, washed my face in the sink, put on my shirt then headed to my cubicle.

“You’re gonna feel like you’ve been struck by lightning when we blow six and… I mean, when we unload on this burial of a… Tony, hold on a second please,” I said.

I pressed the hold button. Line two flashed on and off. I closed my eyes and squeezed my head between my hands. I opened my eyes. The flashing stopped. Tony had hung up.

“Fuck!” I whispered. I looked at the wall of my cubicle, then snatched Christina's picture from it. Thumbtacks landed on my desk. I crumpled the picture and threw it into the trash.

“Hey, Rash. Get over here!” said Frank. All of the other sports consultants were gathered around Frank’s desk. “We’re gonna have a quick steam meeting before we kick off today.” He stood at his desk, squeezing a football in his hands.

“All right, listen up,” said Frank. He paced back and forth. “I know you’re all aware of the situation going on between ourselves and the Vegas Pipeline. Believe me, I understand all too well how hard this work can be, especially when you’re running around out there, worried about getting shot or killed on top of all this bullshit.”

Frank pointed the football at me.

“I’m sure you all heard about the incident the Rash had at Deja Vous last night…”

Dr. Vegas slapped me on the back and massaged my shoulders.

“Way to go, Rash.” Said Dr. Vegas, in a whisper.

“My point is this,” said Frank. “We're heading into the playoffs now, fellas. The money we’re making right now is about to triple, you understand? We’ve gotta look out for each other in the streets. We’ve gotta pull together when we’re here in the office, and get that fucking money! Because it’s there for the taking if we’ve got the balls!”

The men in the room looked at each other. Our faces hardened.

“I want you to get in there! Go for the juggler!” said Frank. “Pound on em’! Chew on em’ and squeeze those degenerate, lying piece-of-shit sports gamblers for every dime they’ve got!! You understand me?!!”

“Yeah!”??“Fucking A!”?“We’re with ya’, Frank!”

Frank climbed up onto his desk.

“Arizona State won last night!” said Frank. “We had everybody unload, so they’re all up a ton! Saturday’s games are coming. And it’s time for them to pay the fucking piper! You bring me that money!”

We all cheered. Frank pulled a wad of cash from his pocket.

“I’ve got five hundred dollars for the first season deal of the day! I’ve got a thousand cash for the first lock package sold! Are you ready for some football?!!!!”

“YEAH!!!”

We sprinted for our cubicles like savages, roaring and yelling at the top of our lungs. Secretaries cowered, their backs against the massive whiteboard. Frank punted the football. It ricocheted off the ceiling with a thud.

“You’ve got to be shittin’ me, Clarence!” I shouted into my telephone. I stood at my cubicle and pushed my chair back. I began to pace the floor. “You shoot me a lousy nickel. That’s juice money for a player like you! That’s not even my valet at Caesar’s for the week. I’ll still give you all of Dan’s college plays, that’s Thursday night’s game, five to seven games on Saturday, all the pro on Sunday, plus Dan’s ten-thousand star Monday Night NFL Lock of the Year! That game has covered eighteen out of the last twenty plays. It’s a dead-bang winner, Clarence, guaranteed three-touchdown blowout.”

“But, Jimmy I-”

“Clarence, listen to me!”

“No, fuck that, Jimmy!” said Clarence, “You listen to me! I already paid you thirty-five hundred for the season package. Then after we lost the Bamma Tennessee game, I sent you another two dimes for this so-called Lock Package! All those games are supposed to win! You said I get all the games!”

Frank Russo paced the floor, in front of a large elevated desk at the helm of the production floor. He kept his cordless phone to his ear, listening in on every word of my pitch. The war-room roared around me, droning with Buffalo and Atlantic City accents. Sports consultants screamed, shouting their bullets down the phone lines. “Unload!” “You shoot me a lousy dime!” “That’s juice money for a player like you!” “Dan’s on fire!”

“Clarence, listen to me!” I said. “Let me ask you a question and be honest with me. I’ve been honest with you goddamnit!”

“What, Jimmy?” said Clarence.

“Look,” I said, “if you knew, I mean absolutely knew, that one game was going to win, how much could you move on it? And before you answer me, remember I know how much you picked up on last week’s action, Clarence.”

I looked up towards Frank Russo. We made eye contact across the room. Secretaries ran back and forth with deal sheets in their hands. They screamed to each other, changing the totals on the massive whiteboards. Frank’s tennis bracelet shone beneath the fluorescent lights. His eyes were steel. He nodded to me.

“Well…” said Clarence, “I mean, if I knew the game was going to win, I guess I could move ten dimes. But shit, Jimmy!”

“Clarence let me ask you this!” I said.?“Hold on a minute, there’s too many people around here.” I put Clarence on hold. I closed my eyes and exhaled. I tried to refocus my mind. I thought of my daughter back at the hotel room. I began to count down from ten. Dr. Vegas, that three hundred pound Irishman in Italian wool and suspenders, looked over the top of his cubicle at me.

Atta’ boy, Rash,” said Dr. Vegas. “Give it to him. Take his fucking head off.”

“Alright, enough already!” said Frank, “Get back in there, Rash! Get me the fucking money, kid.”

I took Clarence off hold.

“Hello, Clarence?” I said in a whisper. “Look, have you ever seen one of those games where the receiver is wide open, catches the pass, then somehow drops it in the end zone? Or where there’s an easy twenty-yard field goal to be made and it just barely misses the uprights? Well…? I mean, if I were sitting in your living room right now I could tell you things that… My God, I could tell you such things… Let’s do this, shoot me the nickel, Clarence. Dan won’t take any less for this game, not with an eight and two record, brother. And let’s bang this one, Ok?”

SILENCE

“Ok, Jimmy. I’ll do it,” said Clarence. “I mean, a fixed game, hell-“

“Hey hey hey!” I said. “Not on the phone, Clarence.”

“Oh, sorry, Jimmy,” said Clarence. “Ok then, so how much should I move on it?” I looked back at Frank again. Frank covered the receiver of his cordless with the palm of his hand. He mouthed the magic word. I nodded.

“Unload!” I said. “Un-fucking-load! I want you to move the whole ten dimes, Clarence and we’ll bury that cock-sucking bookie of yours by Sunday afternoon, you hear me?! We’ll be up thirty thousand, Clarence! And that’s the kind of bankroll we want to have going into the playoffs! After this weekend, we’ll be ready to open an offshore account, or you’ll have to come to Vegas to place your bets. You’ll be moving too much weight by then. Are you ready, Clarence?!”

“Holy shit, Jimmy,” said Clarence. “I’ve never moved this much money before. But fuck it. Let’s do it! Let’s do it! It ain’t mine anyway!”

“All right, Clarence,” I said. “You did the right thing, buddy. I’ll just slap the nickel on the AMEX then, get you a new pin number, and have my girls from verification call you right back, Ok?”

“Yeah, that’s fine,” said Clarence. “But look, just make sure you have them call me on my cell number, Jimmy. You hear me? And give me fifteen minutes to get away from the house. My wife will emasculate me, Jim, if she finds out. She really will. Not some sort of emotional or spiritual emasculation either. She will physically emasculate me. So don’t fuck up and call the wrong number again, Jimmy. You understand?”

“Not a problem, Clarence. I’ve got it handled,” I said.

Two men walked past my cubicle.?One was a ferret of a man in Italian silk, the other, a sixty-five year old pit bull in tan Donna Karin. Frank nodded to the men as they passed by.?They headed towards a pair of double doors, at the back of the room. They both carried briefcases.

(For context: https://www.justice.gov/archive/criminal/cybercrime/press-releases/2001/goldmedalPlea.htm)