Them Hustlers Read online

  Them Hustlers

  Title Page

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Part II

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Part III

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Part IV

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Part V

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Them Hustlers

  Jeffrey Manber

  Published by C.P. West Productions

  Copyright 2011 Jeffrey Manber

  All Rights Reserved

  http://www.jeffreymanber.com

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents are totally the product of the author's imagination, except in the case of historical figures and events, which may or may not be used fictitiously.

  Dedication

  To Dana,

  for reading, re-reading, and reading again the manuscript

  and connecting the many missing dots.

  Other Books by Jeffrey Manber

  Lincoln's Wrath

  Selling Peace

  _

  We need to stop destroying imperfect people at the altar

  of an unobtainable morality.

  Congressman Richard Gephardt of Missouri

  December 19th, 1998

  The first (politician) to fall was Bob Livingston

  who was Speaker-Elect of the House, who was scheduled

  to take Newt Gingrich’s place.

  When he was forced to resign

  a couple of days later, he did an interview

  with The New York Times

  and he referred to me as a bottom feeder,

  and the Times called me for a comment.

  And I said, yeah, that’s right,

  but look what I found when I got down there.

  Hustler Publisher Larry Flynt

  Interview on Democracy Now, August 3rd, 2004

  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.”