Van Man: American Dreams by Marc Desellem

Author:Marc Desellem [Desellem, Marc]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2024-01-17T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Sixty-Six: Winning in any Market.

“Malcom, I really want to congratulate you on buying all those foreclosed properties after that housing bubble burst. Genius… What was it, four hundred homes?”

Clarence Wilton sat across from Malcom Blueblood at a table made of a giant slice of oak tree. Each man had a large frothy beer in front of him.

“Four hundred and thirty-two,” Malcom said, bringing his mug to his lips. “Got ’em dirt cheap, too. And they’ve already started to appreciate.” He laughed. I’ve got renters dumping money into my bank account while I’m sleeping.”

Clarence Wilton smiled. “Isn’t it great that guys like us win in any market?” Wilton raised his glass. “Cheers, my friend.”

The men clinked their mugs and chugged. Putting down his mug, Wilton let out a belch.

“Malcom, I want to ask you a favor. Look, I know you own the San Francisco Hopefuls, and they literally exist to lose. But damn; couldn’t you try to win one more game this season?” Wilton leaned back in his chair, a slight look of concern on his face. “The citizens of San Francisco are getting distressed. I’ve heard them even complaining about the city’s potholes, and they’re pissed the Golden Gate Bridge fell into the bay during rush hour traffic.” Wilton leaned forward, placing his palms on the table. He looked at Malcom to convey a serious tone. “Look, man, sports teams mean something to these peasants. Can’t you give them some tiny thing to celebrate, you know, a distraction?”

With a long finger, Blueblood traced the circle of condensation left behind by his mug, which was now empty and placed at the side of the table. “Well… It’s gonna be hard without that turd, Blankenship… But yeah, I’ll try.” Malcom put his hands behind his head, his fingers laced. He looked at his friend with gratitude. “Thanks for helping me take out that pile of racoon shit, by the way. I set ’em up… You knock ’em down.”

Blueblood laughed. He thought for a moment before speaking. “Let’s see… I can give my players a good old-fashioned motivational speech before the game.” Blueblood unlaced his fingers from behind his head and leaned forward. “I’ll also slip a little bit of amphetamine into the Gatorade cooler.” Blueblood winked.

“I’ll do my part, too,” said Wilton. “The Los Angeles Wildfires have won five games this year. They can afford a loss. So that’s the game we’ll fix.” Wilton flagged down a waiter with a wave of his hand, showing his impatience with a grimace on his face. He continued. “I’ll pay the refs a few bucks to pull a red card here and there. I can also arrange for their best player to eat a stale meal or two the day before the game.”

A waiter arrived to replace the men’s empty mugs. Wilton waited for the server to leave and said, “Remember to place your bets.” He raised his glass.

Malcom followed suit. The men clinked their mugs together. “Consider it done.”

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