Cheater's Game

by Paul Levine

  Lance and I exited the rear of the house onto a loggia with a seating area around a fireplace, where logs blazed, preparing for the bone-chilling moment when the current 70 degrees plummeted to 67. I’m not being pissy about that. Floridians love fireplaces. We just wish we needed them. We love mountains, too. But we’re long on coastline, short on mountains, and big on envy.

  Lance and I emerged onto a shaded terrace that overlooked a garden with a dozen rows of rose bushes. Past the garden were tiled steps that led down to a grassy lawn the size of a football field. A bar with a white-coated bartender was set up at one end of the terrace. Below was an infinity lap pool about fifty yards long. If you were swimming laps, the pool would appear to be endless, merging with horizon, which is to say, the Pacific Ocean.

  Kip and Max Ringle, wearing identical thin, dark blue zip-up hoodies and jeans, stood at the bar. Thanks to Melissa showing me a website called “Dress Like a Billionaire,” I knew those were the Loro Piana bomber hoodies worn by Bobby Axelrod, the shady hedge fund antihero of “Billions.” Cashmere, smooth as a baby’s ass, about $2,300, according to what I’d read. The hoodie announces to the world that you idolize a hedge fund zillionaire who tiptoes so close to the line that his shadow ought to be in prison.

  Ringle had added one accessory to his outfit that Kip, thankfully, had not. A red silk scarf casually tossed around his neck like Snoopy, about to fly his Sopwith Camel into battle against the Red Baron. If you ask me, the scarf didn’t go with the hoodie, but my knowledge of fashion is stuck in a time warp of bell-bottom jeans and tie-dyed T-shirts, or are those back in style?

  Ringle long-legged it toward me across the wide expanse of terrace, his scarf flapping behind him. He was just over six feet tall and lanky. He had a full head of hair, grayish white like a seagull with yellow nicotine streaks, and it was combed forward, Julius Caesar style. His handsome angular face was deeply tanned and deeply lined, and when he smiled at me, he had two rows of perfect white teeth—or crowns—that shined like headlights from that tanning hide complexion.

  “Jacob!” he called out. “Jacob Lassiter! At long last!”

  Ringle was as ecstatic as if I were his long-lost brother, just rescued from a desert island. He extended a hand. We shook, vigorously, thanks to his enthusiasm. “I’m Dr. Maximilian Ringle. Call me Max.”

  “Call me Jake. Nice to meet you.”

  “Love your sweater! God, I wish I had your chest.” He shot a look at Kip, who was taking his time joining us. “He’s bigger than I imagined.”

  Kip moseyed my way, and I threw my arms around him and squeezed. His return hug was less enthusiastic, but it was still a hug. He still had a pair of purplish black eyes and scratches on his face from where the airbag had smacked him. “Kippers,” I said. “I’m so damn happy to see you.”

  “Same here, Jake.” A tone as formal as the evenly spaced rows of roses in the garden.

  “We’re drinking gin rickeys,” Ringle said. “Perfect to slake your thirst, eh?”

  “Slake,” Kip said. “From the Old English ‘slacian,’ meaning ‘to mitigate or moderate.'”

  “Ha! There he goes,” Ringle said. “Does he do that with you, Jake? I say a word, and the lad gives me its etymology.”

  “From the Greek,” Kip said. “Etumologia.”

  Ringle laughed, just delighted with his protégé or maybe his prodigy. I’m not as good with words as my nephew.

  “I guess your word game has replaced Ten,” I said.

  Ringle raised his silvery eyebrows, as if asking a question, and Kip explained, “When I was a kid, Jake used to toss me a ball until I caught it ten times in a row.”

  “Ah so,” Ringle said. “Must be that athletic training of yours, Jake. Mindless repetition, eh?”

  “I’ll have that gin now,” I said.

  Ringle gave a hand signal to the bartender, who caught it, though he was a good fifty feet away. The three of us sat in tasteful, cushioned outdoor furniture, Ringle giving me the best ocean view. After the bartender brought my first drink and their refills, I got right to the point. “I’m concerned about Kip.”

  “Why?” Ringle said. “Because some government scribblers making civil service salaries are sniffing around?” He dismissed that idea with a wave of his hand. “We’re legitimate. Ninety percent of our business is no different than other college consulting firms.”

  “I’m betting it’s that other ten percent the government is fussing about.”

  “Our only sin is making too much money.” His perfect teeth gave me a high-beam smile. “You’d be astonished to learn how much some parents will pay to get their children into prestigious universities.”

  “Go ahead. Astonish me.”

  “Say you’re a Chinese billionaire.” Ringle swirled his glass, ice cubes clinking. “You own factories that sell to the West. You admire America, and you want your children to attend Harvard or Yale or Stanford. You come to us.”

  I sipped at my drink. “What would this billionaire pay?”

  “Whatever I ask, and I’ll tell you why. I’ve spent twenty years nourishing contacts at our finest universities. I’ve knocked on all the doors. The front door is the standard admission route. Apply blindly over the Internet, take your tests, and hope for the best. Good luck with that.”

  He flashed a look at Kip, who nodded his approval. They shared a disdain for those suckers lined up at the front door.

  “Then there’s the back door,” Ringle said. “You have four generations of alumni in your family, and your grandfather gave a five-million dollar gift that bought a small structure on campus, a covered bicycle rack or a bus stop. Maybe that will get your kids in, and maybe it won’t.”

  “Why do I think there’s one more door?” I asked.

  “The side door. It’s where we enter, and we guarantee admission.”

  “How can you possibly do that?” I asked.

  Ringle polished off his drink and whispered, “Trade secret.”

  Kip said, “The guarantee is why we can charge whatever the parents can afford.”

  “Which is?” I asked.

  “Maybe for a family in Bakersfield, it’s only $30,000 for résumé enhancement, essay preparation, and immersive test strategies. But for that billionaire Chinese family, they might happily pay five million.”

  I let out a long whistle. “I hope you throw in a Harvard sweatshirt with that.” I finished my gin rickey, and before I put the glass on the table, the bartender delivered another, perfectly chilled and perfectly tart. “Let’s follow that money,” I said. “What happens to the five million?”

  Ringle tapped his temple with an index finger whose nail was manicured and polished. “That information is locked in here.”

  A cool breeze stirred the rose bushes in the gardens below us and chilled the terrace. My $5,000 sweater kept me at room temperature, but I wondered how those shaved vicuñas made it through the winters in the Andes.

  “What else would you like to know?” Ringle asked.

  “I saw your game room and its fancy eGame consoles. Kip, are you blowing battleships out of the water these days?”

  “Aw, jeez, Uncle Jake.”

  “Let me intervene,” Ringle said. “Kip has told me that when he was younger, he overindulged.”

  “Let’s not sugarcoat,” I said. “He was addicted. It took over his life.”

  “Jake, I have a master’s in social work and a Ph.D. in psychology. Before I founded Q.E.D., I was an addiction counselor to adolescents at a prominent rehab facility in Orange County. Alcohol, opioids, gambling. I don’t believe Kip was addicted in the clinical sense. Still, bearing in mind your concerns, I’ve limited his time to three hours of play every other day. About the length of a football game, is it not?”

  He had an answer for everything, I thought. Best not to underestimate the guy. He was such a slick con man, he could sell a boy’s band to the rubes in River City.

  “Let me tell you something else about your nephew,” Ringle sa
id. “He’s a stand-up guy.”

  “Do you want to elaborate?”

  “Kip told me about his problem in Atlantic City.”

  Whereas he made me give a blood oath of Omertà.

  “He took the rap for that rich kid from Greenwich,” Ringle continued. “Most young people would have caved. That told me I could trust Kip completely. That if I was loyal to him, he would be loyal to me, even when external forces applied extraordinary pressure. I know the FBI came to him and asked him to wear a wire, and he told them to shove it up their tight asses.”

  Both Ringle and Kip shared a laugh, nodding at each other inside their smooth hoodies. I felt left out of the party.

  So bizarre. Wasn’t it only yesterday I was teaching Kip how to field sharply hit ground balls without closing his eyes? Now, he had adopted a new coach. Someone wealthier, smarter, and more ambitious than his old Uncle Jake. A player in a world I knew nothing about.

  Kip likely imagined a future where he would own an adjacent villa on that Grand Cayman beach. Meanwhile, stuffy old Uncle Jake figured they’d be sharing adjacent prison cells.

  Through all the fog, a realization was dawning, an island peeking out of the mist. I had misjudged Kip. It went back to when he had taunted me with those hurtful words that kept surging back like a relentless incoming tide: “Wake up, Jake! Survival of the fittest. Capitalism at work.”

  I had thought he was merely echoing Max Ringle. But there was more to it. That was who Kip had become. Ringle had somehow found this innocent, brilliant waif and conned him into becoming his unethical and avaricious clone.

  In the battle for Kip, I was being routed by the enemy. But the war had just begun.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The Golden Key

  The three of us were still drinking gin rickeys, and the sun was performing its nightly trick of sinking toward the Pacific Ocean, streaking a thin band of clouds with shades of orange and purple. A uniformed catering crew was setting up platters of salmon and shrimp and iced mounds of caviar with various cheeses and fruits.

  Lifestyles of the rich and infamous.

  “Do you have any other questions about our little business?” Ringle’s smile was a humble brag. He didn’t mean “little” at all.

  “These financial advisors you’re wining and dining tonight. Your feeders. Do you pay them kickbacks for sending you clients?”

  “‘Kickbacks’ is such an ugly word.”

  “So is ‘prison,’ but I still use it from time to time.”

  Ringle regarded me curiously. Just why was I pulling his chain? Simple. I yearned to provoke him. I wanted to see what was under that smooth veneer and cashmere hoodie. In my experience, when an adverse witness is angry with me, he’s more likely to blurt out the truth.

  “It’s true, we pay the financial advisors consulting fees,” he said. “If that’s a breach of their fiduciary duties to their clients, it’s not our concern.”

  “Max is expanding our Pacific Rim business,” Kip added. “We’re opening offices in Beijing and Taipei. Maybe Seoul, too.”

  “Our first step is totally immersive English language classes,” Ringle said. “The Chinese students have the most difficulty with reading comprehension. Who can blame them? Can any of us speak Mandarin?”

  Ringle and Kip shared a laugh over that. Oh, they were on the same page of the same script. Yeah, I was jealous, I’ll admit it.

  “The Chinese students are brilliant,” Ringle said, “the best young minds anywhere. If we educate them here, think of the possibilities for better relations between our countries. They’re the next generation of Chinese leaders.”

  “So, you’re actually performing a public service.”

  “In part, certainly.”

  “If you’re not indicted, maybe you’ll get the Presidential Medal of Freedom.”

  Ringle studied me. “What makes you so cynical, Jake? All those years defending criminals?”

  “Could be. In Florida, our main products are oranges and fraud. And maybe I’m always seeing the danger around every corner. But mostly, I’m worried about Kip.”

  “Then why don’t you simply ask the question you’ve been dancing around?”

  “When I examine a hostile witness, I don’t begin by kicking him in the nuts. I start by complimenting his Loro Piana hoodie and maybe his Patek Philippe watch.” I nodded toward his wrist. “Your stainless-steel Nautilus is more understated than the solid gold and probably keeps time just as well. Perfect accompaniment for your hoodie.”

  He nodded. “Now that the formalities are over, fire away.”

  I took a deep breath and exhaled. It was late afternoon, but with my abbreviated night’s sleep, the coast-to-coast flight, and the time change, my energy was waning, and my head was pounding, drumsticks banging on tympani.

  “Is Kip getting paid to take SAT and ACT exams for your clients?” I asked.

  “You’ll have to ask Kip. He’s President of Personalized Test Enhancement, Incorporated. It’s a separate division within Q.E.D.”

  “Separate division? What is this, General Motors?”

  “My lawyers suggested a distinct corporate entity when Kip came up with the idea. The Golden Key, Kip called it. It unlocks that side door when all our more traditional methods fail.”

  “Let me guess,” I said. “Kip is the sole officer and shareholder. You have no title and no salary. Your name doesn’t appear in the corporate documents, and on the books, Kip gets all the revenue.”

  “He deserves it. It’s his baby from A to Z. So clever, so deliciously devious. Kip is the brains of the operation, the mastermind. And he’s paid accordingly.”

  “Max has been very generous,” Kip said.

  “And very insulated,” I chimed in. “He’s the Mafia don sipping espresso at the social club, blissfully unaware that the guys who drive his trucks are dumping bodies in the Meadowlands.”

  “Jesus, Jake!” Kip shot me an accusing look. “Why are you throwing shade? You’re embarrassing me.”

  “All parents embarrass their kids. It’s our job. It’s how we protect you.”

  “You’re an old burnout. Like that sheriff in No Country for Old Men. You just don’t get it.”

  I processed that for a moment. Tommie Lee Jones played an aging sheriff who couldn’t wrap his head around the extreme violence that had come to his doorstep. He planned to turn in his badge. What was it he said?

  “I feel overmatched.”

  Okay, I can relate. I turned toward Ringle, my head clanging, cymbals now joining the drums. “Kip told me you were brilliant. And now I see why.”

  “I think he’s brilliant, as well.”

  “Sure. Sure. We all know that. But Kip is young and reckless and hasn’t learned the art of covering his ass. On the other hand, you, Max Ringle . . . you wear boxer shorts that are just like your wristwatch. Stainless steel.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Sleeping with the Roses

  There was simply no provoking the man. I had insulted Ringle to get a rise out of him. Instead of a heated reaction, he asked if I wanted another drink and would I like an early start on the buffet?

  No and no.

  “There are vegan options if you’re like Kip and me,” he said, pointedly.

  I shook my head. They could have the sesame-ginger-tofu veggie stir-fry all to themselves. Still the gracious host, Ringle apologized for not being able to put me up for the night. The guest cottages were filled with the financial advisors who send him Chinese billionaires and Hollywood studio executives. I told him I’d seen a Motel 6 from the freeway and could backtrack and find it. He chuckled and said he’d taken the liberty of making a reservation for me at the new Miramar oceanfront hotel. A bungalow on the beach. Just sign for everything, Q.E.D. will pay for the room, which he casually mentioned was two thousand a night.

  “Before you go,” Ringle said, “what else do you want to know?”

  “Those contacts at the fancy universities. What’s the w
ord you used? You ‘nourished’ them. What’s that mean? Watered them like your roses down there?”

  Ringle stood and turned toward the railing overlooking the perfect rows, each bush symmetrical. All those velvety reds. All those deep yellows, some with the high color of ripe peaches. And tiny, mini roses in a painter’s palette of colors. The sea breeze carried their heady perfume across the terrace.

  “It took two decades of trial and error to find the right people,” Ringle said. “Coaches and admissions officers who aren’t burdened by every rule and regulation, who see the good in our work. On a corporate balance sheet, those contacts would be priceless assets.”

  “Why do I think they actually have a price? And when some billionaire gives you five million bucks, a bundle goes to you, some to the university, and some to these well-fed assets.”

  “We earn our fees, and I make no apology for them. We enhance résumés, magnify extracurricular activities, maybe even exaggerate athletic prowess to get a leg up in admissions. Nothing illegal about that, is there?”

  “I have no idea.”

  My headache was morphing into tinnitus with at least seventy-six trombones accompanying the drums as a marching band high-stepped inside my cranium.

  “That’s all I choose to say about my business,” Ringle said. “However, I have no objection if Kip tells you about his business.”

  “His business.”

  As if there were a real boundary. I suspected the border between Kip’s business and Ringle’s company was more like the seashore. No clear delineation where the incoming tide ends and dry sand begins. But for legal purposes, there was an imaginary wall protecting Ringle and exposing Kip.

  “Jake, you’ll be proud of your nephew’s accomplishments if you just ease up a little.”

  “I’ll ease up when I’m confident he’s not going to get indicted for tending your roses.”

  Ringle sighed and looked over the expanse of his property. A sunbaked man in his sixties wearing a straw hat was spraying the rose bushes from a hose, the mist rainbowing in the late afternoon sun.