Money for Nothing

One Man's Journey through the Dark Side of Lottery Millions

Edward Ugel

• Publisher: HarperCollins e-books
• Year: 2009
• ISBN:
  9780061748295
• Topic: Negocios y empresa
• Subtopic: Biografías de negocios

For the better part of a decade, Edward Ugel spent his time closing deals with lottery winners, making a lucrative and legitimate—if sometimes not-so-nice—living by taking advantage of their weaknesses... weaknesses that, as a gambler himself, he knew all too well.

In Money for Nothing, he explores the captivating world of lottery winners and shows us how lotteries and gambling have become deeply inscribed in every aspect of American life, shaping our image of success and good fortune. Money for Nothing is a witty, wise, and often outrageously funny account of high expectations and easy money.

1

GONZO GOES FISHING

August 1997: Southeast Florida

I am watching Tommy roll another joint, one-handed, while driving his new boat straight out of the inlet into the Atlantic Ocean. I’m laughing so hard it’s making me even more nervous, happy, sad, stunned. I just made a serious commission off this guy and he’s taking me out fishing, too. Forty minutes ago, we were at his bank notarizing the signature pages of his contract. Now, we’re off the clock.

Thank God I left the contracts in the car. There’s sea spray everywhere. They would be soaked, and I’d be beside myself—just beside myself.

Tommy’s someone you like right away. Three years ago, he won a handful of millions in the Florida Lottery. Tommy swears he was happier before he won. I know he’s telling the truth. That’s one of the reasons he trusts me—because I know it’s true. Two days ago, he called our office looking for money after seeing our commercial on The Jerry Springer Show. Within seconds I knew. This could be big.

Tommy’s wearing nothing but a pair of cut-off jean shorts. He is tan, his skin leathered from a life on the water. This is not his first time in the sun. I, on the other hand, am fat and pale. A chain smoker, Tommy sounds like a young Wilford Brimley. I like him a lot. I just do. He’s funny—and we both love to fish. But I can tell that he can be a mean son of a bitch. If he only knew…

The sun feels like it’s thirty feet over my head. I’m burning everywhere. This is not the kind of boat where you go lathering yourself up with SPF 45. I imagine Tommy would not be inclined to rub the lotion into my tough-to-reach areas. I will burn like a man. I hate being manly. I want a Diet Coke. All we have is Budweiser.

I’m sweating. Tommy yells something to me. I hear nothing over the screams of the two huge engines mounted on the back. One engine would definitely be enough for this boat, but we have two…lucky us. Typical lottery winner, the nouveau riche of the nouveau riche. They buy two of everything when one will do.

Tommy looks back and hands me the lit joint. He says something. I can’t hear him over the goddamn engines. I’m pretty sure he said something about the money. I laugh as if to infer that I both heard him and agree with whatever he just said. At this point, it’s best to just agree.

I’m in no mood to smoke, but I’m not about to refuse his offer. I take a long, deliberate drag on the joint. I close the back of my mouth so I look like I’m toking away. The smoke gets sucked into the engine exhaust before I inhale it. Tommy doesn’t notice. Lesson 101 in sales: If a customer offers you something to drink or eat, you accept. It’s just good manners and it puts the other person at ease. It’s good for business—any business.

It’s 3:45 in the afternoon and I’m faking a joint with a client. Why? Because he wants to, and I’m here to make him comfortable. Not a typical day at Smith Barney or Goldman Sachs. It is, to be sure, closer to car sales—very expensive cars.

Tommy is going this fast to (a) test me, (b) scare me, or (c) impress me. He has actually done (d) make me want my nana. I’m too numb and hot and happy about the deal to be truly scared. But deep down, I know I’m in a tight spot. At the very least…the very least, I’m not exactly acting like the son my father raised. Pretending to smoke a joint with a lottery winner just after signing a deal with him is not quite the career my dad had in mind for me.

I think Tommy just said something about his lawyer reading a copy of the docs. Goddamn engine noise. It doesn’t matter now. The deal’s signed. I nod and smile. All I can think about is holding onto any part of the boat that is bolted down—and not dying. The skin cancer I’m bound to get is a longer-term issue. Falling out of the boat, three miles out to sea with a stoned multimillionaire, is a more pressing concern.

Tommy has no idea how we make our money. They never do. He thinks we’re fishing buddies. I wish we were. I will be sorry to disappoint him—that part always stings. But, in the end, more times than not, these deals are one-night stands. He offered to put me up at his house, for Christ’s sake. He didn’t even want me to check into a hotel. He can roll a goddamn joint with one hand. I like Tommy. I could use a friend like him in my real life.

In two weeks, he will threaten to kill me. He will mean it. And I will deserve it.

What kind of job makes all this possible, necessary even? To see the lump-sum business for what it really is, to understand that it has next to nothing to do with finance and numbers, you have to appreciate the kind of folks that win the lottery and the kind of guys who wait in the weeds for them to surface.

Tommy’s first call to The Firm surfaced late in the evening, when decent folks were already home. I was with Ben at the bar, for a change. We were both still in our work clothes, as we’d come straight from the office—four hours ago. We were still working, in a sense, as our cell phones kept ringing with sales reps from all over the country calling in to give us (Ben, really) updates on the status of their deals. So far that night, over a handful of cocktails, we’d both made money as two deals had been signed, all while we guarded our favorite bar stools.

We were both in khakis and golf shirts with The Firm’s logo on the breast pocket. The only real difference in our attire was that, for now, I’d managed to avoid spilling ranch dressing on the front of my shirt. Ben had not been so lucky. He wasn’t too eager to clean it off, either. After a few hours, the dressing now looked more like bird shit, keeping me and several of the bartenders amused.

The night had started out as happy hour, but that was long ago. I was doing the delicate dance between getting looped with Ben, my boss, and trying to keep just a hair more sober than he was. A few more drinks and ten-to-one odds say he’d strongly suggest that we go to a strip club downtown. By now, I knew his drinking rhythms. They were not dissimilar to my own. Ben is a few months younger than me, a fact he loved. We were both young, successful, and highly paid guns for The Firm. He was just more successful and more highly paid. Ben is also disarmingly charming and likable. He is unbelievably talented and equally tough. Basically, I hated him.

The best way to describe Ben is to tell you about the first time we went drinking together. It was my second day working for The Firm. I was still living in my parents’ basement, so I wasn’t exactly running home—even on a Tuesday night. Ben had a black belt in holding his liquor. I had no clue. I figured I’d teach him a thing or two about the real world once we left his turf, the office, and hit a neutral playing field—a bar. Little did I know. He slid into the stool like it was a hot bubble bath. You could almost hear his body say, “Ahhhhh.” A look of calm and comfort covered his face as he lit a Marlboro Light. Dark lighting, stiff drinks, a fresh pack of smokes—Ben was home for the evening.

We knew a few of the same people from high school. It was nice. I was relieved. There was instant chemistry. We liked each other. He was bright and had a decidedly blue sense of humor. He got my jokes, which I consider a sign of intelligence. He was trying to impress me, and he did. I was trying to impress him, too.

With the infamous bladder of a pregnant woman, I was off to the john every few minutes. During one of my bathroom breaks, Ben paid a bartender to go across the street and buy a pack of Depends for me. It was actually quite funny, especially from a guy you hardly knew. He was beside himself. I relaxed. I’d known Ben for two days. We were on a hell of a first date.

A few cocktails later, Ben went to light a cigarette. Striking the stick against the flint, the match caught just as it flung out of Ben’s drunken grasp. As if in slow motion, the lit match tumbled head over heels like a baton, landing gracefully in the long, curly hair of the woman seated directly to my left. Instinctively, I swiped at the poor woman’s igniting head, landing what must have seemed like a violent and unprovoked karate chop to her smoldering perm. She was stunned. I was stunned. Ben was thrilled. Half the bar looked at us, wondering what the hell had just happened. We giggled like boys caught with a Playboy. We were quite amused. The woman’s boyfriend was not. We’d had four or five drinks, and lit matches were flying out of our hands and landing in people’s hair. It would be hard to argue that the guy didn’t have a point. Nonetheless, at that moment I saw a preview of Ben’s dark side—one that I would get to know quite well over the next few years.

Ben went from laughing to dead serious, scary serious, in a split second. I’ll admit that we should not have been lighting women’s hair on fire—that’s a given. But the boyfriend picked the wrong guy to make that point with. Instantly, Ben shot out of his stool and pushed the guy’s chivalrous intentions out of the room. I was stunned. I was scared of him. I was impressed. I was mortified. Ben was quick, too. Not knowing him, I wasn’t sure what the hell was happening, or what I was supposed to do. I don’t exactly have a long history of bar dustups on my résumé. This, in fact, was my first, and I just wanted to become invisible. I was also ashamed of Ben, almost rooting for the other guy to knock some semblance of good manners into him. Thankfully, it didn’t matter. The poor couple threw down a few bucks and scurried off into the night. I wanted to go with them.

I slept at Ben’s condo that night. I was in no condition to walk, much less drive.

He was already up when I opened my bloodshot eyes. To his credit, there was coffee brewing. Apparently, Ben was human. He couldn’t wait to tell me that after the second round of cocktails the night before, his bartender friend had been giving him ice water instead of vodka tonics every other round. I was outdrinking him two to one. He was just tickled with himself. That’s when I realized that he was no ordinary boss. Still, Ben, like vodka, was intoxicating. I couldn’t resist him.

This night, just before Tommy called, Ben and I had gone out for a few drinks. I’d wised up to “just a few” with Ben. We still went out; I just never got into the kind of shape I was that first night. It’s work hanging out with your boss socially. At least it was with mine. Still, when given the choice between staying in the office cold-calling lottery winners until 9:00 P.M. or drinking with Ben, I’d hide my keys and head to Uno’s.

After an hour or so, I was ready to head home. I stopped back into the office to grab my keys. Just as I was turning off the office lights, my phone rang. It was late for business calls, but lottery winners aren’t known to keep banker’s hours. Plus, it could have been someone on the West Coast. We did a lot of deals out West, and I was always taking some sort of late-night sales call or doing damage control with a West Coast winner. I rarely went to sleep before two or three in the morning. I answered on the final ring. It was a Florida winner named Tommy Holmes asking “how does it work?” and “what’s the catch?” These are typical questions for midday but a sign of a serious need for cash at 11:00 P.M. I was on to him right away. He needed money or this call could have, should have, waited until morning. He was waving the financial white flag. The drool started creeping down my chin. Blood was in the water. It was time to go fishing.

I did my best to pretend that it was normal for me to be in the office at this hour. Despite the vodka and buffalo wings brokering a delicate peace in my belly, I went straight into sales mode. I was in no mood, but for lottery deals, you get in the mood. A winner could call me at two in the morning—collect—and I’d take him through the sales cycle before I even realized what I was doing.

Before finding them in the database, you have no way of knowing if the person on the other end of the phone is a fraud, just a simple million-dollar winner, or a major whale. A whale can make your year. A whale can make the company’s year. I was a whale hunter. Actually, I was a closer. They brought me in when a deal was big enough that signing it or not was the difference between a profitable quarter or year. What does a whale-size deal look like? You know when you find it, and right now, it looked like it could be Tommy Holmes.

I quickly looked at the map of Florida on the wall. We were not on the phone more than twenty seconds before I’d told Tommy, with all the aw shucks surprise that I could muster—what a coincidence it was that he was calling from West Palm Beach, Florida, as I was headed down to Jupiter the very next morning! West Palm and Jupiter are maybe fifteen miles apart. He bit.

Appointment setting is an art form. Do it right and deals fall into your lap. That first move—immediately setting an appointment—was my signature play. I did it every time. If it worked, bingo. And, if it didn’t…well, it always worked. It just went down too early in the conversation for a winner to even pick up on it. My ability to set appointments had made The Firm millions. It got me out of debt, too…twice. The strategy is so simple, it’s cheap to call it a “close.” It’s more like a perfect opening. Before they even knew my name, they heard, out of the corner of their ear—before they were even listening—that I was already headed to their area. Typically, the comment was dismissed as an aside, said only to make small talk. Hardly. They may not have known why they called, but I did.

It took about twenty seconds to find Tommy’s lead sheet in the database. I now had every conceivable bit of information about Tommy Holmes at my fingertips: his win date, what he did for a living, where he lived, his family situation, how many payments he had left, if he’d ever called us before, everything he had said to The Firm each and every time we cold-called his house. We knew what cars he owned and we knew his win amount. Our database was everything.

When I first started at The Firm, we kept all of our sales contacts on paper. In order to get something updated, you’d have to submit the information on paper and wait for one of a half-dozen researchers to manually enter the data onto master paper leads. Sometimes it would take weeks to get the lead back, just to get the winner’s cell-phone number copied into our notes. Now, we were far more sophisticated. We have a computerized database.

Our research department spent their entire workweek looking for data on lottery winners. They did searches in every conceivable database, online, offline, physically at courthouses, submitting FOIA (Freedom of Information Act) requests to each state on a monthly basis—whatever it took to keep our database topped up. Additionally, we advertised on TV and through direct mail. We dropped mail to each winner once a week and we were on television every day. The commercials and direct mail made the phones ring (when they worked). Every time a winner called, we went through the exact same process. The winner was asked a myriad of questions. Every detail was recorded into the database. Before the winners even knew whom they were talking to, we had enough data to track them wherever they went, like it or not. They could try to go underground, but once we had certain key pieces of data (social security number, driver’s license number), they were ours.

I saw in the data that Tommy was a big winner. This one had potential. And the hook was already set. So far, we’d been on the phone for less time than it takes to order at the drive-thru and I knew everything about him. Plus, he already thought I was headed to his neck of the woods in the morning.

I saw in notes that he was a fisherman.

“Say, Tommy, you’re not a fisherman, are you? You used to run a boat?! No kidding? Do you know I never fly to Florida on business without bringing my travel pole. (True.) When? Tomorrow? Well, it would have to be late, because I have another meeting in Jupiter. (False.) But hold on. Let me look at something. (ESPN. com.) You know what, I may be able to push my Jupiter meeting back to Friday because the people I’m meeting are free all week. (There are no people.) They’re older, and we’re just meeting to sign contracts. (False.) They are already about to get their money. (There is no money.) If you want, we can hook up tomorrow and fish—maybe talk about your cash situation. (True.) Well, yeah, sure. You can pick me up at the airport. I was going to rent a car, but I can do that up by you because you and my other meeting are practically in the same city…I know, this is a weird coincidence! (It’s no coincidence.)”

I feel like a faith healer who knows that the old lady up on stage with him has shingles because one of his informants followed her to the doctor in town earlier that afternoon. Hardly a miracle there, and definitely no coincidence that Tommy and I just so happen to have fishing in common. I do love to fish. But if I didn’t, I’d learn to love it.

There is no magic to the way I set up the appointment. It’s common sense cut with enough guts to jump right into the water. If you tell a Florida winner that you are getting on a plane and flying out for the sole purpose of coming to see him about buying all of his lottery payments, you are going to scare the hell out of him. Odds are, by the time you show up, the winner will be hiding at the mall, waiting for you to get lost. Countless deals never amount to anything because of winners getting cold feet about a poorly set-up meeting. Rather than face the rep outright and risk embarrassment or the pressure to sel...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• FOR BROOKE: FOR SASHA: FOR MOM AND DAD
• Epigraph
• CONTENTS
• INTRODUCTION
• 1: GONZO GOES FISHING
• 2: LOTTERY FOR DUMMIES
• 3: EVERYTHING YOU’LL WISH YOU NEVER KNEW ABOUT WINNING THE LOTTERY
• 4: GO WEST, MY SON
• 5: THE FIRM
• 6: CAN YOU HEAR ME IN THE BACK?
• 7: SALLY STONE
• 8: WHAT IS THE SOUND OF NO HANDS CLAPPING?
• 9: EVERY TIME I TRY TO GET OUT, THEY PULL ME BACK IN
• 10: OF ALL THE GIN JOINTS, IN ALL THE TOWNS, IN ALL THE WORLD
• 11: SENIOR VICE PRESIDENT OF MY BASEMENT
• EPILOGUE: THE GAMBLE IN ME
• ENDNOTES
• ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
• About the Author
• Credits
• Copyright
• About the Publisher