Harvey Guillén

It was a brilliant bit of branding.

When Gennaro and eventually other recruiters went out to find new winners, they didn't say, hey, do you want to participate in a high-level corporate racketeering scheme involving a corrupt security director?

That's a one-way ticket to a confession booth.

Instead, they lean in and whisper, hey, my Uncle Jerry has a lucky ticket for you.

It made the whole thing sound like a family favor.

It felt safe.

It felt cozy to them.

He was just this mysterious, benevolent force.

The man who could turn a regular person into a millionaire with one single phone call.

Uncle Jerry, it sounds so sweet, doesn't it?

Like he's going to pull a quarter, you know, out from behind your ear at Thanksgiving.

But in this case, Uncle Jerry isn't bringing over a fruitcake.

He's bringing a stolen Dodge Viper.

Uncle Jerry, you shouldn't have.

Gennaro goes back to his world, the world of underground gambling, strip clubs, and mob associates, and he starts selling the tickets like they are drugs.

He tells people, I have a connection, Uncle Jerry.

He's the golden goose.

The deal is simple.

You pay cash up front for a piece.

You cash it.