Internet café raid rankles ex-radio guy

Column

It's the middle of a Thursday afternoon that has, for Bruce Williams, become irritatingly familiar. Because, after all, Thursday afternoon slams up against Friday morning, when the payments that lubricate his latest business venture go out.

And so he is, once again, skirmishing with a smartphone that resists his 19th century sensibilities in an attempt to do some deadline banking. Williams is, to put it mildly, unhappy on a number of levels.

The telephone vexes him, and he reiterates his vow to return it to the dealership. The business vexes him as well, and he declares himself willing to sell the whole thing to the next sucker through the door who offers him 50 cents on the dollar. Most of all, Pasco County's new sheriff vexes him, because Williams' cash-sucking storefront was among those shut down last week when Chris Nocco went all Elliot Ness on several so-called "Internet cafés."

Finally, having stabbed in the digits necessary to locate the branch manager of his bank, Williams executes a transfer — a high four-figures shift of personal funds to his business account — that will enable LP Enterprises to meet its weekly obligations.

He punches out of the call, his scowl replaced by a rueful smile. "We're rakin' it in, man! We're rakin' it in!"

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Bruce Williams, who lives in a two-story house with the Gulf of Mexico for his backyard with his wife, Susan, and two feisty pugs, spent more than a third of a century dispensing folksy advice — mostly financial — in a clipped New Jersey accent to a global audience on his eponymous syndicated radio talk show.

Besides chiding callers who got "upside down" on car loans and callers who were mystified when strangers with cash wouldn't invest in their good idea, Williams' go-to admonition involved legal advice: Get it before you do anything involving money you would miss if it were lost.

When Williams started poking around at the surging Internet café industry, then, he followed his own counsel. Folks hawking the software said it was bulletproof, of course, but it wasn't until Williams' own legal team gave its blessing that he took the plunge.

His first — Lucky Puppy Sweepstakes, featuring pugs in formal wear painted on the front entrance — opened in September in a converted radiologist's office off U.S. 19 in Spring Hill: 60 high-definition 21-inch HP computer monitors, 60 custom-made desks, 60 high-back swiveling desk chairs.

* * * * *

After an initial rush, the novelty faded; it became evident five dozen player stations were too many by at least half. On June 1, in a spasm of miserable timing, BlueJay Sweepstakes opened with 30 player stations in Hudson on State Road 52, east of U.S. 19.

The same day, operating in concert with the Pinellas-Pasco state attorney, Nocco posted a letter to Williams: BlueJay was operating a "gambling house contrary" to state statute. Continued operation would result in the use of "our discretionary investigative powers to confirm or dispel" violations.

When undercover visits confirmed their suspicions, a team of 16 was dispatched Friday to dismantle BlueJay's operations. Williams declared himself stunned.

"There's no 'cease-and-desist' order in the letter," Williams said. Indeed, there isn't. Sheriff's spokesman Kevin Doll was dismissive. "I don't know how else you could construe it."

Similar heavy-handed law enforcement has been attempted in Marion and Seminole counties, resulting in acquittals and dismissals. It's simple enough even Florida juries can figure it out: A player's fate in the café's sweepstakes is determined at the point of sale. He buys a time card or a personal identification number, and, like a scratch-off card, that's that.

The various computer games merely reveal what was decided at the instant the PIN or card was purchased. Players in a hurry can, in fact, use an "instant reveal" function to learn their fate; most, however, prefer to while away the hours one beguiling — but unrelated — spin at a time.

Meanwhile, businesses flanking the shuttered BlueJay operation are morose. Caroline Sico, a hairdresser at Hair-um, landed a handful of clients from the café — including Beth Richards, Williams' longtime office manager.

For her part, Hair-um owner Rosemary Lackowski wonders why the sheriff was sticking his nose into a shop that brought business to the sagging plaza while unsavory activity unfolds up and down U.S. 19.

Meanwhile, Williams — who says he hasn't extracted a dime from either enterprise — is wondering why he got into the business in the first place. "Nocco's worried about organized crime moving in?" he says. "Send me a wise guy. I'll sell him the place today."

Otherwise, he's looking at more Thursdays like the one just past. Pushing 80 and smarter than the rest of us, he just doesn't need the aggravation.