Cash flow money quick system

"How would you like to make a lot of money?" It seemed to be just another late-night TV ad for a get-rich-quick course, like so many that clog the airwaves in these recessionary times--but, somehow, this time I felt it was speaking directly to me. The announcers were touting the course offered by Mike and Irene Milin, two Houston-based real estate investors. As the screen flashed images of the Milins leaving their mansion, soaking in a hot tub, and flying in a private plane, I leaned forward, eager to learn their secrets of wealth. I certainly could use the help: My net worth--including a few thousand in savings--was the equivalent of a mid-priced sedan (options not included). Mike promised that "anyone can make money if you're willing to work a program of action."

In quick succession, the testimonials began: A parking lot attendant who made $13,500 buying discounted real estate, a young immigrant who made $56,000 at a government auction... Normally, I might simply have scoffed, but when the announcer intoned, "Stop making excuses and take control of your financial future--today," I knew I had no choice but to make my pilgrimage to hear these wealth-building gurus and try for myself the magical techniques they offered at their $10-a-head seminar.

I wasn't alone. All across America, thousands of people are flocking to hear dozens of self-styled experts on wealth tell them how to get rich. People like the Milins, Tom Vu, Robert Allen, and Charles Givens offer a seductive mix of rags- to-riches tales and seemingly easy-to-follow recipes for success that spur sales of their books, tapes, and seminars. But do their methods really work? I was determined to find out. In doing so, I would not only address an issue of great public concern, but, equally important, I could make piles of money for the first time in my life.

Affluent, sophisticated investors generally don't go to budget-priced hotels at 9 a.m. on a Saturday to learn how to get rich quickly. So I shouldn't have been too surprised to find that many of the 350 would-be millionaires who shuffled into the hotel ballroom in suburban Maryland to hear the Milins were bricklayers, computer operators, and the like. Mike Milin, a short, pudgy man in a cheap-looking gray suit and orange tie, was the cheerleader of the wonder couple. Speaking with a quiet intensity, the balding, nerd-like Milin said, "I can teach any one of you, no matter how broke you are, that if you' re willing to work just four, six, eight hours a week, you can retire in less than two years from now with a cash income of $10,000 to $15,000 a month." And there was a way we could jump-start that perpetual cash machine: by going to government auctions. "Anybody here willing to take a day off work can put $1,000, $1,500, maybe $2,500 in your pocket," Milin announced.

Unfortunately, their cash flow system was actually a series of complicated leasing arrangements that depended on finding desperate owners willing to let you take over their property for a song. I became even more despondent when Irene chirped happily about their book, Landlording Made Easy. Not only was I not qualified to become a landlord, but by the rigorous screening methods the Milins used, I wouldn't even qualify to become a tenant. After an hour of listening to the Milins, I had gone from aspiring millionaire to worrying about becoming homeless.

There was, however, still a reason to hope. The banks and government auctions Mike hyped sounded like an especially easy way to make money: For instance, he and Irene, he claimed, once picked up a Mercedes, a BMW, and a few motorscooters in a back lot for $100. Mike flashed some genuine-looking sales documents.

The only catch was that we'd have to shell out $495. This would entitle us to books, tapes, and the right to participate in the Milins' co-venture program which doled out money to "graduates" who found incredible bargains and then split the profits with the gurus. The steep price was a barrier to most people in the room: "For the average person, $500 is quite a lot," Kevin Griffin, a 27-year-old postman, told me. But I somehow managed to convince Mike Milin to grant me a cut-rate deal since I desperately needed to experience the course for the sake of indepth journalism.

To lay the groundwork for my future success, Milin-style, I'd first have to generate quick cash. Since heroin dealing was not a viable option, I turned my attention to auctions, that gold mine of $100 BMWs. Beginners, the Milins advised, should start by previewing goods at Department of Defense (DOD) auctions, where we'd find everything from office equipment to aircraft; then we were urged to line up buyers before the auction in order to guarantee a high profit margin. When I read their book, Auctions Made Easy, I was inspired by the example of "Joe," a typical auction buyer, who could pyramid a $100 investment in ten IBM Selectric typewriters into ever-fancier purchases, leading ultimately to the buying and re-selling of a Mercedes for a $19,000 profit. At the bottom of the chart, it shows Joe using part of the proceeds to go to Hawaii and smiling under a palm tree.

Unfortunately, my own trip to Hawaii seemed likely to be delayed for a while. I visited the manager of one store that specialized in typewriters and broached the idea of selling him discounted typewriters from the government. He shook his head and chuckled derisively. "Do you think I'd buy that beat-up crap from you?" he said. "I can call up a wholesaler this afternoon and order equipment that I know will be in good condition. The only reason they're selling those crappy typewriters at auctions is because no other agency in the government wanted them."

It's that kind of negative thinking that can make getting rich difficult. But, I was still optimistic, since the Milins had agreed to put up the money if I found a deal with at least $10,000 in profit potential. What could be easier? So I borrowed a friend's car and drove to Ft. Belvoir in suburban Virginia to prospect for bargains. My heart pounded with excitement as I walked into a huge corrugated white hangar filled with the discount merchandise that could change my life. I soon realized, though, that I was faced with an odd assortment of what seemed to be mostly abandoned electronic equipment brought back from Iwo Jima.

But soon I found the kind of bargains I was looking for. The first item was a large green metal object called a "spectroscope" that had been manufactured by the prestigious Bausch and Lomb company. I didn't know what a spectroscope was, but the government had originally purchased it for nearly $11,000, and that was good enough for me. If I offered just a few dollars for it and re-sold it to a lab, I could make more than $10,000 for just a few minutes of work. But that was a mere pittance compared to what seemed to be at least $70,000 worth of data management software in the corner of the hangar. The Marine Corps had originally paid more than $100,000 for the software, PC Focus, and now there were 142 unopened boxes being sold; each box was worth as much as $500 wholesale, I later learned. All I had to do was line up a wholesaler willing to buy the software, and I'd be rolling in money. For a few hours of work, I could earn $80,000 or so for the spectroscope and computer software just by using the research and verbal skills I'd honed as a low-paid journalist.

But first I had to learn how much the software and spectroscope were actually worth. With a few phone calls to a naval research center, I found a scientist who had actually worked in the lab where the spectroscope had been installed. Paydirt! The machine had been used to analyze metals, he explained. But then he elaborated: It was a vintage item from the forties that had long been supplanted by more modern equipment. No one knew if it even worked. "It might make a nice addition to the Smithsonian," he said.

But I could still make a killing with the computer software. I called the leading distributor of PC Focus and learned that the company indeed had some interest in buying the deeply discounted software from me. I couldn't believe my luck. I rushed out to my car, excited by all the money I'd soon be making--and then accidentally drove over a cement parking barrier, damaging the underside of my friend's car. The $140 I had to pay her was, I knew, a small price to pay for the tens of thousands I'd score on this software coup.