Chapter 11

Working with Frank that year was trying to say the least, but when we were socializing everything was laughter and happiness. I came to realize that much of Frank’s agitation, when we were on the job, was due to his lack of confidence in doing the job. All the talk about having done this or that a million times was not only an exaggeration but probably a big lie since one began to doubt that he had ever done it. As a boss he was ineffective and what’s worse he was often an outright ‘jerk’. He would never accept responsibility for things that went wrong, blaming me, the tools, or the material in use. Frank had a frustrating manoeuvre during arguments he was about to lose. When the lights went on and he realized he was wrong, after having sworn up and down that he was right, and, that the other person didn’t understand, he would suddenly say, “Fuck man, that’s what I’ve been saying all along!” In the ensuing argument about whether or not he had said something completely different, he would use phrases like “but I thought you meant…….” followed by some illogical and contrary statement as to what the other person had actually said, and,  “Fuck man, we’re both saying the same thing and you’re confusing the hell out of me”.

An example of his obduracy in the face of crystal clear logic occurred when we were building a lean-to roof and partial enclosure on the patio of ‘Bill the bank manager’. This particular Bill was watching every move we made and even offered to assist with measuring and cutting the 2” x 4”s and 6” x 6” support posts. Frank did all he could to decline the offer of assistance and was visibly uncomfortable having Bill in such close proximity. At one point we had mounted a 2” x 8” beam onto the wall. To this beam we would attach the 2” x 4”s which would support the roof plywood and shingles. With the outer support frame already in place Frank was ready to start nailing down the roof support beams.

Bill had been observing the process and had, with a measuring tape, checked some of the dimensions. At this moment he had a worried look on his face.

He said, “How much of a slope have you allowed for on the roof?”

Frank responded with great authority “You’ll have a two inch slope. If we make it more you’ll be walking into it every time you come out”.

“Well, I don’t think you have a two inch slope, in fact I think you’ll find that the slope is toward the house rather than away from the house” replied Bill in a slow but confident manner.

“What are you talking about?’ protested Frank “I figured it out and measured it myself”.

An argument followed. When Bill explained his logic I knew that he was correct, Frank on the other hand adamantly refused to concede a miscalculation. In the end we had to place a long piece of 2” x 4” across the expanse and test it with a spirit level. Frank had miscalculated; the end where the rainwater would normally run-off was two inches higher than at the house exterior wall. What Frank had done was cut the outer support frame two inches less than the wall fixing. This meant that when a 2” x 4” was placed in the joist bracket flush with the beam on the house wall, and across the top of the support beam on the outer frame, the slope was reversed toward the house and not away from it. This was one time when he couldn’t direct the blame to me since Bill had been a witness. Instead he said to Bill “With you trying to help there are too many people around here and I can’t concentrate”.

Bill replied contemptuously “That’s bull shit and you know it! Anyway, what are you going to do about it?”

“I’ll cut a notch in each cross piece” said Frank hastily.

Bill was quick to respond with “Like hell you will, that would look like shit and I won’t accept it”.

“Well what do you want me to do?” lamented Frank.

“I think you have to dismantle the outer frame and shorten it by four inches!”

Which is exactly what we did. When Bill had gone into his house for whatever reason Frank whispered “Fuck man, I hate when people you’re doing a job for want to stand over you and watch, and talk, and get in the fucking way. It’s his fault I made that mistake!”

Always the pacifier I said encouragingly “It’s no big deal, we’ll have it fixed up in half and hour and then we’ll be cooking!”

There were times when I questioned my sanity for continuing to work with Frank. The lack of planning and organization frustrated me immensely.

There were a number of days when I showed up at his house at 9:00 a.m., as per the plan, and Frank was still in bed. On one particular occasion he woke up really grumpy. He began by snarling at his girlfriend Kim who didn’t prepare his espresso quickly enough, and then cursed her for making the coffee too hot to drink. She endured this abuse while desperately trying to hold back the tears welling in her eyes. When he went to get his chop-saw out of the garage he found that Kim’s car was blocking his way of passage. In a very unpleasant way he screamed at her to come and move her car. With his car parked beside hers there was little room to manoeuvre and when she started to move backwards her car’s rear end scraped the garage doorframe. She heard the scrape and buried her face in her hands in anticipation of the onslaught.

“You stupid slut. Look what you did bitch! Get out of the fucking car before I slap you in the head” screamed Frank loud enough for the entire neighbourhood to hear. His face was almost purple with rage.

Kim, in a state of shock, opened her car door and unintentionally banged the side of Frank’s car with her door. This brought on another torrent of ugly abuse as she ran into the house, tears cascading down her cheeks.

After a few moments he settled down and I said to him “Frank, with all that shouting, you make her so nervous that she doesn’t know whether she’s coming or going, I really don’t think this was her fault”.

“She’s a stupid fucking bitch,” he snapped back at me.

He moved the car and retrieved his chop-saw, which was buried underneath a number of other tools in the corner. By this time his anger had subsided and he said, “Awe fuck. I suppose I should go and make up with her”. Which he did.

As we were leaving to go to work he rolled down the window and yelled to Kim “See you later hon. Love you!”

I couldn’t figure out what kind of love he was talking about.

Overall, the work was not that bad and we rarely worked for more than 5 hours a day. Frank was paying me a token wage and I felt the need to stay close to him in order to keep tabs on my investment, so the relationship was maintained. In July, without giving a hint of his intentions, Frank showed up at my house riding a Harley Davidson  motorbike.

He and his machine seemed somewhat incongruous. At first I thought it was perhaps to do with his short stature mounted on a large bike but there was more to it. Frank’s handling of the machine was tentative. I had the impression that his feet were a little stretched when he needed to touch the ground and his arms a little too short to comfortably reach the handlebars. However, he assured me that he was an experienced rider. In the following weeks he took the required written test 4 times in order to validate his license. In the three months following he had two mishaps during which the bike was scuffed and bent and Frank suffered minor scrapes and bruises. One of the incidents occurred on the street where he lived. Apparently there was an accumulation of dust and gravel on the road, which caused him to skid and slide. The other incident involved a low impact collision into the back of a truck at a controlled intersection. He claimed the truck made a sudden stop without cause, so it wasn’t really his fault. Knowing his incapacity to accept responsibility one has lingering doubts about believing what one doesn’t see.

September came and with it another opportunity for a small investment of $5,500 that would yield a payment of one thousand dollars a month for six months, plus the $5,500 returned at the end. I accepted the deal and gave him the cash. In the middle of October he paid me the first monthly interest instalment. A week later he came to me bubbling over with excitement. There was a new deal in the offing. It involved a large amount of money but with a terrific payback in just four months.

“Both Ernie and me are in on this one and I’d like you to have the third share,” said Frank overflowing with enthusiasm.

“How much is involved?” I queried.

“It’s sixty three thousand but pays ninety four grand in three months. Just think on February 15th we’re going to be getting ninety four G’s each in cash”.

“To be honest with you,” I replied, “I don’t think there’s any way I can come up with that much”.

“Gees man, you got to. This is the best deal we’ve had in a long time and you deserve it more than anyone” his tone was sincere and pleading.

“The only way I could do this is by cashing in my retirement fund and I don’t want to do that, besides it would take too long” I responded.

“Come on man, you can’t let this one go. Fuck sake! You’ll make more in three months than in ten years with your GIC’s. Man, I really want you to have this. Look it’s guaranteed. You know I’d never let you down,” this he said with the fervent passion of a believer.

My resistance at this point had not been broken but had been severely weakened. I said, “I need some time to think about it”.

“That’s O.K. we’ve got 10 days to put this one together, but I need to know as soon as possible”. This was the first time he had offered me a deal without saying that another member of his group was begging for this opportunity.

I decided to find out exactly what I could gather together through my limited resources. Ultimately the best I could do was $53,000, which included borrowing in the form of an extended line of credit. I advised Frank that I wouldn’t be able to participate in this bonanza due to a shortfall of $10,000.

His first comment was “Have you tried everything? There’s no way you can get an extra ten grand?” 

“Not possible” I said.

“Look” he said, “I may be able to help. Fuck man, I want you to have this so bad. What if I could get my people in Van to transfer ten grand from one of my other accounts, would that help?”

“Why would you want to do that?” I said somewhat perplexed.

“’Cause that’s how much I appreciate all you’ve done to help me in the last couple of years. You’re probably my only true friend in this town and I want you to get what you deserve” again he spoke with total conviction.

I didn’t say anything for a while being too busy in my mind trying to decide which way to go. Eventually I said, “See what you can do and if it’s possible I’ll decide then”.

That is the way we left the matter until the following day when Frank called and said “The people in Van said they could do it but it’s gonna cost three hundred and twenty six dollars to pull out the funds. Would you be able to cover the three hundred bucks?”

I made the decision. “O.K. let’s do it. I can have $40,000 available in 3 days but it may take a week to get the remaining $13,000. But I‘ll have to give you cheques”.

“Why don’t you give me the forty right now. You can postdate it for 3 days if you want. At least then I can confirm with Van that it’s a definite deal,” suggested Frank.

The deal was completed a week later and I looked forward to the coming new year with great expectations. 

Chapter 10

The end of the year came and with it the sale of our restaurant and a successful conclusion to my investment with Frank. It was a sad time for me because I enjoyed immensely the experience of a business partnership with my son. Amidst my ’postpartum’ melancholy there was one bright moment. Frank invited me to his house for dinner “so we can drink a little wine and be happy” he said. After dinner Frank was telling a story about when he was ‘The Don’ in Vancouver, how he dressed in thousand dollar suits and had 4 bodyguards protecting him. When I mentioned that I had never owned a suit that cost more than $200 he insisted on showing me what was left of his Kingly wardrobe. There were 3 suits and all were of good quality, I particularly admired one of them, which was a dark blue silk fabric tailored by Giordano Basso. Frank immediately insisted that I try on the jacket, and it was a perfect fit. 

“Looks like this suit was made for you Giovanni, so I give it to you” Frank declared generously.

“No!” I protested, “ I can’t accept such an expensive gift. And besides, you may need it again some day”.

“It’s yours my friend so don’t argue! Anyway it’s too big for me now and I was thinking of throwing it out with the garbage” he said with finality.

I received the gift with much gratitude and admiration for this rough edged gemstone I called Frank.

There was very little work at that time and Frank decided January was a washout; so home renovation activities were suspended until mid February. This was fine with me as I had little enthusiasm for doing anything; perhaps I was grieving the passing of the restaurant that had been such a pleasure for me both as an owner and a patron. In the first week of February Frank approached me with another investment opportunity. The terms of this investment were $35,000 to yield $52,000 due on January 14th of the following year. By this time I had known Frank for a year and a half and during that time had developed a kind of confidence in him. He told me that he needed to know my answer in 24 hours or else he would have to give it to Bill. The following day I agreed to take it and told Frank I would give him a cheque for that amount. 

“Fuck man! You know we deal in cash only” he replied with a high level of consternation in his voice.

“You know my bank account is in Winnipeg. To get $35,000 in cash will be too much of a hassle for me” I said resolutely.

“How long would it take you to get it in cash?” he questioned.

“Too much time and too much effort” I retorted, “ you can either take a cheque or give the investment to Bill”.

“Fuck man, let me think for a minute“ and there was a pause “O.K. I think I have an idea to get the cheque cashed. You know how the people in Van feel about cheques” Frank paused for a moment then said “When can you bring it over?”

“I’ll bring it over to your place tomorrow morning” I replied.

“O.K. there’s one thing, don’t make it payable to anyone ‘cause I’ll fill that in when I get it” were his instructions.

The following day I gave the cheque to Frank. He exuded pleasure and optimism, saying how glad he was that it was I who would reap a benefit rather than one of the other ‘pricks’ that had already made too much on his efforts. He assured me that this was a guaranteed venture and repeated his speech about ‘his promise is a debt of honour’ and ‘he would rather rot in hell than let one of his friends down‘. 

About a week later an incident occurred which was a little unsettling. Mark, the younger of his two henchmen whom I had met occasionally, joined us in a coffee shop where Frank and I were discussing future work projects. Mark appeared to be agitated. He whispered something in Frank’s ear. Frank immediately got up and ushered Mark outside where they appeared to have an animated conversation. There was a sense of calmness when they returned and a normal conversation ensued. After a while Mark said to Frank “I need a ride to my apartment, can you take me?”

“For fuck sake man, why don’t you take a bus? Anyway I got a meeting with Dennis in 10 minutes” answered Frank.

I interjected with “I can take you Mark, where do you live?”

“It’s close by, only take 15 minutes” replied Mark.

We went our separate ways, Frank to his real or fictitious meeting with Dennis, Mark and I to wherever Mark lived. On our way Mark, who had been quite and obviously preoccupied with his thoughts, blurted out “I gotta get out of this racket. I can’t take any more of this bull shit”.

“What’s the problem?” I asked, “something amiss between you and Frank?” I knew first hand how difficult working with Frank could be, especially when one appeared compliant as Mark would surely be, given that he depended on Frank for his livelihood and who knows what else.

“It’s a whole lot of stuff you don’t want to know about, and I’ve had enough” he paused and then added “I’d appreciate if you didn’t say anything to Frank about this until I decide what to do”.

I assured Mark that it was none of my business and didn’t want to make it my business. We arrived at his place and he got out and said “Thanks Giovanni, you’re a good man”.

We said goodbye and I never saw him again.

A week later Frank told me that Mark had disappeared. I pressed him on the circumstances of the situation and he said that Mark went missing with about $70,000 of his organization’s money. I asked him how Mark would have had that much money in hand to make off with. Frank’s reply was, as always, vague “He was collecting money for us and not turning it in. When we went to the guys who we thought still owed us they said Mark had been collecting it regularly. We checked out their stories and they were telling the truth”.

“So what are you going to do now?” I asked.

“We’ll find him and that will be the end of him” Frank replied matter-of-factly.

I certainly felt very uncomfortable with this situation. Unaccustomed to having friends or acquaintances unnaturally terminated I wanted to do something to mitigate Mark’s predicament. I said “You know Mark was under a lot of stress last week. He told me that he wanted out because of all the bull shit, perhaps he’s just taking a break for a while”. 

“He’s a fucking yak. He know the rules and he know the consequences. I got people watching his house 24 hours a day. We told his girlfriend she’s in big fucking trouble if she don’t tell us where he is”. I hadn’t seen Frank this intensely worried before.

We went about our business, which at this time was re-cementing another outside stair well at the hotel. Progress was slow due to constant interruptions from Frank’s cell phone and his frequent need to take care of business in other places. Eight or nine days had passed when Frank’s mood took an upturn. He announced that he knew where Mark was and “it’s just a matter of time to finish the business”. The story he gave me was that Mark had gone to the police in a town just 150 kilometres away. He had asked for police protection in exchange for information regarding some criminal activities within their jurisdiction. Smugly Frank declared, “The prick can run but he can’t hide”.

The stairwell job was by this time finished and we were gearing up to start another, only much bigger, cement job at the hotel. This job required us to replace the concrete walk way on an entire wing of the second level. To do this we had first to break up the existing concrete, throw the broken pieces into a dumpster built for this purpose and prepare the area for new cement to be pumped in. For practical reasons we would not be pouring the cement this time. The area was large and the equipment needed for this task was a little more sophisticated than our shovel, 2-bag mixer and ex-detergent bucket to handle efficiently. 

Frank rented a jackhammer to break-up the eight-inch deep concrete. I followed behind with a sledgehammer, a wheelbarrow and leather work gloves. 

I was amused by Frank as he tackled the responsibility of the jackhammer. He was, of course, an expert who had done this a million times. He would not let me near the thing even though I was most anxious to get some experience, having never before used one of these machines. The first time he fired it up it leapt out of his hands. Frank’s obsession with gorilla like maleness would not allow him to be viewed as a comic figure and while I did not laugh audibly, there was a huge smile on my face, which obviously offended him.

“What the fuck are you grinning at you fucking yak?” he uttered with hurt pride, “the assholes at ‘Mainline’ put in the wrong bit”. As he said this he walked over to the toolbox that had accompanied the jackhammer. He opened it and took out two more bits. The three bits that were at his disposal had distinct shapes and presumably functions. The one he had used had a tapered blunt chisel type end maybe two inches wide, another was a round tapered end rather like a giant nail, and the third had a conventional screwdriver type end. He picked out the round tapered bit and snapped it in the jackhammer.

Without making a comment he resumed the task. This time the jackhammer seemed to make an impression in the concrete. He stopped the machine and said “There, what did I tell you, those pricks don’t know their ass from their elbow and I gotta think of everything!”

Most of the time I needed to use the sledge hammer to break up the pieces into a manageable size. The concrete receptacle had been placed at the mid-point of the work area, so I had to fill the wheel barrow and then walk it to a point where I could throw the pieces one by one over the wall and into the dumpster. This was hard physical work and I loved it. 

I continued to find the view of Frank doing his jackhammer work amusing. There was something wrong, like the two were not compatible. His entire body would be shaking but appeared to be out of sync with the hammer. It crossed my mind that brain damage could occur from a prolonged spell of this work. When I pointed out to Frank that he was leaving some large holes in the double layer of three quarter inch plywood each time he broke through the concrete, he irritably stated that “it’s not my fault, the bit’s too long. We’ll just have to fill the holes with tar!”

Though I didn’t argue with him it did seem to me undesirable to have this supporting structure peppered with holes when it would be holding up a few tons of concrete.

During this time I was informed that I could say goodbye to my friend Mark because he no longer existed. I was saddened by this news.

Other than a few spats between us, the job was uneventful. We were admonished on two occasions by Dennis for putting too much of the broken cement into the dumpster. Apparently there had been a mark placed on the inside of the container that indicated the maximum load capacity. Even after the first warning Frank’s only comment was “fuck them, we can’t stop and wait for the bin to be emptied so they can go fuck themselves”. It is true that our schedule would have been interrupted at a cost of maybe a days waiting time, but Frank’s theory that rules are made for other people was an indication of his arrogance.



Chapter 9

During the summer of that year I had, on a number of occasions, been invited to Frank’s home for weekend bar-b-cues. Most often there would be a couple of other people there as well and the socializing was, for the most part, good fun. It was at one of these weekend do’s that I met Mark for the first time. I never did get to know his last name. He seemed a likeable person but exhibited similar traits to Frank. He talked a lot, he had opinions on almost everything, and he had an ego. Mark was always respectful of Frank’s guests in spite of often being humiliated by Frank, who made no secret about being his boss. 

The atmosphere at these bar-b-cues was festive and the wine and beer flowed freely. Kim would always produced a visually appealing and delicious tasting garden salad. Frank was sufficiently intoxicated by the time it came to bar-b-cue the chicken, steaks or hot Italian sausages, that he seemed more intent on cremating them rather than cooking them. The rest of us would make fun of his cooking style and Frank would defend himself by saying that meat tasted better with the surface area blackened, and it had been scientifically proven that charred meat was good for the digestive system. Of course nobody agreed with him but understood the futility of arguing with him.   The fact that there was always a substantial quantity of meat left on the grill did nothing to persuade Frank to adjust his cooking technique.

There were also times when tensions ran high. This usually occurred when Kim would do something insignificant that happened to annoy Frank. He would shout at her and make an unflattering comment, she would respond by saying something like “I don’t think you need to shout or treat me like shit!” and he would commence a tirade of abuse such as “you fucking slut bitch, you’re as stupid as a fucking monkey!” etc. etc. Not only would he unabashedly humiliate her in front of guests but also in the presence of their now 18-month-old boy. Everyone who witnessed one of these episodes must surely have wondered what the long-term consequence of this kind of example would have on the adorable and smart young child.

A couple of days after one such incident we were commencing work at Bill McFee’s. This particular job was to install one-foot square tiles on the steps and platform at his front door and then to lay the same tile over a six by five feet concrete walkout from a ground floor bedroom through French Windows. 

On the way over to the job site I mentioned to Frank that I thought he had been a little hard on Kim at the Bar-b-cue. Showing no sign of remorse he replied, “she’s a fucking bitch. All women are sluts and bitches”. Angered by his stupidity I asked him “And what about your mother? Do you think your daughters will grow up to be sluts?”

“Fuck man no! That’s different,” he said.

“Well, you did say all women and that includes your mother, my mother your daughters and my daughter” I said with some indignation.

“I din’t mean all women. I just meant most of them. The ones that only want to get fucked all the time by whatever prick they run into”. His reply oozed cynicism and I decided to let the topic go. However, I did continue to think about his remarks and wonder about the poor disenfranchised woman upon whom he had preyed during the course of his shadowy past. 

Frank broke the silence with a comment about Bill. “He’s one of the people I’ve helped make a pile of money and he’s always wanting more. But we’re friends and we help each other. I don’t charge a lot of money for this job and he’ll pay cash. The other thing is he’s very fussy so don’t fuck up anything or make a mess!”

Although there was a lot I liked about him, there were times when I thought his belligerent manner needed to be quelled. With the nonchalance of someone who didn’t give a damn I said to Frank “Look, if you think I can’t do the work or will be a hindrance I’ll be quite happy to leave right now!”

“For fuck sake man will you relax? I only mean we have to be careful” he replied.

“No. You said if I fucked up or made a mess, you didn’t mention we!”

“Well you know what I mean, we just have to be careful” he replied, his tone much softer.

In spite of many moments of frustration for me, I thought the job went reasonably well. Frank is not what one might call a ‘hard taskmaster” he is more of a ‘difficult taskmaster’. By that I mean he will say “give me that thing over there” without offering a clue as to which specific thing he wants. When there is a moments hesitation he says something like “what the fuck’s wrong with you, do I gotta do everything”. Another typical example of his unclear manner of communicating is “pour some water into the bucket!” and as soon as the pouring commences he yells “whoa! Not that much I only wanted a little”. Of course it’s just as likely he will say, “for fuck sake man, keep pouring I’ll tell you when to stop”. Just like the cement always being a tad wet or a tad dry it was evidently impossible to do anything just right.

At the end of the first day we had finished installing the tiles on the steps and porch. Bill offered a couple of cold beers and we sat around talking about the fabulous job we had done thus far. The second day was much more difficult for me. Having mixed the tile grout, Frank began to apply it to fill the spacing between the tiles. He applied the grout liberally, pouring it over the entire surface of the tiles before using his float to smooth it into the spaces. This made my job much more difficult since I had to remove the excess grout with a damp sponge after it had dried a little. This was a repetitive cycle of wipe and rinse and after three hours of this work my hands, softened by the constant immersion in water, were raw and bleeding at the finger tips from the fine, and, apparently razor sharp sand particles in the grout. Bill, having seen my plight, sympathetically offered four band-aids with which to cover my wounds. On the other side of the coin, all I got from Frank was “for fuck sake man, how come your hands are so soft? Look at my hands, they’re a real man’s hands”.

This kind of ‘macho’ comment didn’t goad me into the contest that he liked to engage in; i.e. the characteristics that fit his definition of masculinity. Instead I preferred to respond with “my ancestors came out of the jungle about a million years before yours did, so you still resemble a thick skinned ape rather than the civilized breed of mankind that Bill and I represent”.

Whether it was Bill’s instant outburst of laughter or whether my reply was too deep for his comprehension I do not know, however, it was sufficient to dampen his enthusiasm for further debate on that issue. 

Working 4-5 hours a day we managed to finish the job in 3 days and Bill only had to call us back one time to point out an area around the base of the wall which should have been grouted but which hadn’t. I took the blame for this omission since Frank said accusingly “Giovanni, I told you to let me know if I missed any places” followed by much head shaking and a few mumbled ‘F’ word phrases. I suppose I could have argued the case but since the fix would only take 30 minutes I was content to say “ah well, we’ll have it fixed up in a jiffy so let’s do it and get back to the other job”. And so it was.

Half way down the hill from Bill’s house we encountered a shining black late model Ford truck coming up the hill. Frank stopped the car and at the same time the truck stopped alongside us. The window of the truck was already rolled down. A blond haired, unshaven, bleary-eyed head lolled out of the window. Frank got out of the car closed the door and began to converse with the occupant of the truck. I saw Frank reach into his pocket for his billfold; he pulled out a few bills and handed them to the other person.

I didn’t ask any questions when Frank got back into the car and we resumed our journey. It was Frank who said “Poor guy, he needs medication and don’t have any money”.

Being a caring sort of person I inquired, “What’s his problem?”

“He’s in bad shape, he got a illness and need medication to help his nerves. Poor prick would sleep all day and all night without his pills,” replied Frank.

“I guess he must be a good friend for you to hand over money like that”.

“I’ve known him for a while. He helps me sometimes with my stuff when he’s not too fucking tired to get outta bed”.

I must admit I was curious to discover what kind of illness would make a 30 something year old man want to sleep all day and all night but decided not to intrude too much into someone else’s affair.

Frank continued the conversation with “You’ll probably meet him again. His name is Dave McCreary and I gotta be his fucking nursemaid. If he can’t do his thing he’ll just keep coming for more  money”.

“So what does he do for a living?” I asked.

“He’s a plumber but can’t keep a steady job ‘cause of his problem. I get him enough work to get by”.

I felt some admiration for the rough edged and sometimes uncouth Frank. “I think it’s a good thing that you are doing. Not too many people would bother to go that far, friend or not” I said with sincerity.

“’Ey, I told you that’s what friends are for, and I can be your best friend or your worst fucking enemy!” retorted Frank.

The last comment somehow spoiled the whole incident. I’ve known a number of people who prided themselves on the principle that they said what they think. The problem with many such people is that their thought process seems to terminate prematurely. Experience tells me there are few people who think so clearly all of the time such as to confer the right of unfettered free speech without, at least, having to suffer consequences for ill-considered opinions, comments, or ideas. 

Chapter 8

About three weeks after Frank had recovered a portion of my $5,500.00 from the failed Cuban project I offered to help him do a cement job for the Hotel as a gesture of my gratitude. I was able to do this because my involvement in the restaurant had been scaled back to 2 days of bartending and the weekend bookkeeping. While declaring that I didn’t owe him anything he readily accepted my offer of help due to the nature of the work that was to be done. One of the stairways between the first and second floors of the hotel needed to be replaced because of disintegrating cement. The stairway had wooden side runners. A series of metal casings were bolted into the side runners and these casings were in turn filled with cement. The job required us to break up and clean out the cement contained in the casings, and then pour fresh cement into the now empty casings.

Franks work day always commenced at around 9:15 a.m. in the restaurant. A double espresso and a feast of bullshit seemed to get him sufficiently motivated to engage in a few hours of gainful employment. We sallied over to the Hotel at around 10.00 a.m. to discuss the project with Dennis the hotel manager. 

“oh, you’re actually going to get the job started are you?” said Dennis, a hint of sarcasm blending subtly with the humorous smile which accompanied the statement.

“wha’ da ya mean? I tol’ ya I’d start on Toosday! Are you O.K.?” responded Frank.

“Aye, you did say Tuesday, but that was 3 weeks ago.”  The banter was familiar and without rancour. Dennis continued “look, I don’t want to have to rent the mixer any longer than is absolutely necessary so” 

Frank cut him off, rather rudely I thought, and interjected with a totally unnecessary contribution to the conversation in the form of “’course not neither do we, one day is enough”.

“As I was saying” continued Dennis “so if you can promise me you’ll be here tomorrow I’ll have the 36 bags of cement and the mixer delivered first thing in the morning”.

As we walked away from the hotel lobby Frank said “fucking scotch prick, I told him I was busy with other jobs”.

“He’s actually not scotch, he’s Scottish,” I said “anyway, I thought you and he were good friends”.

“Yeah, he’s o.k. But you know he just bought a house here in the Mission that he wouldn’t have had ‘cept for me”.

“Really?” I replied, knowing full well that properties in the mission were bought at a premium and nothing worth having for less than $200,000.00. “How’s that?”

Frank gave me a sideways glance, “yeah, I made him a lot of money, but he’s an ungrateful prick so I cut him off. I only do favours for people I like and who appreciate what I do for them”.

“But how did you make him a lot of money?” I persisted.

We continued the walk to our job site on silence. In reality I wasn’t very interested in how or why he had made a lot of money for Dennis, but I am curious when someone offers tidbits of unsolicited information and fails to finish the story. However, on this occasion he remained silent.

At the about to be reconstructed stairway he briefed me on the approach.

“I’ll break the cement with the sledge hammer and you can follow behind with the crowbar. We’ll dump everything in the bin!” he said pointing to a large dumpster like blue bin about 100 feet from where we were working.

“How do we get it over there, one piece at a time?” I quizzed.

“Fuck man! Are you O.K.? We use the wheel barrow”.

“Great. So where’s the sledgehammer, crowbar and wheelbarrow?”

“Will you relax? Fuck man you’re making me nervous” Frank retorted somewhat testily and went on “Everything is in the workshop, I’ll go get the key from Dennis. You wait here!”

So I waited. After about 5 minutes I lit a cigarette and continued to wait. Thirty-five minutes later Frank returned carrying a bundle of keys. “Chees man he won’t stop talking” he said, presumably referring to Dennis, “let’s go get the tools”.

I followed him to a door about 20 feet from the stairway where he proceeded to probe each of the 17 keys in a deadbolt lock. None seemed to fit.

“Ah  man, he gimme the wrong keys”.

“Perhaps one of those keys fits the lock in the door handle” I suggested more to defuse his growing impatience than yield up the work implements.

“What good will that do? He always keeps this door double locked!” stated Frank with the certainty of someone who knows precisely how other people do and think.

“Well at least you would know if you had one of the right keys” I replied defensively.

Accompanied by a torrent of abusive comments he began to probe the lower lock, and by the eight or ninth key the lock turned and the door opened.

The workshop looked like a disaster area, junk, tools, broken TV’s and not an inch of room to move. If there’s a wheelbarrow in here I thought, it will take all day to get it out. As it turned out there was no wheelbarrow. We did find a sledgehammer but no crow bar. By this time Frank was beside himself with anger and frustration.

“Dennis is a fucking asshole, he probably stoled the wheelbarrow and crowbar for his self”.

Now Frank had told me he had gone to University for one year before dropping out to indulge in a more adventurous life style. From his manner of speech, his constant use of the ‘F’ word and invented variations of real words, I concluded he could never have got through the front door of any respectable post secondary educational institution.

He pondered the situation for a moment and then decisively proclaimed “o.k. You start breaking up the concrete and I’ll go find a wheelbarrow and crowbar!”

By this time it was almost 11 o’clock. Two hours had gone by and we hadn’t done a stitch of work. Just then Frank’s cell phone rang, he stuck the phone in front of my face and said, “What’s that number?” I read the displayed number and he pressed his answer key.

“Hello…..  Hey, how you doon?…. Yeah I’m working now…..No, me and my crew are in Westbank…… It’s a big concrete job……..Yeah, I’ll come by tonight after work……’bye”.

Frank snapped close his cell phone and said “Fucking yak! Everybody wants a piece of the action”. He paused a moment to light a cigarette before telling me he wouldn’t be gone for very long and disappeared around the corner.

Two big lies in one short conversation. We were nowhere near Westbank and the concrete job was small by any standard. This person was intriguing me.

I took the sledgehammer and gingerly began to slam it into the step. The concrete, which on the surface was badly eroded and already cracked, was more than willing to yield to the sledgehammer. I had had the foresight to bring my carpenters pouch, framing hammer and chisel and quickly discovered that I didn’t really need a crowbar. It took about 5 minutes to break the cement and clear each step. Since there were 13 steps I figured I would have it done by lunchtime. I finished at 12:15. Frank had not yet returned so I went to the ‘pop’ vending machine and got a ‘coke’ to wash the dust from my throat. Just as I was finishing my cigarette I heard the rumble of Frank’s 1978 rebuilt and repainted Pontiac drive into the parking lot. A few minutes later he came around the corner triumphantly carrying his crowbar in one hand and a plastic ex-detergent bucket in the other.

He looked at the pile of broken cement pieces and uttered, “Holy fuck man, you got it all done!” He didn’t say ‘good work’ or ‘how are you feeling’, rather, he went on to explain that he couldn’t find the wheelbarrow so had brought a bucket instead.

I suggested it might have been a good idea to have brought two buckets as only one person at a time can now do the work.

“No man, you can take it easy this afternoon and I’ll do the work” said Frank generously.

“Perhaps we could get another bucket from the Hotel laundry” I offered helpfully.

“I got this one from there, it’s the only one they got” he replied and then continued “let‘s get some lunch at the Chinese place. I think I‘ll invite Dennis so he can pay for it“.

The Chinese place was just across the street. Not much to look at from the outside, or from the inside for that matter, but the food was good and the Won Ton soup really was a perfect mid-day meal for me. Dennis came along, I’m not sure how willingly, and continued to humorously poke jibes at Frank. In spite of Frank’s former comments regarding Dennis, Frank seemed to relish in kissing his ass. The relationship definitely appeared to be a ‘superior/subordinate’ affair.

Frank explained that we had already cleared the old cement and only needed to dispose of the debris and would be ready to pour new cement tomorrow. Dennis was well please as he handed over his credit card to pay for the lunch.

As we were returning to the job site Frank’s cell phone rang again. This time he answered the call without asking me to read the calling number. Apart from the ‘hello’ I didn’t hear any more of the conversation since I had been walking ahead of the other two. Frank moved behind one of the corner walls, which further deadened the conversation. I reached the mound of broken concrete and began to fill the plastic bucket. Most of the pieces were small enough to fit into the bucket but the maximum load would only be about 20 pounds and I estimated it would take from 25 - 30 loads to complete the task. When I had finished the fifth load from mound to dumpster, Frank joined me.

“Look!” he said, “I have a small fucking problem I have to take care of. It shouldn’t take me long, so would you mind carrying on until I get back?”

Since we had only one bucket there was no real advantage in having two of us hanging around and I happily acquiesced. “Not a problem for me” I replied and then added an afterthought “I don’t think this will take more than an hour, so if your not back, what time do you want to start in the morning?”

“Fuck man, will you relax. You can wait for me and then we’ll have a couple of beers!”

I was not happy with that proposal and resolutely stated “If you’re back before I finish, the beer is a maybe, if you’re not back I’m outta here!”

He was clearly annoyed with my response and after a few more attempts to persuade me why I should wait for him he left saying in his ever certain manner “I’ll be back in time. O.K.?”

A little over an hour later I was finished. All the cement removed and the walkway suitably swept clean. The man had not come back, so I left.

Frank called me at home that evening and apologized for not getting back in time to help with the work. “What time did you leave?” he asked.

Exaggerating the truth a little I told him I had finished around 3:30. In fact, it had been just before 3:00 when I left, but I wanted to test him a little.

“Fuck man, I missed ya by a couple a minutes, why di’nt ya wait?”

I didn’t respond to the question preferring to solicit information regarding the plan for tomorrow.

“Wha’ d’ya mean, the plan for tomorrow? We work tomorrow. Be at the Fixx for coffee! 9 o’clock” he replied bossily.

I had begun to wonder about his manner. It was I who was doing him a favour by helping him out, yet he seemed to overlook that fact in his uncouth form of verbal interaction.

He arrived at the coffee shop about 20 minutes late and immediately informed me that we didn’t have time for coffee. We had to get started right away. The mixer and cement had been delivered as per Dennis’ promise. The water hose and electric extension cord were in place and Frank had brought the requisite tools. Three types of float, a shovel, a garden hand trowel and another ex-detergent bucket. I had never done cement work so Frank had to explain my role. 

He connected the electrically powered mixer into the extension cord and the mixer began its ponderous and noisy rotations. He opened up a bag of cement and as he was about to empty the bag into the mixer he remembered that first we have to put some water in the mixer.

“Awe fuck man, you di’nt put any water in yet”.

“I don’t recall that you asked me to” I replied politely.

“Fuck man do I hav’ta think of everything? Go turn the water on!” he commanded.

I went to where the hose was connected to the water outlet and discovered that the normal round control key was missing. I shouted to Frank and explained the problem.

“He probably left it someplace else! Go look by the pool” he advised helpfully.

We got lucky and the water key was in fact still in the pool tap. I disconnected it and soon had the water flowing to the cement mixer.

“Turn it off,” shouted Frank almost the instant that I had turned it on.

“What’s the matter?” I inquired as I terminated the flow of water.

“Damn, we need a nozzle so we can turn the water on and off. I’ll go see if Dennis has one”.

My thought at this time was ‘if Frank is always this well organized how can he stay in business’. He was away this time for a quarter of an hour and came back empty handed.

I had been thinking about the problem and felt that a patch type solution would be to use one of the plastic buckets as an overflow receptacle while I walked the twenty or so paces to turn it off at the tap. Then I could use the water in the bucket, as I needed to fine-tune the mix. Frank, who was more of a talker than a listener, didn’t like the idea. At this point my own frustration had increased and needed to be expressed. “Then do what the hell you want” I said angrily “and I’ll just bugger off”.

His demeanour changed by 180 degrees. “No man, calm down. If that’s what you want to do it might work”.

The fact is that with the water pressure kept low the idea proved to be entirely workable. The mixer would comfortably hold about two and a half bags of cement, plus a shovel full of Portland cement, fibreglass shavings and a couple of cups of a ‘special’ bonding mixture. 

The key to the whole operation was in getting the texture of the cement just right every time, and I swear that with Frank one could practice for a hundred years and still be a tad wet or a tad dry, every time.

The work went reasonably well. We soon established a rhythm and apart from the cement being a tad wet or a tad dry we had the work completed in about 4 hours. During the morning and early afternoon we had taken a few smoke breaks and Frank had made a few telephone calls, but no lunch break. For me the only unpleasant part of the job was breathing in the dust each time I emptied a bag of cement into the mixer. By the end of the day my nose seemed to be plugged and my throat was as dry as a bone and it was I who suggested that we have a couple of beers. Frank agreed but said first we had to go see a friend who lived close by.

Just a couple of blocks away Frank pulled into a driveway and a silver haired and well-dressed gentleman came to greet us. He looked into the car and gesturing at me said, “So is this your new bulldog?”

“Mike, this is Giovanni. Giovanni this is Mike”.

I had suddenly acquired a new name and wasn’t sure if I liked it.

The exchanged greeting was an informal ‘hey, how are you doing’.

“So, everything ready?” said Frank.

“Yeah, it’s in the house,” replied Mike.

In a whispered voice Frank told me to stay in the car. He got out and went into Mike’s house. I had just had enough time to smoke another cigarette when Frank returned carrying an envelope stuffed with something, which, for some reason, I assumed to be cash. Frank opened the trunk of his car and put the envelope in it.

With the usual banter and bullshit we said goodbye and headed for the bar.

“I shouldn’t being telling you this, but we’re friends and good buddies and I trust you. Mike is involved with us in a number of ways, but that packet is a case of .38 shells”.

“Good grief man! What do you need that for?” I said in astonishment.

“Well some day, maybe soon, I might tell you” he replied, ending that particular conversation.

In the bar we talked about how well the job went and what a good piece of work we had done. Knowing very little about cement and its characteristics I was in no position to make a judgment, but it did seem to me that the finished product was indeed a fine piece of craftsmanship. Frank asked me if I enjoyed the work and I told him that I had found it not only satisfying that I had learned a new skill, but the physical aspect of it had been therapeutic for my sagging abdomen. 

“That’s good,” he said, “’cause I think we make a fucking good team. I got lotsa work lined up so we can keep busy up to January”.

“Well don’t forget I still have to work in the restaurant, at least up until January” I replied.

“Oh yeah, you close in January for the whole month”.

“ There’s a bit more to it than that. Steve wants to sell the place,” I said with more than a little disappointment in my voice.

“Why the fuck would he do that? That’s the best restaurant in town. You’re always busy. Fuck man, you can’t get in without a reservation!” Frank made those statements with the passion of a believer.

“I know. But in reality the kitchen is too small for more than one person to do the work so Steve can’t get any help. And, the eating area isn’t big enough to enjoy the benefits of economy of scale” I paused for a moment then added “I understand where Steve is coming from. He figures if we raise the price we lose the competitive edge, and if we don’t, the future doesn’t promise enough to make the effort worthwhile”.

“Look man, I’ll talk to him and we’ll make him change his mind”.

I knew full well that Frank could not influence my son, who was also my business partner, in any way shape or form. “I wish you could” I said wistfully “but Steve is the boss, he carries 95 percent of the workload and responsibility. He’s been there, done that, and when he says enough I have to support him”.

Frank seemed genuinely saddened by the prospect of the restaurant being sold and we reminisced about the good times, the fun, and how Kelowna wouldn’t be the same without Steve doing his stuff in the Fixx. 

After a while we got back to work business and Frank asked if I could help him do an inter-locking brick path for one of his friends who lived in Westbank. “’Course, I could do it myself but it’s much easier with two people”.

I liked the idea of discovering more tradesman secrets and told him I would be happy to help.

“That’s good. You help me and I help you,” he said contentedly.

I assumed he had meant that teaching me new skills was the manner in which he would be helping me and I reaffirmed that assumption.

“No, no my friend. I will help you make money because you are my buddy and my workmate. There’s a lot more to me than you know. I can’t tell you everything ’cause that wouldn’t be good for you or me”. At this point my ears were as big as saucers and full of interest. Frank continued his monologue “Dennis calls me Tony, that’s because when I first met Dennis I was using a different name. I used to be connected to the Mob and I did two years in prison for tax evasion. The fucking government took ten million dollars outta my safe and said it was proceeds of crime. I’m out of it now but I do have connections with some very clever business people in Vancouver. There are investment opportunities that pay really good dividends and I have some friends here in Kelowna who I let in on the deals. Ernie is involved, Mike is involved, and Bill the guy at Dilworth is involved. Dennis was involved but I cut him off, he made a ton of money but didn’t appreciate it. Anyway, there are big and small investment opportunities that come along. Right now I can let you in on one for $3,000 that pays $1,500 interest in about 4 months. I’m offering it to you only once, if you say no I won’t mention it again”.

I had met Ernie before, since Frank and he were often in the restaurant for coffee, and I knew that Ernie was quite well off. When I was first introduced he seemed to be an affable and intelligent, if not sophisticated, gentleman. I remember that he would smoke Frank’s cigarettes and always put a golfers glove on his left hand when he was smoking. I had met Mike for the first time that very day, although I do recall seeing him with Frank at the restaurant on a couple of occasions.

I didn’t hesitate to accept the offer. The $3,000 that Frank had recovered from Raphael was essentially found money since I had mentally written it off months before. Added to which, a $1,500 bonus just around Christmas time would in itself be a cause for celebration.

Chapter 7

Of the four seniors who had made up the foursome, only two headed for the clubhouse for some refreshment. While the four had played ostensibly for the pleasure of each other’s company and the love of the game, two of the men were perennial rivals and had a side bet going on throughout the game. To say that Mike Branagh and Ernie Chathert were friends would be stretching the most liberal interpretation of friendship. Although at the golf club and at occasional social events they maintained an appearance of friendship.

Being evenly matched in their respective handicaps they preferred match play rather than stroke play for $5.00 a hole.

Mike had shot a 92, which was four strokes over his average for the year, but he had still ended up 5 holes to the good. Ernie, in spite of shooting a 91, would have to cough up $25.00. The money shouldn’t have been a concern to either of the two for they were both in the millionaire category. However, Ernie had a reputation for being a ‘cheapskate’ who viewed every dollar spent as a miscalculation. Mike, on the other hand, was the type of person who would hand out a $10.00 bill to any waif or stray who looked like they needed it.

Ernie grudgingly handed over the twenty-five dollars and said, “ The least you can do is buy me a coffee!”

“You’re wrong there buddy” replied Mike with a very large grin on his face, “I think it’s the most I can do”

They seated themselves in the lounge bar by a window overlooking the putting green. Although it was still only July Ernie, for some reason, surprised Mike with an unlikely question for the time of year.

“So when are you heading down to Phoenix?” asked Ernie.

“Oh I don’t know. Maybe middle of October, but not later than first week of November.  And you?”

“November 15th. I’m waiting for an investment which is due first week of November”. Ernie’s style of speech was invariably devoid of any kind of warmth and Mike equated it with some sort of stabbing motion.

“You mean you have to wait until somebody gives you some spending money?” Mike goaded.

“Of course not” shot back Ernie “this is a special kind of investment. Low risk, high interest, but not necessarily lily white and its tax-free cash. Something you should think about getting into”.

“Why don’t you tell me about it” said Mike looking out over the putting green and showing the minimal degree of enthusiasm.

Moving a little closer to Mike and lowering his voice Ernie continued. “First of all it’s very secretive. Generally people involved don’t talk about it so as not to attract attention”.

Mike chuckled a little “Hum! Well you seem to be talking about it”

Irritated, Ernie snapped “ well do you want to know or not?”

Still smiling Mike said “lighten up buddy, ‘course I want to know”

Ernie explained that he was in for $150,000 and that it would yield interest of $75,000 on a 1-year term. “Mind you” he said, “I started out small, $20,000 that paid $8,000 in just 4 months. Sometimes there are opportunities for small investments; other times there are the big ones. You can do anything from 3 grand to 75 grand. Normally the big ones are for a year. The smaller ones vary from 3 to 6 months. But the return is always 10 times more than you can expect from the bank or the market”

Mike pondered this for a while before asking, “who does this and how do they do it?”

“Look” said Ernie conspiratorially “the how doesn’t matter does it” he went on “do you remember Frank that I introduced to you at the new restaurant down by your place?”

“Yeah, the Italian guy” growled Mike.

“Exactly. Well he’s connected with some influential people on the coast”

“What do you mean, connected with who?”

“Good god man! Must I spell it out for you? He belongs to the Italian organization!”

“Mafia?” questioned Mike with more than a little disbelief.

“That’s right. He was the big guy in Vancouver until he got into some trouble and moved here to avoid the heat. Now he runs the operation from here”. Ernie leaned back in his chair, his eyes sweeping the room as if to see if anyone had been listening to their conversation.

After a minute or so of silence Mike, his face showing signs of doubt and apprehension inquired “and what do they use this money for?”

At this point Ernie decided he had said enough, shrugged his shoulder and replied “look, you’ll have to talk to Frank about that. I’ll tell him to come see you”.

The next day Mike had a call from Frank and they arranged to meet in a couple of hours. Since Frank was doing some maintenance work at the hotel just around the corner from Mike’s place they would meet at the Fixx café which was no more than a 5 minute walk for both of them.

Mike is a big man, standing at 6’2”; his broad frame is lean and fit for a man of more than 70 years. His face is permanently tanned from his year round golfing habit and still bears the scars of his youth when he played junior pro hockey.

It was many months later that I became acquainted with Mike and learned something of his background. My first experience with the game of monopoly came in the 50’s when I was perhaps 10 years old. I have no idea when the game was first introduced as family entertainment but it may well have been in the 30’s. I speculate on this matter because I imagine that Mike had been a monopoly player in the 30’s when he was just a ten year old boy because as an adult he had played the game very well, but this time for real money and real property. Over the years Mike had acquired a large tract of prime property on the lakeshore. He started by buying the smallest lot and over a period of 25 years gradually acquired 10 more adjacent properties. The renters paid the mortgage for each property and 25 years later he owned 5 acres of prime real estate worth a small fortune.

Anyway, on this day Mike took a leisurely walk along the Lakeshore road to his rendezvous with Frank, who, in anticipation of a good business deal had arrived 15 minutes earlier. In his best Italian English Frank greeted Mike with a “ ‘ey, how you doon Miguel? Can I buy you coffee? This guy, he meka the best espresso”. It should be pointed out that this was not his normal manner of speaking. Only when he was nervous or was on the wrong side of an argument did he revert to Engliano. 

They seated themselves at a table on the patio where Frank could smoke his cigarettes and Mike could smoke a torpedo-sized cigar. Mike had not been enthused about having the ‘best espresso’ and instead opted for a regular ‘perked’ coffee. Meanwhile, Frank who was drooling over the waitress, and, one suspects making lewd suggestions, eventually ordered his double espresso with a dash of foamed milk on top. 

They didn’t get down to business right away, instead Frank described in great detail the wide range of trade skills he possessed and concluded by saying “so ifa you need anything leta me know and I come do it”.

Mike broached the subject of the investment opportunity and was disappointed when Frank said that at the moment he had nothing, but quickly added that something may come up ‘real soon’ and he would be prepared to consider Mike for it.

“What kind of number do you have in mind?” questioned Frank.

“How about 50 thousand to start?” responded Mike.

“Big ones come along,” said Frank, his brow furrowed and his jaw set firmly as if he were a CEO about to make a major corporate decision. “Would you be interested in something smaller, or bigger if I get the word?”

The disappointment of the initial negative response had left Mike eager to get into something and he readily agreed, “Sure, you let me know and I’ll take care of it”.

The waitress came out to the patio and asked if everything was o.k. and would they like anything else, and while Mikes response was “no, I’m fine” Frank’s was “yeah, I’d like something else but now’s not the time and here’s not the place”. The waitress forced the weakest of smiles and quickly returned to the safety of the restaurant.

Mike reopened the conversation of investment. “What’s the format of the investment?”

“What do you mean ‘what’s the format’” said Frank waiting for a more suitable entry point.

“Well, what do I have to do and what do you have to do?” questioned Mike.

“Look, Ernie done a lot of stuff with us, what did he tell you?” said Frank, once again making Mike do the talking.

“Ernie said the whole thing was very secretive and that it was handled by a” Mike hesitated while trying to think of the right way to phrase his next words, “uh, a ‘well know organization’ shall we put it.”

“Everything we do is done on the honour system. When I tell you the deal and you give me the money, we shake hands. My handshake is more secure than Fort Knox. I guarantee the deal ‘cause nobody fucks with us. We have to be careful so’s not to get attention. We don’t want no papers and contracts that could get anybody in trouble. We do our thing and everybody makes money. You understand what I‘m saying?”. Having made the mini speech Frank sat back in his chair and gave Mike a long hard stare, chin thrust forward, mouth curled down at either side, eyes semi squinting. All in all it looked like one of those acting school facial expressions he might have borrowed from Robert di Nero. It was good enough and Mike gave him every benefit of the doubt.

“o.k. I understand” said Mike.

Shortly thereafter they went their separate ways but it was only 4 days later that Mike had a call from Frank saying there was a small investment opportunity. The deal was only $15,000 returning $5,000 in just 2 months.

“Miguel” said Frank “if you want to wait for a bigger one that’s o.k. I do have someone else who wants this one, but I thought I’d give you the first chance”.

“Hell no, I’ll take it and when a bigger one comes up I’ll take it too” replied Mike, anxious not to miss such a good opportunity.

Three days later the deal was made, the handshake given and everyone was happy. 

The two months passed very quickly and around the first week of October, as Mike was making plans to join the snowbirds flying south, Frank called. “Mr. Branagh, issa Francesco. How you doon my friend?”

“Fine Frank, and how are you?” replied Mike.

“I’m a good. Mike, your money’s coming through in a couple a days. But I got good news and I got good news,” said Frank in his smoothest voice.

“Ha! And what’s the good news?” queried Mike.

“I got a much better opportunity if you’re interested” Frank didn’t wait to hear if Mike was interested but continued “if you want you can have a piece of a really big one. $75,000, 10 months, pays $32,000. But I gotta know quickly or we lose the deal”.

Mike hesitated trying to gather his thoughts.

Not wanting to waste a moment Frank went on “Ernie’s in on this one and me. I know a guy up on Dilworth that wants a share but he’s already made a ton of money so I prefer if you had this one. If you want we can roll the $20,000 over and then you only need to come up with $55,000, does that sound good?”

There are times when the mind does not seem to work fast enough and this was one of those situations for Mike. He wanted to analyze the proposal, weigh the risk, calculate his cash flow all at once and he couldn’t do it. If I don’t take it he thought, I might not get another chance for 6 months, if ever.

“Mike, if you don’t have the cash I can give this one to Bill ‘cause he wants it badly”

Mike caved in “o.k. Frank, but I need a couple of days to get the cash”.

Frank maintained the pressure with “we can’t wait more than two days or we lose the deal. You understand that, right?”

“Sure” said Mike somewhat wearily; “I’ll have the cash by noon on Thursday” 

“Alright buddy, I’ll come by and pick it up then”. 

Chapter 6

The restaurant my partner and I owned and operated had quickly established a reputation for being ‘the place’ to eat pasta. My partner, who is an exceptionally good chef, would tell everyone that the Italians may have invented pasta but he had perfected it.

Our Cafe and Pasta Bar was ‘L’ shaped and located at ground level in the corner of a three-storied building. Other tenants included a Bank, Insurance Broker, Travel Agent and a Civil Engineering company.

Between opening at 9:00 a.m. and lunch and between lunch and dinner the restaurant served as a coffee shop. Some people described the decor as ‘funky’. I’ve never really understood what characteristic qualifies an object as being ‘funky’ but the colour scheme and artwork was interesting and pleasing to the eye. Five Marcus Pierson prints hung on the walls together with a reasonably good copy of Van Gogh’s ‘le cafe, le soir’ that I had painted for another restaurant in another time. Above the bar there was a dark green canvas apron attached to a bold tubular brass frame. On three of the canvas apron panels was more unusual artwork intended to provoke curiosity and conversation. 

It was around 10:30 in the morning of a gloriously blue May day, with the sun shining, the trees and flowers bristling with energy after their lazy winter hiatus, that Frank swaggered into my restaurant.

“Hey! You guys did a fabulous job here! Looks great! I can see you’re gonna do really well!”

Naturally, anyone in business likes to hear compliments from their clients and I was happy that this fine gentleman had made his comments loud enough for anyone within a half-mile radius to hear.

Although he introduced himself as Frank, the fellow he was with always referred to him as Tony. Frank was not a big man standing at around 5’6”, but his short frame was clearly well built with good muscle definition and a ruggedly handsome face. His companion spoke with the burr of a Scottish accent and was introduced as Dennis, manager of the hotel just across the street.

Some people like attention, others crave it. I think Frank belonged to the latter genre for in his best ‘life and soul of the party’ voice he jokingly said “the coffee had better be good ‘cause Starbucks is just up the street”. Now I do have a sense of humour but the threat veiled in humour rankled me. My instant thought was ‘then why don’t you bugger off to Starbucks’. Of course I didn’t say it.

Frank ordered a double espresso with a sprinkling of foamed milk and brown sugar for himself, and, a latte for Dennis. In the ensuing conversation it turned out that Frank was a versatile handyman and worked practically full time on maintenance work at the hotel. He could do anything; install carpeting; fix plumbing; hang doors; lay ceramic tiles; pour cement; and even plug the power cord into a wall socket for guests who couldn’t get the TV to work. All in all he was a good fellow and generally likable. A comedian, well traveled, and, someone who knew everything there was to know.

Flattery is a universal currency that can be acquired easily and spent generously, and, while it’s not the same as hard currency when it comes to tipping, there are few people who wont give off a prideful glow to a good dose of flattery. Frank proved good on both counts, leaving a $3.00 tip on a seven-dollar bill and volubly expressing his feelings about the best espresso he’d had since his last visit to Italy many years ago.

Frank became a regular at the restaurant. Almost every day he would come in for his double espresso made just the way he liked it, occasionally apologizing for not being there the previous day due to his working at another job site. Once a week, he and his wife (they were really not married since Frank had never divorced his first wife) would come in for dinner. He had become such an honoured guest he could get in when the reservation book was full. Always respectful of the more sophisticated dinner clientele, he would leave his ebullient daytime persona at home on these occasions.

I remember his favourite entrée was ‘Farfalle Amatriacana with smoked bacon, Bermuda onions, portobello mushrooms and roast tomato sauce, baked with grated asiago cheese’. In a restaurant where soup du jour, Caesar salad, full order entrée, house specialty desert, half litre of wine, coffee and liqueur would cost a modest $70.00, Frank would always spend over two hundred dollars and leave a sizable tip.

Over the next few months we became good buddies. I was the restaurant bar tender and often engaged customers in conversation, always one-sided. I preferred to listen and concentrate on my job, they invariably seemed willing to talk, and Frank was a talker. His daytime job was in fact his second job and necessary only to preserve the illusion he was an everyday hardworking citizen. However, his nocturnal activities were shrouded in mystery, although, through innuendoes and other less discreet comments one gathered he had at one time been associated with the Mob and had served prison time for tax evasion when he was “the Mob boss in Vancouver”.

About a year after I had first met Frank I ran into a small problem. My Cuban wife had a brother, Roberto, who was desperate to leave Cuba. She and I had tried a number of avenues to bring Roberto to Canada through legal channels all to no avail. We had met a recently arrived Cuban who had defected from some sort of Agricultural Delegation while visiting BC. He gave us the name of a Cuban lawyer in Toronto who could certainly help us in our quest to bring Roberto to Canada.

My wife called her countryman lawyer in Toronto who, having listened to her story, said he couldn’t help directly but knew of someone who could. We were told to contact Rafael, a Colombian, who has helped many people just like us. Rafael was full of confidence, “no problem” he said, “and we’ll have Roberto here within 2 months”. The fee would be $10,000 and it would be necessary to send $5,500 right away to get the process moving.

The plan was to have a Colombian associate of Rafael send a letter of invitation for Roberto to visit Colombia. This letter of invitation is requisite for all Cubans who wish to obtain an exit permit from Cuba. Once in Colombia, Roberto would be given a false passport and visa to visit Canada. Upon arriving in Canada he seeks asylum as a Cuban refugee.

I sent the $5,500 to Rafael along with passport photo’s of Roberto and waited, and waited. Two months later nothing had happened, Roberto hadn’t received his letter of invitation and Rafael was becoming more elusive. My wife called the Cuban lawyer in Toronto and explained our dilemma. Senor Seneda was most sympathetic and promised to have a word with Rafael. A couple of weeks later I managed to contact Rafael who was most upset that his Colombian associate had not delivered according to the agreement. To demonstrate his good faith, Rafael gave me the name and telephone number of his Colombian associate and invited us to call him. Which we did.

My wife dialled the number. To her delight and relief the number was valid and the telephone ringing. The call was answered and she asked to speak with Senor Ribo Garcia.

“This is he” was the reply.

She explained the reason for the call and acquainted him with the plan Rafael had proposed. Alas, he knew nothing of this plan and had never received the money Rafael claimed to have sent. Yes, he did know Rafael but said, “If the little rat ever shows up in Colombia he’ll be dead in 5 minutes”. This we did not want to hear.

From this time on Rafael refused absolutely to accept our calls and our Lawyer friend could only suggest that we fly to Toronto in order to resolve the problem. At this point I knew they were a pair of crooked bastards.

On a very warm afternoon in June, Frank, his friend Rob, and I were having some cool beers on the restaurant patio. The conversation had mostly revolved around Rob Traud whom I had only recently met. To put it mildly, Rob looked one tough ‘son of a bitch’. Rob was around 40 years old and had at one time been a kick boxer. According to Frank he was a kickboxing champion who had fought in Vegas on occasions. They had been friends for 20 years and there appeared to be enormous mutual respect between them.

Rob lived in Vancouver but had responsibilities in the Okanagan under the direction of Frank who was the area boss. These responsibilities included intimidation and the occasional slap in the head to borrowers if they still owed money after the due date. Frank explained the reason for Rob’s current visit was to do a debt collection for Frank’s good friend Ernie.

While feeling more than a little stupid for having been duped by Rafael, but driven by anger, I seized this moment to recount my current predicament regarding the failed Cuban affair.

Frank has an animal instinct for sniffing opportunities and he immediately offered assistance in recovering my $5,500.

“How would you be able to do that?” I asked, more curious about the method than the result.

With his right index finger tapping the side of his nose he smugly replied, “don’t you worry about that, my organization has contacts all over Canada and the US. The reason we are so powerful is that all the ‘Families’ work together and cooperate”.

The way he said this was bound to impress and with nothing to lose I took up the offer.

“Of course“ said Frank, “it costs money to collect money and nobody works for free”. After a brief pause, in which he looked intently into my eyes, he went on “ we normally take 50% of what we collect”.

“Well,” I responded, “fifty percent of something is a whole lot better than one hundred percent of nothing”.

Frank relaxed, picked up his beer and said “salud”. The deal had been made.

I happily returned his ‘salud’ and had one of those moments when I thought ‘yes!’ Someone up there is looking out for me’.

I gave to Frank all the information I had concerning Rafael; Name, address, telephone number, Western Union receipt, fax copy of Rafael’s proposed plan. Frank said “Just in case things get rough down there it might be better that there’s no more contact with Rafael or Seneda, in fact why don’t you change your telephone number. If he calls you don’t answer”.

Two weeks later Frank invited me over to his house for a celebration. He said “I got something that will make you very happy”.

When I arrived he handed me a fat envelope stuffed with $20 bills. Sure enough it contained $3,000.