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.