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.