More rehashed and reworked stories from my days as a writer with THE FLAT RABBIT PRESS.
Welcome back, pal.
In my lifetime, I've had more than my share of experiences that really boggle the mind. I'll relate them all to you in due time, but I'll have to settle for just one in this issue. After which, space permitting, maybe we'll talk about hookers.
I was Senior Loan Officer for a major San Francisco financial institution and my then wife and I were also co-managing an apartment and motel complex in Marin County. One day, my wife informed me that a tenant by the name of Susan had bounced her rent check, so I hot-footed my then suave, masculine body up to her apartment and knocked on the door. Undoubtedly, you know what happened next.
The door opened about a quarter of the way and there was Susan, about 5 feet six, young, luscious, blonde, well-stacked, and seductively posed in a completely see-through baby-doll negli-golly-whiz-gee outfit. "Hi," she purred, just as smoothly as an idling 1958 supercharged Olds with Hollywood mufflers. I explained who I was and that I was there about her bad rent check. She tugged invitingly at her silk shoulder strap and cooed, "Why don't you come in? I'm sure we can work something out."
It goes without saying that, being the loyal husband that I was, I exercised my very best judgment and passed on the offer. Besides, I could see my wife's reflection in Susan's front window; she was standing on the stoop in front of the office and watching all of the action. Susan did make that check good, but she bounced the next month's rent and split the scene. She left behind a lot of interesting adult gadgets, and I'm not talking about can openers, either.
Anyway, the wife was very pregnant with our first son, and we eventually decided to move to Seattle to be closer to her parents and to get me into managing a finance company. We also co-managed a housing complex and…. Yeah, how'd you guess? Susan was a tenant there and yes, she bounced a rent check. You know, that blew my mind away. It also blew Susan's mind when I knocked on her door. "You came all of the way up here from California to collect a rent check?" she asked. I gave her 48 hours to cover the current check.
Well, I was sitting at my manager's office desk at the finance company the very next day when I heard Susan explaining to my loan officer that her mean, bully landlord was dogging her for the rent. I pulled the loan officer aside and explained the situation. I told him to use his own judgment and to leave me out of the decision-making process. To make a long story longer, he decided to go ahead and make her the loan and to use the title to her car as security. When she sat down to sign the papers and obtain her rent money, I walked out into the lobby and spilled the beans. "You'd better never, ever bounce a check on this loan," I warned her, "because I WILL come to get you, and it won't be pleasant.”
Six months later, Susan bounced a loan payment and a rent payment and she disappeared into the night. This time and to my complete and utter dismay, she didn't leave behind any toys. I made it a point to skip-trace her myself and I located her in Surrey, British Columbia. One Saturday, my loan officer and I took a Saturday drive and knocked on Susan's door. The landlord of the place told me that we had barely missed her; she had moved out the day before. “But, I think the RCMP might be able to help you," he winked. The Mounties were good enough to pin her down for me and she was working in a hotel in Edmonton, Alberta as the “house organ player.” I won't go into details about what organ she was playing.
That's the last I heard of Susan for a very long time. As far as I knew, she never missed another payment on the loan, but I would eventually find out differently. You see, I ended up working at the Landmark Hotel in Las Vegas as the Executive Casino Host. I had developed quite a reputation in the gaming industry for collecting gambling debts, and the credit manager there asked me if I could teach some of the tricks of the trade to his new collector.
Yeah, you guessed it again. I ran across a $200 bad check written by Susan and she was working as a blackjack dealer at the Royal across the street. I told Mike that I'd soon have the money he'd been trying to collect for the last six months. You should have seen the look on her face when I sat down at her table the next day. "My God," she said, white as a pillow case, "you DID chase me down." Needless to say, I collected the money.
Pretty darned phenomenal, huh? What a story! But, it ain't over yet. About ten years later, I got a job offer at the Peppermill in Reno and put my Vegas house up for sale. The real estate market was in a slump at the time, and the agent suggested I should consider taking in a renter. Just like a jack-in-the-box and out of nowhere, up popped Susan as a potential tenant. She eventually did buy the place. Of course, I gave her an excellent credit recommendation. Well, what the bank doesn't know won't hurt them. They wouldn't have believed the real story, anyway. But, finally, that was the end of that story, I hope.
Now, let's talk about hookers.
While I was working at the Landmark, we hired a Director of Security by the name of Francis Lynch. The guy used to be a New York City Chief of Detectives I thought, but my friend Gary now tells me that Francis was a former FBI agent. Anyway, the guy dressed in $25 genuine gray polyester suits.
Mitch the Bell Captain came to me one day with a complaint that Francis had run all of the hookers out of the place. "I'm having trouble making my house payment," he lamented. I sized up the situation and decided to take Francis to lunch. That is worth mentioning because, in those days, I was tighter than a jock strap on an elephant. Okay, so some things never change; you do win that point.
"Francis," I confided, "it is a sign of good business to have a couple of hookers hanging around the bar."
"Why's that?"
"Well, hookers like money and gamblers have money and gamblers with money like hookers. If you have a couple of hookers hanging around, gamblers figure that this is a good house to play in."
The very next night, my girlfriend Debi collared me on the casino floor, (I was divorced by then, but Susan had nothing to do with it,). "What kind of a place are you guys turning this casino in to?" she demanded to know. I asked her what she was talking about, and she directed me to the lounge. I peeked inside the plush velvet curtains and, lo and behold, there were about 40 hookers in there.
"Francis," I said, after I chased him down. If I remember correctly, he was getting his tennis shoes shined at the time. "Francis, we've got to talk."
Next Wednesday, we'll discuss my three experiences with flying saucers.
No comments:
Post a Comment