Another Wednesday, another breathtaking tale from my past, a la Flat Rabbit Press:
Welcome back, pal.
When I left you at the end of my last column, I was face-to-face with the business end of a loaded 45. That's the main reason this column will be a tad bit more serious than most. But, and make no mistake about it, every tale told in this column is true.
I ended up in that predicament while trying to collect a gambling debt for the Desert Inn in Vegas. The guy owed the joint $15,000 and he'd made no bones about the fact that he had no intentions to pay it. As customary, I'd not bothered to tell him that I was coming; I didn't want to give him any advantages in the showdown.
Due to bad weather, the plane was diverted to the other side of the Bible-belt state and I had to rent a car and head east. I have to admit that I was more than a little surprised when I reached his place of business. It was an old, three-story brick high school building, surrounded by two chain link fences, (each neatly trimmed with razor wire), and sporting a couple of not-so-friendly German shepherds rambling around between the fences. I had to drive around the whole block to find a spot where the fences ran up against the building to allow for deliveries.
There was a roll-up metal door and loading area with a dutch-door to the right and a sign that specified deliveries were to be made between 9:00AM and 1:00PM only. It was 3:30. I rang the buzzer anyway. I had to ring it several times before the top half of the door opened. I was in the remnants of a hurricane, mind you, and soaked to the gills.
Wouldn't you know it? The guy was all dressed up in a dark and pin-striped suit, just like in one of those "Godfather" movies. I felt conspicuously awkward and out-of-place as I stood there in my orange sharkskin, genuine polyester, wet sport coat. "Whaddya want?" he growled.
"I want to see Freddie," I said, as I slipped my business card to him. His eyes squinted when he read the card.
"Wait here!" He slammed the door shut in my face and I waited for a another very long time before the door opened again. He directed me around to the front of the building and told me to go through two gates after I heard the buzzers, then to go up the steps and to ring a bell by the door. I inquired as to what the dogs had in mind, and he told me they'd already had lunch.
There was another bimbo waiting for me after I rang the bell. I tracked after him into an old classroom; the floor had been painted navy gray. At the other end of the room, there was a beaten-up old desk with a gray-haired and bespectacled geezer sitting behind it. He was plunking away at an equally old adding machine, one of those fancy pull-the-handle styles. Mr. Muscleman with the bulge in his suit jacket pointed to the only other furniture in the room, a folding metal chair, and directed me to sit.
I sat. In fact, I sat there for a very long time, watching that old buzzard at the other end of the room plunking away at his damned adding machine. My clothes even dried out. I tried several times to engage him in conversation, but the plunking was incessant and he never even acknowledged that I had spoken. Eventually, Mr. Muscleman returned and ordered me to follow him. Out in the hallway, another suited twit started following behind me.
"You packin'?" he demanded, when we reached the top landing on the third floor. I told him that I wasn't, but he patted me down anyway. Then, Muscleman led me to a big, solid oak door and buzzed away at an intercom on the wall. "He's here," he announced into the microphone. A third greaseball opened the door and I was almost pushed inside.
It was another old classroom, but poles apart. This room had cherry wood, plush red carpet, red velvet drapes, and a huge mahogany desk at the opposite end. The guy behind the desk, also wearing the traditional pin-striped suit, was smoking a big fat cigar and fingering my business card. I was escorted to a chair across from him and shoved into it. "Whaddya want?" he growled. Well, at least they all spoke the same language.
"You know why I'm here," I stoically replied. To which he slowly opened a desk drawer and, suddenly… I was eyeball to eyeball with that loaded 45 I've been telling you about. It was an automatic. I knew it was automatic because it didn't have the little round thing that holds the bullets. I knew it was loaded because I saw the guy slip the clip in and pull the slide back. Needless to say, I watched with some interest as he laid it down on the top of the desk.
Do you know," he growled, "you're in the middle of one of the biggest porno distribution centers in the world. I own the sheriff, the police chief, and the judges in this town. All I have to do is just reach for the gun and blow your ***** head off and no one, I mean no one, will ever know what happened to you."
I think that may have been an implied threat, I’m not sure. I leaned across the desk and stuck my face directly into his. "The boys at the Desert Inn won't think too nicely of you if I don't show up back there tomorrow morning, alive and with the 15 grand. So, now what, Freddie?"
After a seemingly interminable time of total silence, he told the three bimbos to wait outside. "You got guts, kid," he told me as he turned around in his chair, opened a wall safe behind him, and removed three bands of C-notes. He shoved them across the desk at me, and continued, "You've got exactly 60 seconds to get your ass off my property.´
Well, exactly 48.36 seconds later, I had left his office, elbowed my way past the three suits, flown down three flights of stairs, bolted out a locked and guarded door, squeezed through two fence gates while smiling at the dogs, flashed around to the side of the building, thrown myself into my rented car, and driven, (with some haste), two blocks down the street…. I did all of that in the midst of the residue of one of the biggest hurricanes ever to hit the East Coast. Even now, years later, the mere thought of those moments causes me to gather skid marks in my shorts.
A week or so later, I was paid a visit by the Secret Service. They told me the bills were all counterfeit.
I was going to tell you about Bugsy Siegel and Howard Hughes, but I've run out of space. My next column will be a real dilly, my friend; don't miss it. Oh, by the way, I found the answer to the question I raised in the last issue. 'Twas Major Hoople in "OUR BOARDING HOUSE." Egads, congrats and a complimentary spit-wad to Edgar Frump.
Oh, and yes… I did go back and get the $15,000… in real money. They all thought it was hilarious; I didn’t.
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