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Why's Frank Weathers so happy? Frank's buying everyone drinks in the Attic. I hope I didn't have to reciprocate, following a long-standing and obtuse custom at the bar.
"You're cheap," said Wal-terr. "What are you having?"
Since it's on Frank, a brandy. And I resent the remark; I tip bartenders and waitresses very well.
"You never buy a round for the place like Frank."
What did it matter? Buying drinks, having one's drinks bought. The entire process evens out. Like gift giving.
"That's why you're against birthdays -- you're too cheap to buy presents."
Not in the least. I buy the ones I have to. Or am compelled to.
"Frank, did you hear this? Do you believe it?"
"Coming from him, I can," said Frank, shaking the Sardine's fin. "But I see you aren't too shy joining the celebration tonight."
"Frank's business went south," said Wal-terr, "he's bankrupt."
Sorry to hear...why all the happy faces? How can Frank afford...?
"Shows you how much the Sard knows about business and finance," laughed Frank.
"He was in the tin too long," remarked Wal-terr.
Odd that the one who knows finance so well is the one who went into the hopper. This wasn't Frank's first bankruptcy. A few years ago he had a custard stand on the Boardwalk.
[That was his last stand, commented my Pun Pal.]
"True," said Frank, "that did so badly it didn't even help me on my tax return."
His insurance adjustment firm was his livelihood. Would he be able to keep his house and two cars (not to mention the Corvette and his Harley)?
"I'll start a new business."
"That's what I love about America," said Wal-terr.
"And don't forget my condo in Florida," said Frank. "My partner pulled out and I have to restructure the company. Bankruptcy was the best way." He paused. "It's not really bankrupt. This is the fourth time I've done this."
How?
"Several sets of books."
How could he get away with this? Wasn't he afraid of being accused of fraud? Two sets of books. One detailing one reality, showing the company spending more than it took in (most of that money was Frank's one hundred thousand dollar salary), while he spread the profits into a dozen other bank accounts.
"They know I'm doing it."
And nothing happens.
"Everyone does it -- anyone who is smart and has a good accountant. I'm sure the Attic doesn't report all its assets."
Frank was breaking the law and nobody cared. Wouldn't the IRS love to go after him?
"Frank doesn't piss them off," said Wal-terr.
"True," said Frank. "You can't make people mad at you. In whatever way. Calling attention to yourself."
"Yeah," said Wal-terr. "I had a friend who declared a thousand dollar contribution to the Church every year when he never gave a dime. Then he upped it to ten thousand. He was investigated and got a twenty thousand dollar fine. No statute of limitations on false tax filings. I have to watch out when I declare tips. Can't be too low or too high."
The Sardine couldn't believe that the same society that let Frank make hundreds of thousands on false bankruptcies AND at its own expense, would now be toasting him for it. The same group of people hounded me for not celebrating birthdays and turned a blind eye to Wal-terr's predilections, even though it made him a "character."
"What predilections?" he asked.
Wal-terr mentioned in the previous column a conspiracy to keep him from bartending in this town, believing his scrape with the FBI agent was the solus locus of his troubles for several years. He was fired from his last job, which he had held for ten years, not because of the fight but that he may have been having sex with one of the restaurant's busgirls.
"We were good friends."
"What he means," said Frank, "was that nobody caught them in the act."
Wal-terr knew about his "predilections." He's the one who bragged about his affinity for young girls. And it was likely he had crossed the line from talk to action this if not other times.
"The owners of that place had it out for me, especially the wife. I refused to make her a cocktail one night."
Frank's interpretation: she repulsed Wal-terr's advances.
Not a bad word in relation to him. Wal-terr always talked about women, taking them out -- and more. Yet, most women instinctively didn't like this guy. He seemed oblivious to this and often went out of his way to make them feel uncomfortable. I could believe the story about the Fountain Club's owners. The wife was good looking and was known to play the field. Wal-terr's kind of target. He also claimed that other people in town put pressure on the Club to fire him. Were there other busgirl skeletons in his closet? Most damning for him, though, was the fact that the busgirl was a niece of the owners!
"They spread a rumor that we had something going on. The busgirl was infatuated with me. Nobody could prove a thing. But I paid the price."
Only Wal-terr could change a statutory rape charge into martyrdom. Besides, he may have lost the job but it didn't stop him from seeing the busgirl.
"I told you we were friends."
And he's married with two daughters! Nor has stopped publicly eyeing the busgirls at the Attic. [He likes the young dishes, wrote my friend from pound dunder.] And despite all our suspicions, Wal-terr remains a respected member of the community. Just as Frank remains the consummate business man. The Sardine can only figure that the people around here are afraid of Wal-terr; he has something worse in store for them should he be challenged. Of course, we were glad the IRS chewed him up and nearly ruined him. But now he's returned. The social pressure's relaxed. No one seems to mind he's eyeing someone's daughter.
The Sardine's essays, articles, and stories have appeared around the Internet in the last few years at 3 A.M., Facets, Eclectica magazine, Fiction Funhouse, The Fiction Warehouse, 5_trope, and several film journals. Who and what he is probably will be revealed at various points through the articles appearing at this site. The first fifteen installments of his saga can be viewed at the old Unlikely Stories.