Frankie and Rose

Yeah, those weren’t bad times. They called us the sweepers and they were good to us, only thing you had to avoid was drinking, ‘cause that was bad.
They gave you a bright shirt and black pants, each casino had its color and we at Sands had yellow and purple, at the Nugget it was gold and red.
There were always fifteen or twenty of us around; we had two bosses and one chief, the chief was coming only on real big shit and the bosses were good to us.
So we hanged around behind the lobby and the parking, and we had to keep the lot clean, I mean no people crying around or suicide attempts, no losers.
And was tough but sometimes good, these people were almost dead, all their money lost in one night maybe and they were shocked like hell, nowhere to go nothing to say, so we had to keep them “circulate” as the bosses said, no “loitering in the premises” and you’d have heard all kind of stories: people wanted us to send ‘em to jail, ‘cause wife would have killed ‘em, people trying to get 20 bucks off you, saying they had the method and you‘ll be rich forever, all the lot.
So there was this japanese guy, seated on the pavement and staring at the road, boss told me go get him and I went.
We didn’t have many japs at that time, geez we were still thinking of Pearl Harbor back then and my dad was in the navy you know, so I went and gently told him he was not to stay there, he stared ad me and started crying.
Turns out he was in town for a big sales meeting or something and had lost all his money, had still the plane ticket but no money to retrieve the luggage and get on the taxi, and what the Company would have done, he would have lost his job and so on.
That was the good of the job, we settled down for a hundred and he gave me his camera. That was a good deal, at least for me you know? Those japanese cameras were all the rage and the guy was happy to go back without having to give explanations to his colleagues.
So I was there with my buddy showing the camera and then all excitement started, we heard tires screeching and girls yelling and the lot and there was Mr. Sinatra there, out from a sleek coupé car, shacking hands with Dr. Loeb, the director.
I saw them staring at me and laughing and last thing I know boss come to me and grab me to the entrance, with crowd opening up in front of us.
There were Mr. Sinatra and Dr. Loeb, and Mr. Sinatra talked to me.
“Say boy is that one of those japanese cameras you have there?”
“Sure thing Mr. Sinatra” I said and all the people went chuckling you know?
“I wonder how you got it” and the people start smirking “But how much you want for it?”
I felt boss’ hand squeezing my arm, but I was thinking of giving the camera to Rose.
“Well, I don’t know Mr. Sinatra, it is a present...” I said.
People were laughing, but Dr. Loeb was not and boss was squeezing heavy.
“A present you say?” Mr. Sinatra stared around and looked at his car.
“tell you what; this car was a present too. To me.” People was laughing like fools.
“You give me the camera and I give you the car, and we’re even, ok?”
The crowd just went crazy, boss let go my arm, his mouth open.
Photographers were flashing us all and Dr. Loeb was nodding to me.
I heard ‘em saying “Frankie gives the car to the nigger! For a camera!!”
Geez that was a hell of a deal so I said
“Yes Mr. Sinatra, we have a deal” and everybody was clapping hands.
So I gave my camera to Mr. Sinatra and they took our photo; Sheriff was there and they took a snap of him handing over to me the papers of the car, and me shaking hand with Mr. Sinatra and Dr. Loeb with an hand on my shoulder.
And then they went away: everybody inside with glasses of champagne and Mr. Sinatra taking pictures at everybody with his new camera.
Boss told me I was off for the day and to take the car away.
So i drove it home, it was a beauty; a brand new fire red Studebaker Avanti, they don’t do ‘em anymore.
I parked it and my wife came out; son was already sleeping, he worked hard at the diner with my wife, but Rose was all excited.
“Dad! It’s sooo beautiful! Where did you got it?”
Wife was questioning too, and she didn’t believed the story, and told me I’d better get rid of the car before police would have come.
Rose was still there, her eyes glittering so I told off my wife and told Rose to come for a drive.
We left home while wife was still shouting.
Rose wanted to go on the Strip, but I was thinking it was not a good idea; they would have stopped us and questioned and all the rest.
So I drove out of the city, in the desert.
Moon was almost full and the light was very good, very beautiful.
Car was a beauty too, soft and powerful, riding over the Interstate as a cat on its way to the milk.
Rose was fast asleep, but I kept driving in the desert until the morning, not to wake her up.
She was just about six that year, and I kept driving with one hand only to keep her hand in mine all night through, until dawn.

I still have the car, back there in the barn.
They don’t do ‘em anymore, but I’ve found a guy up in South Bend that still send me bits and pieces when I call him.
He says my car is a beauty and to keep it as it is, because is worth a lot of money.
So I don’t show it to anybody, don’t tell nobody the story, ‘cause people turn crazy nowadays for money, and I don’t want ‘em to take it away from me.
At times somebody calls me, they’ve found the story on the internet, or they've heard about this car through some other collectors.
And they ask me to sell the car.
But I can’t.
‘Cause the car ain’t mine, it’s my baby Rose’s car.