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Frank Martini is the worst human being I've ever met. My first exchange with Frank was over a pay phone in the lobby of one of his hotels. We discussed the topic of money and how he owed it to me. I assumed he wasn't impressed from the way he told me to go fuck myself and hung up the phone. I took a deep breath, receiver still in-hand, now talking to the dial tone. Frank owed me $280.00. That isn't much to most people in Los Angeles but to a young man travelling the west coast it was almost half of everything I had.

“What's another 25c?” and put another quarter into the slot. I dialled again the number that was scribbled on a napkin and wrote 'CUNT' in bold letters next to it as the phone rang. I wouldn't waste any more time on pleasantries.

I spent another dollar or so but it was worth it to hear his voice strain and stress. I was getting under his skin and liked it. After some more colourful words I got hung up on again and went across the lobby with a smile on my face. I sat and waited for him, reading the paper. Celebrity wedding; page 1. Inglewood Murder; page 6?

After my 5th cup of complimentary coffee my ears picked up hearing a shrill familiarity. I stood up calling his name and walked back towards the desk. Frank was no more pleasant in person; a dirty snake in Bermuda shorts. Once he and had an early grasp on your money he challenged anyone to try and set it free. The challenge came at a cost. After an opening line Frank retorted, having me thrown out by security onto the concrete. My pack followed me through the air. My face ran into fists on the way out and was left squinting at the main lobby from the pavement, bruised and hopeless. I had the look in my eyes, the gritting of teeth, wanting to burn it all to the ground when a voice called out from the parking lot.

“Looks like you could use a ride.”

I saw a tall man dressed in hotel uniform holding keys. I didn't reply; just breathing, waiting on another bruise. He picked me and my bag off the pavement and introduced himself. His name was Philip and I took him up on his offer. I decided the $280.00 was now Frank's, leaving with the first decent person I had met in LA.

I remember the first time I saw a Rolls Royce. In that parking lot glowing a rich burgundy in the low evening sun. I asked Philip who the owner was. His boss apparently; Frank Martini. Without hesitation I jerked my arm inside the van bringing the hood ornament with me. I instantly felt better about the whole situation.