The Art of the Hustle

by Edward Mullen

  ***

  “Mr. Morrison, welcome. Please have a seat.”

  “Thank you.”

  “So what brings you to my office today?”

  “I have to say, it was much easier to get an appointment with you this time around.”

  “I’m not sure I follow.”

  “You probably don’t remember me, but I came in here about seven years ago looking for a job and I ended up working in the credit card division for four years.”

  “I vaguely recall someone leaving a series of messages on my answering machine.”

  “Guilty,” I said laughing. “I can be very persistent when I want something.”

  “And what is it that you want today, Mr. Morrison?”

  “Mr. Jones, I’m not here today for a job. In fact, my partner and I just purchased a controlling share of Andre’s Seafood Restaurant and we are seeking a small business loan to help finance a renovation project.”

  “Where is your partner?”

  “He couldn’t make it today; however, I have been fully authorized to discuss these matters on my own.”

  “Very well then, what do you have for me?”

  I opened my briefcase, reached into my brown leather folder, took out a copy of the plans, and handed them to him. I watched his eyes scan the documents. “Mr. Jones, as you may know, Andre’s has been serving people for over forty years. I’m just looking to give the place a much-needed modern facelift. The high-end décor will enhance the already popular menu, plus with the prime location, I expect to do quite well.”

  The branch manager at National Group Bank looked up at me and studied my attire. I wore a classic three-piece Armani suit, courtesy of Steve’s dad’s closet. A lot of people make judgments based on appearance – even the ones who claim they don’t are just not aware they’re doing it. That was why it was important for me to look the part of a successful business owner.

  “Mr. Morrison, I have to say, I’m quite impressed with these plans, but the restaurant industry is highly risky. Typically, for the bank to grant this type of loan to a person, they would have a considerable amount of experience and collateral. It’s just a way for us to reduce our exposure to risk. Now, let me ask you a question, what experience do you have running a restaurant?”

  “I have worked in the restaurant industry for several years and have acquired a wealth of knowledge in all aspects of the business. I assure you my ownership will not impede the historical success of the restaurant, it will only enhance it. Please keep in mind this is an established restaurant in a prime location in downtown Vancouver with a successful track record of over forty years. We are keeping a lot of the same staff, management, and the previous owner still has a substantial stake. Therefore, the risk is not the same as starting a new restaurant.

  “Mr. Jones, my team has already started construction. I’m just asking for a little loan to help facilitate the cost. I should be able to pay this money back within a couple of years.”

  Mr. Jones continued to study my proposal.

  “Mr. Jones, I came to you first because of my history with you and the bank, but I have several other meetings today. I was hoping we could do a deal today, but obviously you need more time. I don’t want to push you into anything, so why don’t you get back to me when you’ve reached your decision?” I snapped the locks on my briefcase shut and stood up. I turned around and began to make my exit. This was the art of the hustle.

  “How much were you looking for?” he asked, taking the bait right on cue. I turned around to face him once again.

  “I’m just looking at financing a small renovation project, not much, just around one million, perhaps more,” I said.

  “I think we can do that. Can you come back in an hour? I’ll have all the documents drawn up.”

  “Thank you Mr. Jones, I appreciate it. You’ve made the right decision,” I couldn’t resist using my sales techniques on him, one last positive reassurance statement to secure the deal. I don’t think he realized what I was doing, but I could not afford to have him change his mind. “I’ll see you in one hour.”

  Now that the funds were in order, I called Chris and gave him the green light. He and his crew got to work right away and started tearing the place apart. With such a major project underway, I decided to stick around Vancouver to monitor the progress and handle any problems that might arise.

  C H A P T E R

  F O R T Y - F I V E

  I stood in the doorway of Steve’s parents’ garage with a buffet of cars in front of me to choose from. I decided on the Mercedes S500 this time, primarily for its class, but also because it matched my outfit. I wore a dark wash denim pant with a short-cropped leather jacket from Armani. Underneath the jacket I had on a simple white v-neck t-shirt – everything fitted. As soon as I pulled out of the garage, I put on my shades and cruised down to Kitsilano – the neighborhood where Sam lived.

  I texted her right before I arrived. When she came out, she looked stunning. Her dark toned legs stretched out of a smart, but sexy, high-cut summer dress.

  “Hey, how’s it going?” she said as she stepped in the car. Her fruity fragrance immediately consumed the car, competing with the scent I was wearing.

  “You look nice. I like what you did with your hair,” I commented.

  “Thanks, you look nice too.”

  The drive downtown was good, there was not as much traffic as I expected. Parking was a problem, as usual. I did a few laps around the block and was lucky to find a spot two blocks away from the restaurant where I made reservations.

  “Good evening,” an attractive hostess greeted us at the door. “For two?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Dining room or lounge?”

  “Lounge, please.”

  “Certainly, right this way please.”

  We followed the hostess through the busy restaurant as she led us to the best seat in the house. We sat down, had a quick glance at the wine menu and ordered two glasses of merlot.

  “So tell me about your restaurant,” she asked.

  “It may be hard to imagine if you haven’t been there before, but I’m redoing everything. I’m creating this extravagant bar, which will have a thirty-foot waterfall down the centre of it. There will be LED TVs all across the top of the restaurant. I’m even adding a second level for VIPs only. Trust me, it will be an elite dining experience.”

  “What do you mean? You’re putting in a second floor for VIPs? What’s the point of that exactly?”

  “It’s all about status. The average person will never see the second floor. It’s reserved for the elite – politicians, movie stars, athletes, wealthy business owners. Many people will aspire to eat amongst the people on the second floor, but never will. If you make it there, it’s prestigious, it means you’re important in some way.”

  “That’s ridiculous! And let me guess, that’s where you’re going to eat?”

  “Oh no, of course not… I will be eating on the third floor.”

  “The third floor?”

  “Yes, the majority of the… shall we say, ‘second-level patrons’ won’t even know about the third floor. Membership to the third floor is by invitation only. Each table will be completely private, private entrance, private elevator with a secret access code, private parking, and anything else I can think of that’s private. It will of course include state of the art everything and a one of a kind menu offering an array of exotic delicacies. It will be very posh.”

  “Wow, you’re a dreamer.”

  “No, dreams are for the poor, I’m a realist.”

  “Okay, is there anything else?”

  “Yeah, I’m also replacing all the table cloths,” I said with a smile.

  “Ha ha, very funny. So are you changing the name too?”

  “Yes, the restaurant will be called Ace.”

  “I find this all very interesting.”

  “Enough about me, let’s talk about you.”

  “Right now I’m just doi
ng modeling, but I’m also taking acting classes.”

  “Really? Who do you model for?”

  “Do you mean which agency?”

  “I was actually interested in the companies you have modeled for, but you can tell me about your agency too if you like.”

  “I model for all different companies all over the world. I just did a show in Paris and another one in London. I live in New York mostly, but I still come here because this is where I grew up.”

  “So let me ask you a question,” I said.

  “Okay?”

  “What’s it like being so beautiful?”

  “Are you being serious?”

  “Yes, I’m being serious, I really want to know. I can only begin to imagine what it would be like to have everything handed to you. You get to travel all around the world because of the way you look; designers want you to wear their clothes, people constantly going out of their way to do things for you. It would be like having a superpower. What’s it like living in a world like that? What does that do to a person’s psychology?”

  “To tell you the truth, I don’t really think about it. Despite what you think, I’m constantly being critiqued by designers, being told I’m too fat or too skinny or that my forehead is too big. I’m surrounded by other beautiful women all day, which makes me riddled with insecurities about my appearance. Traveling around the world makes it extremely difficult to maintain relationships. Women can get really jealous and vindictive around me, and guys usually only want to sleep with me. Most of them don’t even bother to get to know me. So yeah, sometimes it can be overwhelming, but I just try to surround myself with sincere people, and try not to let it get to my head. I guess it would be a lot like being rich, you never know if people want you for you, or for what you have.”

  “So are you only with me because I’m rich?” I asked bluntly. The reality was I was not rich, but to her, that’s precisely what I appeared to be, so I went along with it.

  “Are you only with me because I’m beautiful?”

  “I admit I was attracted to you when I saw you at first, but it’s your personality that made me continue to pursue you. So to answer your question, no, I’m not only with you because you’re beautiful.”

  We sat there for the next couple of hours enjoying each other’s company. We decided to leave before the sun went down completely, so I paid for the bill and we left. On the way back to the car, I saw a skinny man with graying hair and loose-fitted clothing standing on the corner with another sketchy guy. At first glance, they were just some homeless guys begging for change on the sidewalk, but one of them looked oddly familiar.

  “Hold on a second,” I said to Sam.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I think I know that guy,” I walked a little closer and got a good look at the barely recognizable face.

  “Who?”

  “You see those two sketchy guys standing on the corner? One of them owes me some money.”

  “You mean those crack heads? Please don’t tell me you are mixed up with that stuff.”

  “No, it’s not what you think. We actually used to be friends in high school. He didn’t always look like that.”

  “Darrell!” I called out. The haggard man jumped a little. He stopped whatever he was doing and looked over at me. When our eyes met, he looked like he had seen a ghost. I continued to walk closer. I was able to get a better look at his face. His cheekbones protruded out of his pale face, the face of what appeared to be a much older man. My eyes quickly scanned the rest of him. There were a few scabs and contusions on his arms, the typical signs of a hard life on the streets. I signaled for him to come over. As he got closer, I noticed his eyes were glossy – he was clearly high on drugs.

  “Sam, why don’t you wait in the car?” I said to her as I deactivated the car alarm. Darrell looked at Sam, then at the car, then back to me. I could tell the very sight of me sickened him.

  “What the hell happened to you, Darrell?”

  “You know… certain… addictions.”

  “I hope you can sell enough of those drugs to pay me back.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Don’t play dumb with me; you know exactly what I’m talking about. You owe me four grand.”

  Darrell didn’t say a thing; he just kept looking around nervously. I wasn’t sure if it was the drugs that were making him so paranoid or if it was a life full of screwing people over that had him watching his back every ten seconds. Either way, he obviously did not have any money. Harassing him any further just seemed cruel and unnecessary.

  “Take care of yourself, Darrell.”

  “Yeah, see ya,” he mumbled, as he put his head down and walked away.

  As he walked away, I continue to watch. I actually felt sorry for him. His spirit was completely broken, swallowed up and consumed by the big city. I couldn’t help but think of how divergent our lives were at that point. We started in very similar positions after high school, but apparently, he had made a series of poor decisions. I wondered if that could have been me, or were there fundamental differences between us that kept me on the right path and him destined for skid row?

  He met up with his partner, exchanged a few words, and went back to doing what he was doing before – just hanging around on the street corner. I lost interest and began to walk back to the car. I heard a car horn beep two times, which caught my attention. I turned my head around and saw Darrell hop into the car through the passenger-side door. Curious, I continued to watch. The car drove about a half a block before the red tail lights lit up and the car came to a complete stop. The next thing I saw was Darrell exit the vehicle. There was only one logical explanation I could think of – he was selling drugs.

  I took out my cell phone and made a quick phone call to the police. After making the report, I got back in the car.

  “What was that all about?” Sam asked.

  “Believe it or not, I started a business with that guy a long time ago and he ripped me off.”

  “Yeah, that sounds about right. What happened?”

  “He racked up a bunch of advertising debt and left me with the bill. I sued him and won, but didn’t collect a dime from him. He took off and went into hiding. I haven’t seen him since, until tonight.”

  “Look at him now, and look at you. I think your success is the ultimate revenge.”

  “Yeah, but I still want that money!”

  “Seems a bit petty to me.”

  “Well, it’s the principle I guess.”

  “Don’t worry, I have a way to take your mind off of it. Why don’t we go back to your house and go for a swim?”

  “Did you bring your bathing suit?”

  “Nope,” she said, as she displayed her perfect smile.

  “What a coincidence, neither did I.”

  C H A P T E R

  F O R T Y - S I X

  The construction was coming along nicely. Chris and his men had been working around the clock, trying to get the job completed by the projected deadline. With the expected date of completion just weeks away, I was happy with how everything was turning out so far. The grand opening would take place right on schedule. Soon, I would have one of the most elegant restaurants in the city.

  I stopped by Monday morning to go over some final details with Chris. The new sign had finally arrived and he wanted to know where exactly I wanted it positioned.

  “Move it higher, and a little to the left,” I said, as the massive crane hoisted the sign in the air.”

  “Hey, Trevor, why did you call your restaurant ‘Ace’?” Chris asked.

  Before I could answer, two men, dressed in cheap drab suits, approached me. “Trevor Morrison?” a burly man with a thick mustache asked as he flashed his badge.

  “Yes.”

  “Please come with us, sir. You’re wanted for questioning in the murder of Darrell Channing.”

  “What, Darrell’s been murdered?” I guess I wasn’t surprised, he certainly looked nervous a
nd twitchy when I saw him, but that was not unusual behaviour for a crack head on the street.

  I cooperated with the police and got in the back of their unmarked police car. Fortunately, they didn’t put me in handcuffs. We took a short drive to the police station on East Hastings Street. I had never been inside a police station before and I did not intend to make a habit of it. I figured I would just answer some questions and be on my way.

  “Have a seat,” one of the detectives demanded. I took a seat on the cold steel chair. It appeared to be bolted to the floor along with the table. I took a brief moment to get acquainted with my surroundings, but there wasn’t much to look at. The pale bluish grey walls looked like they had not been re-painted in over fifty years. Oddly enough, it reminded me of my old elementary school. One wall – the same wall with the only door – had a two-way mirror. There was a good chance there were people on the other side listening to what I was about to say.

  Finally, my attention was drawn to the two officers standing in front of me, Detective Riviera and Detective Jensen. One of them had his hands on his hips and the other one had his arms folded. They both had a stern look on their faces to show they were serious. It was clearly an intimidation tactic designed to make me nervous. When a person gets nervous, it tends to affect their ability to lie well. We learned about that in law school – Prosecution Ethics. I thought it was interesting to see it in practice.

  “Where were you last Thursday evening around eleven o’clock?” one of the men barked at me.

  “I was leaving my restaurant.”

  “Can anyone verify that?”

  “No, I was staying late, working on some final things before we re-open.”

  “Do you have security cameras?”

  “No, we took them down for the renovation.”

  “Do you typically work that late?”

  “No, not usually.”

  “What time did you leave?”

  “I remember checking the time on my phone and it was a little after eleven.”

  “How do you know Darrell Channing?” the other officer took over.

  “I went to high school with him, and we were roommates briefly.”

  “Isn’t it true that Darrell owed you some money?”

  “Yes.”

  “How much did he owe you?”

  “Around four thousand dollars.”

  “That’s a lot of money.”

  “I suppose.”

  “What do you do for a living, Mr. Morrison?”

  “Currently, I’m a law student.”

  “Where do you go to school?”

  “University of Ontario.”

  “That’s a long ways from home. What are you doing in Vancouver?”

  “Actually, I consider Vancouver my home. I moved out here after graduating high school.”

  “Now, you said you were leaving your restaurant on the night in question, is that right?” the first detective chimed back it.

  “That’s right.”

  “And you said your restaurant is undergoing renovations, is that correct?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “That sounds expensive, especially for a student.”

  “You’re right, it is very expensive.”

  “How long have you owned your restaurant, Mr. Morrison?”

  “It’s only been a couple of weeks.”

  “So you have yet to turn a profit?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Tell me, how does a law student from Ontario acquire a premier restaurant in downtown Vancouver?”

  “I entered into a partnership with the previous owner and a friend.”

  “And where did you get the money?”

  “The initial investment came from my savings over the past three years. I got into trading stocks around that time and have had some success. As for the renovations, I had to take a loan from the bank.”

  “So you take your savings and buy a restaurant, then take a loan to cover the renovation costs?”

  “Yes.”

  “It must be stressful having so much tied up in a restaurant that has yet to turn a profit. After all, the juice is running on that bank loan, isn’t that correct?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “So it would be fair to say you could probably use any extra money you can get your hands on, right?”

  “I think that is true for most people, is it not?” I retorted.

  “You know, you’re a young guy, obviously very bright, it must have upset you that Darrell ripped you off. Maybe you felt a little taken advantage of?”

  “Yes, I was upset.”

  “And you wanted some payback right?”

  “It depends on what you mean by ‘payback’. It would be nice to get the money, but I wasn’t looking for it anymore. I had moved on.”

  “Why did you move on?”

  “I didn’t know where Darrell was and I didn’t want to chase him all around the world for only a couple thousand dollars.”

  “Until one night, Thursday night, you happened to bump into him.”

  “Was that a question?”

  “When was the last time you saw Darrell Channing?”

  I took a moment before I answered. “Last week.”

  “What’s that Mr. Morrison, I didn’t catch that?”

  “Last week,” I said again, loud and clear.

  “Oh last week... interesting,” one of them said in an accusatory tone.

  “What day was that, Mr. Morrison?”

  “It was Saturday night.”

  “So you were downtown on Saturday evening and you saw Darrell. Then what happened?”

  “Nothing really. We exchanged a few words, then we went our separate ways.”

  “But that wasn’t enough for you, was it, Mr. Morrison?”

  “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

  “A call was placed to the Vancouver Police Department from your cell phone that night. Tell us about that.”

  “I was on a date with a girl who I had met recently. She was a real stunner, you know, perfect body and gorgeous face—”

  “We’re not interested in the girl at this point,” one of the officers scolded.

  “After dinner, I took her to my restaurant to show her around. When we were leaving, we saw Darrell. He appeared to be selling drugs on the street corner. I hardly recognized him at first because he had lost a lot of weight and looked a little worn out. There was another sketchy guy with him. They both looked to be under the influence of drugs. So I told my date to wait in the car and I called the police as a concerned citizen.”

  “Concerned in what way?”

  “I didn’t want strung out junkies selling drugs near my restaurant, it’s bad for business.”

  “Wasn’t the real reason for calling the police to get back at him for what he’d done to you in the past? After all, this guy owed you money.”

  “Maybe it had a little bit to do with that.”

  “Trevor, what happened on August 10th a few years ago?” one of the detectives asked me.

  “I don’t know, what happened on August 10th?” I asked dumfounded.

  “Did you, or did you not, assault Darrell Channing that night?”

  “No, of course not, you have your facts wrong, he assaulted me. I have a witness who can attest to that.”

  “We also have a witness who claims otherwise. Says here in this report, and I quote, ‘if you ever come near me again, I swear I’ll kill you’. You remember saying that, don’t you?”

  I did not respond. I just stared back at the two clever detectives. They were trying to piece together a story out of a bunch of scraps. It was all quite amusing.

  “Give it up, Mr. Morrison, we have you, it’s over. You think you’re so smart, don’t you? Well, let me tell you something, you’re not smart enough, okay. You didn’t cover all your tracks. Suppose you’re on trial and the jury views photographs of both of your faces after the altercation on August 10th. Darrell is all bloodied and bruised, a
nd you don’t have a scratch on you. Who do you think they will believe?

  “Then, some smart lawyer will bring up the money, and the fact you saw him a few days prior to the murder, and the fact you were downtown on the night of the murder, and to top it all off, you threatened to kill him! Do see where I’m going with this?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Let me paint you a picture of what I think happened that night. You were at your restaurant one night, feeling a little overwhelmed and stressed out. You think about the mountain of debt piling up and begin to question why you took on such an ambitious project. So you decide to have a few drinks to calm your nerves. After a long and stressful day, you look at your phone at around eleven o’clock and decide to pack up and call it a night.

  “Still feeling the effects of the alcohol, you decide to take a little stroll around the block to walk it off before driving home. You were minding your own business, getting some fresh air, then the next thing you know, you see your old friend, Darrell, and it agitates you. By now, the alcohol has had plenty of time to work its effects and it fuels your contempt for him. Your adrenaline starts pumping through your body and you feel invincible.

  “You approach him, then you two exchange some unpleasant words back and forth, and you don’t particularly care for what he has to say. One thing leads to another, you completely lose your temper, and you attack him. Darrell feels weak and overmatched, so he pleads with you to stop. He has no choice but to run away, so he darts down the nearest alley in an attempt to escape and you chase after him. Once you catch up to him, you tackle him onto the ground, pick up the nearest object which you can find and you stab him several times in the chest.”

  I sat there listening to the story, parts of it probably were described accurately, but I wasn’t the one who chased him down and stabbed him. “You have a wild imagination Detective Jensen, but you also have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Okay then, help us out. Tell us what happened that night. If it was an accident, then we’ll understand, accidents happen. You didn’t mean to kill him, you were in a rage and it just went too far, right?”

  “Like I said, I didn’t see Darrell that night. You don’t have any evidence linking me to the crime – my fingerprints aren’t on the murder weapon, there’s no DNA, no eyewitnesses, no footprints – nothing. So do us all a favor and let me go. You guys are wasting your time.”

  “We do have a mountain of evidence on you and it’s just a matter of time until we get more. So far, it’s not looking good for you, Mr. Morrison. We’ve established you had the means, the motive, and the opportunity to kill your old nemesis. I suggest you get yourself a good lawyer. Or, if you want to make this easy on yourself, tell us what happened. Maybe we can work out some sort of deal.”

  “No, forget it, no deal. I’m innocent.”

  “You know, I have been a detective for a long time, and in my experience, a lot of people who have been in your position now have said the same thing. The smart ones eventually admit to what they did. The dumb ones think they can outsmart the police, but sooner or later, the truth will come out and they really regret not cutting a deal when they had the chance.”

  “On the night I called the police, I witnessed Darrell get into a car, drive about thirty feet, and then exit the vehicle. I read the license plate out to the dispatch operator. My advice to you guys is to find the owner of that car and chase down that lead. Remember, Darrell was a street junkie. He took advantage of me and I was a good friend of his. Imagine how he treated the people who were not as close with him. He has probably screwed over and ripped off countless people in shady back alley deals, probably done so for years. My guess is he screwed over the wrong person and finally got what was coming to him. He was able to outrun me, but he could not outrun himself. Eventually, people have to reap what they sow.

  “Do you have any other questions for me? Because I have a lot to do today.”

  “No, but we’re going to keep an eye on you. Here, take my card. Give me a call if you remember anything else you forgot to tell us.”

  Even though I was allowed to leave, I knew this ordeal was not over.

  C H A P T E R

  F O R T Y - S E V E N

  It was only meant to be a short trip in the summer, but it turned into a complete lifestyle change. I rented a small apartment along the seawall in downtown Vancouver and furnished it with cheap furniture. I spent half my time in the apartment, and the other half at the restaurant. I had no time for leisure, no time to hang out with any old friends, including Sam. Soon after our date, she landed some big modeling gig in New Zealand and flew out right away. It was probably for the best anyway, I did not see a future with her. She was a pretty girl, but other than that, she had little else to offer.

  I did not plan any of this, nor could I have ever planned any of this. Had I sat down on my own and tried to imagine how my life would turn out, there would be no way I could have thought up all the events that led me to be here. Who would have thought a chance encounter with a guy in my building would one day lead to me to buying a restaurant with him on a whim? I guess the universe has a weird way of sorting things out.

  I had made a choice to abandon the pursuit of being a lawyer. I was all done with the course work, but I still needed to do my articling and then pass the Bar exam. At twenty-seven years old, I was no longer interested in starting out at the bottom again and trying to fight my way to the top of some law firm. The hours would be grueling and the money would not be worth the stress.

  Law school was not a complete waste of time. Over the last three years, I had developed some great friendships, amassed a wealth of knowledge, and managed to save up a decent amount of money. Nevertheless, it was apparent to me I was not put on this planet to be a lawyer. I had not interned at any law firms during my summers like the other students; I couldn’t afford to be away from the stock market all day. Whether I liked it or not, my life was now going in a different direction. I was once again back home.