Frank 'n' Stan's bucket list - #2: TT Races - Poignant, uplifting and sublimely funny - one to put a huge smile on your face!

by J C Williams

  Frank was happy, it should be said, to reap the benefits of that ‘eligible bachelor’ title – often, in fact, more than once in the same evening – but, for Stan, it was a different story. He was adept at concealing his true persuasion and whilst tolerance had increased over the course of the decade, there was still an undertone which made leaving the closet door carefully closed the preferred choice. There’d been romantic dalliances, but nothing of merit, certainly nothing constituting anything meaningful. This played heavily on Frank’s mind, but, his friend was content – at least on the surface.

  Meanwhile, business in the seventies was very much about who you knew, and talent alone would not a career make. This was overwhelmingly the case in the music management business where competition was fierce with the financial stakes considerable. Palms were often greased with those expecting their cut for facilitating an introduction, or, perhaps, turning a blind eye when required. It was the acceptable way of doing things; those adept at playing the game prospered, and those that didn’t, well, didn’t.

  Charged with bringing financial order to Frank and Stan’s empire was Craggy Sally – as she was affectionately known – a spirited lady of a certain age. Her once-proud mane of shoulder-length blonde hair was now kept yellow by a coating of nicotine residue, rather like the index and middle fingers of her left hand. Her skin gave the appearance of someone who’d used butter rather than suncream in her youth, and years of sucking one fag after another resulted in an outer epidermal layer that could well use the benefit of an iron.

  … And so it was, one day at the office, that Stan clapped the side of his face, and then examined the palm of his hand for a trace of blood. “What the hell was that?” he said, looking for a wasp or some other tiny-but-vicious winged assailant.

  “It was me, you daft shit!” shouted Sally, pointing her gammy arm at the projectile on the floor with such force that her bingo wings flapped like a flag in the breeze. “Get your arse in here, and bring my pen in!” she commanded.

  Stan did as he was told, as it was unwise to make Craggy Sally even more cross than usual.

  With Stan in supplication before her, and without looking up from the erratic pile of papers strewn over her desk, she thrust one with a barely legible scrawl written on it in his direction.

  “What’s this?” she demanded.

  “That would be a receipt, Sally?” replied Stan, in an overly cheery inflexion. “You told me to always keep receipts, so that’s what I’ve done.”

  “This isn’t a receipt, this is a piece of scruffy paper with a name I’ve never heard of.” Still holding the paper out, she took her cigarette out of her mouth, and, with it between her fingers, tapped the front of the document sharply. Ashes dropped to the carpet in the process.

  “This,” she said. “ABC Talent Management,” she continued, without having to look. Then, she placed her fag back in her mouth and lifted her head up, looking at Stan directly. “Who the hell are they?” she asked, flicking the paper like a matador taunting its wounded quarry.

  Stan moved to close her office door, looking cautiously over his shoulder as he did so. “Ah-ha, Sally!” he said moving closer, holding his hand aloft as if all was well in the world. “They’re a consultancy company we’re working with.”

  The furrows on Sally’s forehead deepened further than they were already, further than Stan thought possible for a forehead.

  “Consultancy!” she yelled. “You’re paying a consultant I’ve never heard of a hundred pounds a week! What the hell are they consulting on??”

  Stan fanned his hands at Sally, which was never a good idea. “It’s fine, Sally. It’s a company that’s been doing some work for us.”

  “And Frank knows about this?”

  “Of course he does. Well, he will when I tell him. Look, Sally,” he said, moving to a position of rest on the corner of her desk. “In our line of work, we sometimes have to pay out a little bit to people who are able to help us expand our reach, or perhaps–”

  “Do I look bloody stupid, Stan? Do I? You’ve paid – whoever this is – over two thousand pounds in the last six months. If this money is for consultancy payments, then I haven’t got a hole in my arse.”

  “Lovely imagery there, Sally. Thanks for that. Look, it’s a facilitation fee,” he offered, with more hand-waving. “In our line of business, we need to work with people who can, you know, get other people to take our calls, or, perhaps, as importantly, not take the calls of our competition.”

  Sally was not so easily swayed. “You can’t afford this sort of money to be going out,” she said, devoid of humour.

  “It’ll be fine, Sally. We’ve never been busier!” Stan said, trying his best to reassure her.

  “Are you stupid?” asked Sally. “Seriously, just how stupid are you? Do you or Frank have any idea what’s going on? I’ve been telling you this for months. You’re spending too much!”

  Stan opened his mouth to speak, but Sally didn’t give him the chance.

  “This is the incoming receipts,” she went on, pointing at a small pile in the tray on one side of her desk. “But this is the outgoings,” she said, pointing at the much larger pile sat in the tray on the opposite side.

  Stan shifted his weight from one foot to another. This time he did not try to speak. It was clear Sally wasn’t finished.

  “You don’t have to be a mathematical genius to figure out that more going out than coming in does not make for a healthy business. You two, the pair of you, have been haemorrhaging cash. And it’s not sustainable. You’ll be bankrupt if you carry on as you are, so sort this shit out!”

  Stan thought it was his turn to speak, but it wasn’t, as it turned out, not quite yet…

  “I’m too old and angry to get a position anywhere else, and I need this job, Stan,” she said. “Promise me one thing, Stan?” she went on. “That bloke you had in here a few weeks ago? Tommy Banks? He’s bad news. Trust me, I’ve been in this town longer than you, and I know it for a fact. I hope for your sake you’ve not gotten into business with him. Now, I say this with all sincerity,” she added, her anger replaced with genuine concern. “You lot need to get your affairs in order.”

  Stan smiled, offering up a cheeky wink. “Sally, I appreciate your concern, honestly I do, but all is well. Everything’s right as rain, I promise!” he said, blowing a kiss in her direction.

  Seven weeks later…

  “You must be mistaken?” said Frank, taking his feet off the table. He put a finger in the ear not glued to the receiver. “I can hear what you’re saying… sorry, Mitchell, was it?” And, then, “Sorry. Michael. I misheard. Very much like I’m not hearing you correctly now.”

  Frank listened intently, the shades of red in his face progressively intensifying, before he closed with, “Thank you, Michael. I will speak with Stan.” He got up and strode out of his office, with grim and determined purpose.

  “Saaaaaally!” he hollered, drawing out the letter A in her name for at least the length of the corridor separating their offices, only stopping when he’d all but taken her door off its hinges.

  “I’ve just had Mitchell on the phone from the bank!” he announced.

  Sally drew on her cigarette with pursed lips, leaving a rim of vibrant red lipstick when removed.

  “It’s Michael. And I know. I just spoke to him and advised him to call you directly.”

  Frank paced back and forth like a frenzied, caged animal, gripping the hair atop his head every time he came to a halt.

  “Two things, Sally. One, you’re the accountant, so why’s he phoning me? And, two, where the hell is all of our money??”

  “Yes, I am your accountant, but you don’t listen to me, do you?” Sally replied. “You never have. Also, don’t swear. I’ve got my granddaughter with me today.”

  Frank gave a conciliatory glance to the child sat on the sofa behind the door, initially out of view, holding a hand to his mouth in reference to his cursing and to his tone. “I’m sorry. What’s yo
ur name, sweetie?” he asked.

  “Stella,” the little girl answered, putting her toy down on her knee.

  Frank smiled. “Your bear hasn’t got himself a head. Did it fall off?”

  “I ripped it off,” said the girl matter-of-factly and without further explanation.

  “Oh, okay, then,” said Frank, returning his attention to Sally.

  “You don’t listen to me, Frank. I’ve been telling you for ages that you’re pissing your money up against the wall – well, Stan, mainly – so I thought I’d have the bank talk to you directly rather than through me. I thought you might listen to them, if not me. And, by the fact you’re stood here, mission accomplished, I might add.”

  Frank tried to answer, but, like Stan, had to wait his turn because Sally was not finished with him yet.

  “Did you actually read any of the reports I left on your desk?” she asked. “Or register any of the times I told you that the finances were not in rude health?”

  “Stan’s the money-man, Sally. You know this. I look after the acts, I don’t do money.”

  “You like spending it, though,” was her reply.

  “I do,” said Frank, pacing once more. “But I didn’t think that would be a problem as we had so much coming in. Em… don’t we?”

  “We do,” replied Sally, picking up the small stack from the one tray to illustrate, and then setting it back down and picking up the larger stack from the expenditures pile. “But you’ve got much more going out. See?”

  “Are you skint, mister?” asked the child, once she’d taken the bear’s head from out of her mouth.

  “What? No!” Frank replied. Then he turned to his accountant. “Wait. Sally. Are we? We can’t be… can we? Not if we have all of this money coming in, surely?”

  “Cashflow, Frank,” said Sally, smashing the pen tip into the desk like a pneumatic drill. “Cashflow is everything! You’re nearly at the limit of your overdraft. And, if the money goes out before it comes in, you are, as Stella pointed out, broke! Or at least will be, very soon. If the bank doesn’t extend your credit line, you’ll lose everything.”

  “You’re broke,” repeated Stella.

  “Does she need to be here?” asked Frank.

  Stella, in response, merely popped her toy bear’s head back in her mouth.

  “But where is it all going?” Frank continued. “The money, I mean. I’ve not signed a cheque or been to the bank for months. Is Stan ripping me off??”

  Sally shrugged her shoulders. “I can account for every single penny that’s been spent for the last five years. Every penny. But you’ll need to ask Stan why so much of it has been going to certain areas, since my own enquiries put to him in that regard have yielded very little information,” she said, pushing a slip of paper in Frank’s direction.

  He picked it up. “Is this right?” he asked. “We’ve paid this ABC company thousands? What the hell?”

  Sally placed her head on the desk. “Frank, I’ve told you this at least five times already. And, it was in the report I left on your desk as well. Again, did you bother to read it?”

  “Maybe, erm…? Actually, ah… no. No, I haven’t,” he admitted. “I’m not so good at reading things.”

  “Or at handling money. What are you actually good at?” Sally asked, her patience failing. “Anything at all?”

  “Mucking things up?” suggested Stella from her perch on the couch.

  “She’s quite the charmer, your granddaughter, isn’t she? Simply delightful!” Frank remarked, apparently not appreciating the young girl’s keen insight.

  “She’s got a point, Frank. You’re shit with money and you’re shit at reading. How you’ve come to any success at all is a mystery to me.”

  “Charm?” Frank proposed feebly.

  “Imagine how successful you could be if you were actually good at things,” she told him.

  Frank was about to protest. He hadn’t come into Sally’s office to suffer abuse, after all. But, he needed her.

  “What do we do now, then?” asked Frank.

  “You want my opinion?” said Stella.

  “No, I don’t want your opinion, Stella! I’m asking your gran, my accountant!” Frank cried. “Although… if you’ve got any ideas…?”

  Sally, interrupting, punched her calculator with a flurry of sharp jabs and then thrust it in Frank’s face.

  Frank curled up his lip in shock.

  “We need to find that much?? By when?”

  Sally put her hand to her head. “You poor, sorry, stupid bastard. You don’t need to find that amount only once,” she told him. “You need to stop spending that amount each month. Otherwise, you’re done for. You’ll lose the houses, cars, everything. And you can go a good way to meeting that target by not paying this ABC-Whotsis company,” she said, pen rat-a-tat-tatting once more on the desk. “Who are they?”

  “I haven’t got the faintest idea!” declared Frank.

  “That’s hardly a surprise,” said the child in the corner, removing the bear’s head from her mouth and shaking it in Frank’s direction.

  This garnered a coarse laugh from Craggy Sally, along with a look of affection and pride at her granddaughter.

  “I need to speak with Stan,” Frank decided aloud. “Where the hell is he? Oh, I know. He’ll be with his boyfr–” He stopped himself abruptly, midsentence.

  Sally rolled her eyes. “Do you think I’m dead from the neck up? I know Stan doesn’t like women.”

  “Everybody knows,” Stella added.

  “Anyway, he’s been spending too much time with his friend lately,” Frank groused. “What’s his name again?”

  “Harold,” Sally told him. “Though god knows why he should spend so much time with him, what with me here on offer every day,” she added, whilst using her cigarette lighter to dislodge a foreign body from her ear canal.

  “Right. Harold,” replied Frank. “Stan’s been too preoccupied lately. He’s taken his eye off the ball.”

  “And onto a pair of them,” remarked Stella.

  “She’s quick, this one!” said Frank, ruffling the girl’s overwhelmingly curly hair.

  Stella, in turn, eyed him with suspicion.

  “You’ll go far, young Stella. Just don’t smoke like Granny, okay? and you just may stick around a bit longer. “Now, here,” he said, producing a few coins from his pocket and trying his best to get rid of her. “Take this and buy yourself some sweets. May as well, before the bank takes it all from me. Just not too many sweets, you don’t want to get fat, yeah? Right, off you go, then.”

  Frank moved back to Sally. “If we cut this ABC payment out, we should be okay?”

  “It’d help.”

  “Can you give me the total amount we’ve paid to them? Everything, all told?”

  “It’s in the report. On your desk,” replied Sally.

  “Great. Young Stella,” said Frank, turning to leave. “It’s been a pleasure to meet you. I do hope your bear gets better?” he offered.

  “I don’t,” said Stella, though not very clearly, because the bear’s head was back in her mouth once again.

  “If you see Stan before I do, tell him I’m looking for him!” Frank called over his shoulder as he exited.

  “Alright,” said Stella.

  “Not you!” Frank answered her, exasperated. “Your granny! But… you know what? Fine. If you should see him. Yeah. Thank you.”

  Back in his own office, Frank fell into his chair once again. It was an office he shared with Stan, and he glared with contempt at the empty seat opposite. The glimmering framed gold discs hung on the wall – a symbol of their acts’ chart successes – brought him little comfort due to the mood he was in, and he blurted out several incoherent expletives as he reached for the bottle of aged whisky stored in his bottom drawer. There was no requirement for the glass, with Frank opting to take a generous slug directly from the bottle – liquid courage, perhaps – preparing for the review of the file from Sally that’d sat on his desk for days
.

  Reading spectacles were retrieved and placed on a nose screwed up with anger. A further slug from the bottle and with his index finger tracing along the lines of the document, he tried to make sense of the figures he found there. Thirty seconds later, he threw his hands up in defeat. He couldn’t work out what he was seeing. After all, that’s what he paid his accountant for!

  “Sally!” he screamed without moving from his chair.

  “Just look at the numbers I’ve highlighted in yellow!” returned a response echoed down the hallway after a brief lull. This was followed promptly thereafter by a child’s laughter.

  “Ah!” he said, calculator at the ready, but it wasn’t required. He followed the accounting line for ABC, and such was the span of it that he had to moisten his finger to turn the page.

  “Shit,” he said, tapping his thumb quicker than a woodpecker’s pecker. “Bollocks… what the…? Aww, shit… bollocks…” he said, continuing the theme of incoherent fury.

  “Right!” he said, pushing himself from his chair. “Where’s the key for the safe?” he said, shouting again.

  After another brief lull, a garbled response returned which Frank couldn’t decipher, apart from a few choice unrepeatable words.

  He rummaged through Stan’s drawers and felt a pang of guilt for doing so, but he had to know. He was also wracked with the frustration that he should have been asking these questions months ago.

  There was no key to be found.

  It seemed unlikely the safe would be left unlocked, but, without the key, there was little else to be done but to check anyway.

  It had been that long since he’d been in the safe, Frank had forgotten which gold disc it was hidden behind. In fact, now he thought on it, he couldn’t remember ever going into the safe at all. Nevertheless, for some reason, he thought it must have been hidden behind one of the gold discs hung on the wall.

  There were a baker’s dozen, and one by one he peered behind each. Some were easier to reach than others, at eye level, while others required a fair bit of stretching to get at. The last of the lot, lucky number 13, would require something to stand on. He placed Stan’s desk chair in position and stepped up on it, rising to the challenge. The chair took his weight with ease, but the wheels – and the several whiskeys – made ascent rather precarious, with Frank’s legs wobbling like those of a new-born foal. Sweat ran down his spine, and he could feel his back tense up both from his efforts to keep his balance as well as the stress of the current situation.