Frank the Gangster

Teresa Church came into our apartment on W. Euclid in Detroit one day, with a

man who told us his name was Frank. He was short, about 5’8, and 280 lbs., most of it

fat. He had dark hair that was thick and combed straight back, and he wore Buddy

Holly glasses. Teresa, in stark contrast, was a true beauty. She had jet-black hair that

was wavy and parted on the side, falling to her shoulders. She was the whole package

with sparkling blue eyes and full lips that opened at the sight of me, to dazzle me with

her pretty girl smile.

Teresa was an old family friend living a harsh life, dabbling in prostitution to fund

her drug addiction and help her survive on the mean streets of Detroit. Her tight-fitting

black dress accentuated her slim but curvy body, and it ended at the knee. She liked

my mother, Thelma, and they had been friends for years. She would often visit us, my

mother, my brothers Ray and Roger, and I. She always brought snacks and goodies,

and frequently she would bring along a trick (a customer) or some other unique

acquaintance.

On this day she brought Frank, who was not a customer. He was an old friend

who spent some time in Jackson prison with Teresa’s brother Bob. Upon release, he

had befriended Teresa. Frank had been a criminal most of his life. Early on, he stole

batteries and spare tires off cars, before aging into stealing the cars themselves. Like

most old-school gangsters, he liked to tell stories with bravado and bluster, especially

when amongst young dogs who might be impressed and recruited. Growing up in the

vice area of Detroit, my brothers and I were accustomed to meeting nefarious people.

We enjoyed their good and bad time tales, even if the narrators were sometimes

dangerous.

Frank was friendly and garrulous, and with this audience it was easy for him to

get into his story. He revealed his specialty was being the wheelman, driving getaway

cars for robberies of gas stations, liquor stores and even banks and armored cars. He

said he worked with a gang called ‘The Four Dogs’. He boasted of the time he and

three accomplices robbed an armored car on Grand River and Trumbull. He waited in

the car while two other dogs were across Trumbull waiting in Scripts Park. The third

dog stood nonchalantly on Trumbull next to the bank. They had cased the bank and

knew the approximate day and time of the cash pickup. When the truck pulled up, two

bag man got out and went inside to get the cash while the driver remained in the truck.

No matter how brave one is, looking at the barrel of a .45 automatic can intimidate even the craziest badass with balls of steel to go along with the show. So, when the men came out with the bags of money and were accosted by the two dogs who had crossed Trumbull, they were forced to hand over the moolah. The third dog had covered the truck with a 12-gauge sawed off shotgun, in case the driver got frisky and tried to save the day, but he didn’t. Their egos likely crushed, there was no chance for the guards to rescue the cash. Frank came around the corner in the getaway car, picked up his crew and drove away.

It was cool listening to Frank’s story, so afterwards when he said, “Let’s go for a

ride,” my brothers and I went along with him to his ’59 Oldsmobile. It was a harrowing

drive down the side streets of the old city. We reached speeds of 50 to 70 miles an hour

and then he got on the John C. Lodge expressway. He darted in and out of the light

traffic going at least 80, and sometimes 110! It was as if something had whispered in

his ear that the cops were chasing him, although they were not.

Frank looked like a madman while his tires squealed with rage. His eyes were

bulging and he smiled like a shit-eating opossum. There were no seat belts in the Olds.

It was like a wild carnival ride, only more dangerous. There was never a dull moment in

the ghetto. By some miracle, we made it home.

Back in the apartment, Frank was cool as a cucumber, smiling and talking, while

we tried to catch our breath. He continued with his exploits, and I noticed a cockroach

crawling on the collar of his neatly pressed white shirt. I reflexively reached up and

swatted the roach off, and Frank never flinched or even blinked an eye. It was as if

nothing occurred and there was no roach. Frank did not want to make an issue of the

roach and embarrass his new friends in an awkward situation.

When the laughter and talk came to an end, Frank and Teresa got ready to leave.

I was surprised when Frank stopped and pulled ten bucks out of his pocket, a lot of

money back then, and handed it to me. I was a prideful kid and did not like charity. I

told him I did not want his money as I would probably never see him again and would be

unable to pay him back.

“Listen, kid,” he said, knowing we were on hard times. “It’s okay to let someone

be nice to you and it’s important to be generous and nice to people. Every time you see

someone with a cup in their hand, you put something in it, and you will be paying me

back every time you do that.”

I took the ten bucks, they left, and I learned a couple things that day. Sometimes good hearts can be found in unique people in strange places. and Don’t get in the car with a gangster wheel man.