Frank looked cautiously at the men. He had never eaten at a restaurant before. Caravaggio said, “Whatever you want, Mr. Sharp. It’s on me.”
Frank looked up at the waiter and said, “I’ll have what he’s having.” He pointed to the plate of pasta in front of Caravaggio.
“Good choice! It’s my favorite.” Caravaggio raised a glass of water in a salute and took a drink. Using a soup spoon, he curled some spaghetti around his fork while he spoke to his companions. “Sharp – the man with a truck and a German Shepherd.” He stuffed the fork into his mouth.
“Here – take a piece of bread while you wait,” he said while his mouth was full, motioning to the breadbasket on the table. “Eat. The bread’s from the Detroit Italian Bakery. Best bread in the city.”
Frank ripped a piece off of the Italian long roll, spread a little butter on it, and started to eat.
“You want good-paying work, Sharp?”
We have a proposition for you, then. You and your truck – the dog is an added bonus. We would like you to move materials from Grosse Ile into Wyandotte, maybe three or four nights a week. Are you interested?”
“You want me carting?”
“Yes – is that a problem?”
“No, not at all – that’s what I bought the truck to do. I used to do that when I lived in Windsor.”
“Excellent!!! You told me you were Scottish, right?”
“How long have you been here?”
“I’ve been in the States two years now.”
“You know your whisky, then,” laughed Caravaggio. “Here’s the job: I have a little place on Hickory Island – at the tip of Grosse Ile. It’s very, very quiet. I will pay you twenty-five dollars a trip. You pick up the load on Hickory Island and drive it to Biddle Street. No questions. Are you interested?”
Frank’s mouth fell open at twenty-five dollars a trip. One trip would net as much as Frank had been making in a week.
Frank lowered his voice. “These, um…materials I will be hauling…”
Caravaggio interrupted. “I believe we both understand the nature of the product, Sharp.”
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