Fast Frank's Ferarris

Frank’s voice boomed from my Cadillac’s radio, rattling the vinyl seats like a summer storm.

Listen up, Buffalo! It’s Fast Frank here with an offer you can’t refuse. Fast Frank’s Famous Cars is expanding to Williamsville, and to celebrate, we’re offering deals at all seven locations. We have fabulous financing options on fantastic pre-owned vehicles. Our service is so friendly that you’ll want to take us home to meet your ma. Fast Frank’s Famous Cars — bada bing, bada boom. Get in and drive outta here before I jack up the prices. Look for our Kenmore lot opening in December 1976.

Alright, alright. I know what’s running through your head: How’d a guy named Fast Frank get so famous? Did he sell a Mercedes to Sinatra or smoke the mayor’s mother in a drag race? Not even close. And who am I? The name’s Paul Rossi, Fast Frank’s business partner for the last 25 years. So grab a seat, and let me take you for a drive. I’m about to drop the wildest tale you’ve heard.

It all started in 1952 at some trade show in Buffalo. I was hawking cheap lipstick and face cream at the Statler Hotel. Salesmen screamed so loud, you thought they’d been auctioning off the crown jewels. The air stunk like perfume and mold, cologne burning in your eyes. And no matter how many times I told my boss, “The name’s Paul,” he still called me kid. Funny that he could remember to dock my pay for being two seconds late, but I digress.

By the early afternoon, I’d pitched so much, my ears were ringing. Then this shmuck appeared out of thin air like a magician poofed him there. Or maybe he was the magician — he wore a red suit so loud it put a fire engine to shame, and his head gleamed so bright I could see my future in the shine. I swear, the guy could be mistaken for a pinup model for Bald Bastards’ Quarterly.

He barreled through the crowd to my table and wrung my hand like he was getting the last drop from an orange. Then he told me, ‘The name’s Ferrari. Frank Ferrari.”

And that’s when I almost spat out my own teeth. What the hell kind of name is that? You gotta be kidding me. The next thing he’s gonna be telling me is his kid’s name is Ford.

I stood dumbfounded, waiting for the punchline, right?

The guy whips out his driver’s license the way you’d lay down a royal flush. And there it was — Frank Ferrari, clear as day.

Then he slid me his business card. And wait for this one — he sold hair dryers. To housewives.

The next night at cocktail hour, there was Mr. Ferrari in a lemon yellow suit, glowing like a street light. I hadn’t slept a wink. My brain was cooking up schemes faster than my Nonna flipped meatballs.

Name a scam. I’ve probably pulled it off twice and never got caught. My ma swears I was born hustling; if I could’ve sold the doctor my own placenta, I’d have tossed in a coupon for his next delivery. By five, my lemonade stands were mostly tap water, and by ten, I was selling Bibles to nuns, autographed by Jesus himself.

When Antoinette got pregnant in 1949, it was suddenly time for me to be a new man. So I packed my briefcase full of schemes and started a career as a taxpaying salesman. Every time I punched in, I felt my Poppa's ghost glaring at me, asking me what I was doing. So I’d been hunting for something at least semi-legal that let me be my own boss.

Then, around five in the morning, I was thinking of Frank’s ridiculous suit, and the idea hit me like a thunderbolt: Fast Frank’s Ferraris.

It felt like destiny, but with more horsepower. His name alone could sell cars, but Frank was a living cartoon — kind of like if Bugs Bunny swindled items out of a rain slicker. I knew I had to get him on board.

So, I swaggered over and bought him a whiskey sour—because nothing says ‘trust me’ like cheap booze. I pitched the idea, and he bit so fast I checked for gills.

Frank was desperate for a new start. Said he’d rather ride a barrel over Niagara Falls than knock on another door. He’d moved his family from Michigan, but nobody wanted a hairdryer from a bald guy -- shocking, right?

He craved something big, something to put him on a map, or at least on a billboard somewhere off the Scajaquada.

Next thing you know, Frank and I were wining and dining the wives, pitching Fast Frank’s Ferraris like we were up for an Oscar.

My wife, Antoinette, was pregnant again, and my daughter Lucia was already running the roost. Frank’s wife, Georgette, had three girls: Felecia Ferrari, Faye Ferrari, and Farrah Ferrari. Say that three times fast and you'll choke on your tongue.

Those two acted like they were estranged sisters, sharing childbirth horrors and cackling before the waiter even brought us our drinks. By the time he cleared our soup bowls, they'd concluded Frank and I were one and the same. They said as long as we kept them out of it and didn't forget their birthdays, they'd support our car lot scheme.

By that summer, Frank and I opened Fast Frank’s Ferraris near Hertel Avenue. You’d really think we bribed some city official for such a prime location, but it was just dumb luck. Or maybe Saint Anthony, patron saint of lost causes, had been among us.

As for our Ferraris, let's just say we got creative: a couple were half-decent imports, but most were old red convertibles. With a badge swap here and a spray paint job there, we became Buffalo's finest showroom.

But three weeks later, not even crickets stopped by. We were certain the cars would vanish faster than a cannoli at a church bake sale. But the only thing stacking up were bills, and the only Italian imports Buffalonians wanted were provolone and sausage from Scime's next door.

Frank paced the floor, grumbling at the Ferraris as if it were their fault. Every phone call I answered was some idiot asking if we had a used Chevy for a hundred bucks and a handshake. After the thousandth call, I started saying, 'Sure, if you bring your own wheels.'

But then it dawned on me. Eureka! Let's say fuck it to the flashy Ferraris and give Buffalo what they really want — used Fords and Chevys. By the next month, we filled our lot with used cars. We crossed our fingers and toes and prayed that a customer would show up before the bank did.

Naturally, Frank was our mascot for Fast Frank's Famous Cars. His suits at the trade show were part of a rainbow he had in his closet. In every ad, Frank wore a new color with a matching bow tie, and he got his wish: a billboard off the Scajaquada.

On TV and the radio, he used this fake Italian accent so terrible, you'd swear he was auditioning for a budget mob flick. But people want bananas for Fast Frank — gimmicks, schemes, and all.

Frank kept one of the lemon Ferraris as a decoration. So for our grand opening promotion, we packed the car with as many balloons as we could find. In one of them was a dollar bill. Frank went on the radio, explaining that if you found the lucky balloon, you could use it to buy any car on the lot. The people went insane — the line was down the block, the showroom packed tighter than the Basilica on Easter morning. The fire marshal threatened to shut us down until Frank let him have a shot. He won the car.

We hosted promotions like this every month. The people ate them up. One weekend, we hosted Frank's Fun Fair. Frank, dressed up as a clown shit, gave out goldfish in plastic bags. We even got a shady Ferris wheel for the lot from some carnie. We taped strips of paper under the front seat of every car in the lot. Whoever found the golden ticket won a set of snow tires and free washes for a year if they bought the vehicle. Of course, we put it in the most expensive car on the lot.

The early days of the lot were a blur, but Frank's family became mine. One minute, we were sweating over unsold Ferraris, and the next, we were opening a second lot on the West Side. Word spread fast about our promotions, and people loved Frank's larger-than-life persona. After we closed out on a busy weekend, we'd put the profits right back in, snapping up cheap lots across the city. By the spring of '58, we owned five lots across the city.

And the best part? It was all legal. Turned out that people spread their wallets wide open for a good gimmick.

Just before Fast Frank’s opened, Antoinette had our second daughter, Laura. By the fifth lot, both Antoinette and Georgette were expecting again. When they realized their due dates were a week apart, you’d think Jesus himself was coming over for dinner.

Finding out her best friend was pregnant too was all it took for Georgette not to murder Frank. Frank fast-talked Georgette into trying for one more, claiming Fast Frank's needed an heir, as if he were ruling the Roman Empire. Four months in, Georgette remembered pregnancy is hell, and she told Frank he’d better start praying for a son because she was done after this one.

By July, she was fed up with his antics and the summer heat. Frank knew she would’ve signed a deal with the devil for a fan. Frank, ever the businessman, drew up a contract when she was seven months along: ‘I, Frank Ferrari, agree this is the last kid, but I get to name it Frank Jr., no matter what parts it’s got.’ She thought he was joking. He wasn’t. She signed to shut him up.

Georgette went into labor in October, and — surprise —it was a girl. When Frank heard, he looked like someone had just stolen his hubcaps. But then he remembered the contract. Georgette tried to bargain for the name Francesca, since it was the feminine version. But Frank, more stubborn than a loan shark, said, “Nope, the contract is binding.”

Two days later, Georgette forgot all about the name drama when Antoinette went into labor. When Georgette saw Antoinette wheeled past her room, you’d swear the Pope himself was delivering the baby.

A few hours later, Antoinette gave birth to a boy, Vincenzo Rossi. The wives were over the moon. Finally, a boy! The babies had arranged marriage plans before they even had Social Security numbers.

Frank filled out the birth certificate, but reading wasn’t his specialty—he put Jr. in the middle name box. So now, the heiress to our empire was a girl named Frank Jr. Ferrari.

The poor nuns were baffled when she started school, spending half the year trying to remember Frank was a girl. But Frank Jr.— who everyone called Frankie—took it in stride. On the first day of fourth grade, when Sister Marysue called for Mr. Ferrari, Frankie just smirked and stood up. ‘That’s me, sister,’ she said, owning it like a champ.

All that craziness gave her thick skin. By ten, she told Frank, ‘No way am I taking over the car lots.’ He kept trying to change her mind, but no dice. By senior year, she was set on beauty school.

Next month, Frankie and Vince graduate. They started dating at thirteen, and when Antoinette and Georgette found out, they hit the ceiling—then hugged and hollered like they’d struck gold, bragging their ‘intuition never lied.’

I’m trying to rope Vince in as my successor, but the kid’s stubborn with his own ideas. I told him college is overrated, but he’s still off to Canisius for business. He wants to run Frankie’s salon once she’s done at Continental Beauty.

The boy’s head over heels for Frankie. He looks up to her—and not just because she’s taller. She’s sharp, funny, and outsmarts most guys. Honestly, she’d run Fast Frank’s better than any of us. Maybe she’ll come around—she’d be crazy not to.

But Frank let her off the hook. After Vince, Antoinette had two more—Anthony and Leo. Frank says they’re like his own, always praising Antoinette for giving him backup heirs.

Now I'm headed to the original lot to take prom pictures with the kids. Frank's idea as usual. Who knows what color suit he'll show up in?

I'm not sure what'll happen once Frank and I hang up the key, but even if it all ends with us, so what? We've built a family that'll last longer than any used car, and hey, in Buffalo, that's about as good as a snow-free March.

But for now, if you want a used station wagon that smells only faintly like cigarettes and used salami, get down to Fast Frank’s. We’ll make you an offer so sweet that even your dog can't refuse.