The end of a loan shark

It rained all day. At the entrance of the G Train in Nassau Avenue, Brooklyn, a man looked around without using an umbrella. He opened his eyes wide over his thick magnifying glasses and was looking for someone in the entrance of the subway.

"Hi," I said. He didn't pretend to know. In a very serious situation, it seemed to be looking for someone who ran away with his money.

His name was Frank, a private moneylender. We first met him in 1987. I was introduced to him while I was looking for money to settle down and live. The interest rate was 1 percent. After borrowing money and paying it off well for five years, He said he would lend money at any time.

Frank was a single with many buildings and lots of cash. It's not easy to get hold of him. We had to go his home early in the morning to see him.

Frank always wore a same suit and a vest. The suit was worn for decades. The clothes smelled. Even on rainy days, the smell was so bad that I couldn't even breathe. The oil-stained suit was so smooth that it wouldn't even penetrate raindrops. Several small notebooks were stuck in the vest and suit pocket. His heart was swollen as if he were wearing a bulletproof vest. The notebooks, which were records of debentures, were tied tightly with rubber bands. It took quite a while to unwind the rubber band. My husband and I had to put up with the stink and waited until he untied the rubber band and found our records in the notebook.

Took out his notebook and his serious face turned into a happy smile. It seemed to be a pleasure to collect, lend, and to see the wealth rising with the interest that. He seemed to have no idea of the pleasure of spending money, living only on the count of money.

When he was young, he was said to have worked at a local movie theater. He made his fortune by private loan business, while working in a theater. He didn't even get married because he was afraid he'd lose his hard-earned fortune even if he wanted to date a girl. He has lived alone all his life, and he didn't have any close friends or family members.

One day or another, even if I sent a check, He didn't withdraw the money. About six months later, a letter came from his lawyer. From now on, send a check to Frank Birosick Estate. He's dead.

His wealth was inherited to a distant relative sister in Philadelphia, who was not normally close. How could he have closed his eyes because he felt bad about all the wealth he had accumulated without he hasn’t tried on a new suit?