Bill Reynolds - Life Real Loud - John Lefebvre, Neteller and the Revolution in Online Gambling

After the Don Felder set everyone convenes back at Chill Winston’s in Gastown, where we had been for lunch the day before. It was peculiar that the restaurant’s manager initially showed no interest in hosting the party. But Lefebvre was persistent in hinting he’d make it worth everyone’s while. Get a clue, buddy, Johnny’s doing the talking. He’ll pay you triple what it’s worth. Stay up late, lose a bit of sleep, let him party.

I meet Bruce Ramsay at the post-mini-tour bash. I meet, briefly, Lisa, the young woman Ramsay has dated since ending his relationship with his long-time partner. Lisa is cute, like a pixie, big eyes. As usual, I try to convince Ramsay to talk.

“Hey c’mon, just the old days with John. No Neteller.”

As usual, the big shrug. “Aw, I don’t have anything to say.”

Not even you and John and your university years?

“I don’t know.”

The Ghost of John

On Sunday, February 27, 2011, I pass through immigration and customs inspections at San José’s Juan Santamaría International. I’m looking for my ride to Out of Bounds Boutique Hotel and Tourist Center, a B&B located in Escazú, about five miles west of San José. In the taxi zone, three or four guys in official-looking uniforms buzz around me. After about twenty minutes, I look down and notice the warm smile of Layla Ricardo, who’s holding a sign with my name on it. I’m saved from the jackals, who back away in search of other prey.

Layla leads me to her husband Don, my driver, who loads me into a car and takes some back-roads route to my bed and breakfast, avoiding toll payments on the main highway. Don charges 12,634.75 colones (singular colón, named after Christopher Columbus, Spanish name Cristóbal Colón; one thousand colones is equivalent to about two U.S. dollars). Later, B&B co-owner Meranda Glesby will explain that she once hired Ricardo to pick up a customer from the airport. He dropped off the fare and an hour later returned the gringo’s camera left in the back seat. With that, he won all of her business. For twenty-five bucks, I’m halfway up the hills overlooking the capital.

San José is balmy, overcast, and a bit breezy. The young Costa Rican woman who works behind the desk, Cindy, speaks English well. Meranda has known her since the Neteller days. She worked in the same office building. She’s attractive, and Meranda tried to set her up with one of the young guys at Neteller (they were all young guys, except for John). They went on a date but it didn’t work out. Cindy relieves Meranda and her half — Costa Rican, half-Italian husband, Matteo Nicola Brancacci, when they need extra help. In exchange, they help Cindy’s kid get a good education. Cindy’s ex is a deadbeat and won’t help financially with the child rearing. This informal barter is typical of the way things are done in Costa Rica.

By late afternoon I’m sitting with Meranda at a table on the upper patio at the B&B, which has a half-dozen rooms and a rental house in back. “I have a present for you,” I tell her. I leave her sitting with her view and head down to my little room. I run back upstairs with two packages of cigarellos. Steve Glavine told me that I would have a friend for life if I brought a specific brand with me. “I was told you might like these.” Her face lights up like a Christmas tree in Little Portugal. She runs downstairs, shooting back a look that says: You see this crazed goofy look on my face? She runs back up with a disposable lighter, sits down, and gives it a flick. Inhales; exhales. Heaven. You cannot buy the Backwoods Cigars brand in Costa Rica. A couple of minutes later, she offers to pay. “Can I give you twenty bucks?”

“If you give me twenty bucks it won’t be a present anymore, will it?”

The B&B’s upper deck offers a gorgeous view of three volcanoes above and to the west of San José as well as the various cloud formations that come and go. To the east, the new soccer stadium puffs up proudly, which means downtown is not far. Escazú and Santa Ana are laid-back towns, close to San José yet far enough away from the bustle. Its location does not seem remote, yet I wonder about the hassle of driving up and down the mountain into the core. Meranda offers to give me a tour of the old Neteller haunts — the main reason I’m here — in the morning, from nine to eleven, before picking up her daughter Merissa from nursery. She and Matteo are putting her through private school. They’re only having one child; they’ve made up their minds.

Monday morning around nine, we’re supposed to go on the “Neteller tour,” as we’re calling it, but we’re delayed. Matteo hasn’t come back yet from dropping off Merissa. I retreat to my room, check email, and think about the day. About ten minutes later: “Bill!”

“Yup, I’m here!” I finish an email and head down to the office and the vehicle.

“Let’s boogie!”

I haven’t heard that command since I left Calgary in 1988. Meranda wears skintight blue jeans, a thin top, and a tight jean jacket. When she walks away it’s impossible not to check out the peculiar-looking white acid-wash streaks running up and down her thighs and calves. She looks like she’s decked out for an Eagles concert circa 1976. So Calgary. Her skin-toned slip-ons look like ballet slippers with clear heels glued on. Meranda used to be a tap dancer; now’s she is in a jazz dance class with other moms.

Yes, Calgarian is how Meranda acts, too — warm, friendly, and direct, with a deep laugh that betrays her love of a good cigar. She’s a perky go-getter. Her face is framed by dirty blond-brown hair. She used to be a blond-blond but gave it up. The hissing of the Costa Rican men became tiresome. Even in the travel guide it says many Costa Rican men have not disabused themselves of the notion that white women are easy seductions — that white girls just jump into male Costa Rican laps because they’re so, well, exotic. But local men and their antics generally don’t bother Meranda — after all, she married one. The only time she will get fazed on our little tour is when we’re in a sketchy part of town, just outside San José proper. She recalls that whenever she had to do Neteller business in that neighborhood, she would ask coworker and future fiancé Matteo to hang around, and she would always tell the client there was someone outside waiting for her.

But Meranda is not someone you should ever assume to be a pushover. She co-runs a B&B, co-raises a four-year-old, and runs an organization called the Canadian Club, which, with about three hundred members, holds luncheons with diplomats. She also co-runs a small foundation financed by John, which tries to improve educational opportunities for San José kids. Meranda gets right after it, whatever she’s doing. For instance, after one leg of our morning tour she doubles back and drives past her B&B to get to our next destination. She notices three guests waiting outside her compound. You have to ring the doorbell to be admitted — you can’t just walk in. Security is important. Meranda says there is a lot of thievery going on: “When the going wages are between two and three dollars a day, some people decide they would rather just take stuff from people than work.”

But leaving guests waiting will not do. She wheels her massive truck around. “How long have you been waiting? I’m so sorry!” Matteo comes out. “Where were you?” she scolds him affectionately. “We can’t have people waiting outside!”

Matteo was trained to be a customer service representative by Meranda. This was accidental. She wasn’t supposed to break him in, but she offered to cover for a buddy who’d been too hungover from a staff party get to work on time. Matteo was waiting when she arrived at the office. As she went over the basics of the gig, she couldn’t help looking at his reflection in the computer screen. And that was it. Meranda arrived in Costa Rica on May 2, 2001; she met Matteo on August 26, 2001; and they were married on October 13, 2002. Matteo loved the job, too. “At first I was intimidated by John,” he recalls. “He’s a really big guy — a presence.” And he would have stayed forever if the company hadn’t cut back. Now Meranda keeps him focused on the B&B.