by Mark Donahue
Finally, he switched off the ignition and gathered up his army surplus backpack that was loaded with a canteen and his usual lunch. When he stepped out of the van onto the simmering asphalt of the rest-area parking lot, Lester took a breath but the searing dry air instantly parched his throat. He coughed several times before a drink from his canteen allowed him to breathe again. But the cool water did not assuage the pain in his back. Nothing would. Not now.
But it would just be one more trip. One more last trip.
Chapter 53
Ben’s House—Phoenix
After Sam’s suggestion hung in the air for few moments, Tom asked, “You mean give the gold back to Germany, Sam?”
“No, I mean give it back to the people it was taken from. Jon just said he has the names, addresses, and ages of some of the people the Nazis robbed, and an itemized list of what was taken from them. I see all those ads on TV about family trees and ancestry websites. It looks like it wouldn’t be all that difficult to track down some descendants of those killed and return to them what was taken from their families.”
“Sam, that’s a romantic idea, but there were millions killed, and in some cases entire families wiped out. It would be nearly impossible to track down either survivors or descendants and then calculate what would be owed to them. I like the idea, but I don’t know how we would carry out such a plan. Hell, I don’t even know how we would get all that gold out of the mine in the first place,” Tom noted.
Ben added, “There would be another issue we’d have to deal with here too. That gold legally belongs to whomever has a lease on that mine. It looks like an outfit called Arizona Mining Ltd. has had a lease in place since the 1940s and according to what I found, they have been making regular lease payments since that time.”
“Sounds like the same thing that’s happening up at the Vega as well, only that lease has been in place even longer,” Jon said.
“That may explain why people like those skinheads didn’t want us snooping around the Jasper. Maybe they believe there is gold in there, and they just haven’t been able to find it yet,” Tom added.
“Given all the new technology out there, it’s just a matter of time before someone does find it behind that wall, if they’re convinced it’s in the Jasper.”
“Ben’s right,” Jon said. “If those guys who jumped Tom are part of a larger neo-Nazi group, they’ve undoubtedly heard the rumors about lost Nazi gold and won’t stop until they find it. And if they do find it, God knows what they would do with that amount of wealth.”
“So what the hell do we do now?” Tom asked.
“What we can’t do is let that gold remain where it is,” Ben said. “That would be irresponsible and dangerous. Given the dead soldier we found and the skinheads who attacked Tom, it’s likely, if not probable, there’s some kind of Nazi connection going on here. So it seems to me our first job is to get the gold out of there and stash it somewhere that will be safe and secure until we determine what we do with it.”
Tom asked, “Why not give it to one of those large Jewish organizations?”
“If we do that, they’d have to know where we got the gold, and then there is the IRS, the state, and all kinds of bullshit we’d have to deal with,” Jon said.
While the men were exchanging ideas, Sam was busy tapping on her iPad. After several minutes, she made a statement. “You guys are a bunch of negative pains in the ass. We have no choice of what we have to do with the gold. None. We have to return it. It is our moral obligation to begin with.”
“Tell us how you really feel, Sam,” Tom said.
“Okay, I will. I just looked up this Arizona Mining Ltd. outfit that has the lease at the Jasper. Guess where they are based? Brazil. They’re part of an international conglomerate. Guess where that conglomerate is based? Germany. That same conglomerate through another holding company also has the lease on the Vega through another South American firm with German connections as far back as the 1920s. Based on that evidence, it’s clear there are Nazi fingerprints all over this gold, and I don’t think we should have any second thoughts about absconding with it…if we can.”
Tom said, “Sam’s right,” and added, “There’s always been a connection between Brazil, Argentina, other South American countries, and the Nazis. After WWII, it was confirmed that many high-ranking German officers headed there even before the war was over when they knew they were going to lose. It was proven after the war that those high-ranking officers also moved valuable artwork, cash, and gold out of Germany so they could retrieve it after the war. It was an operation some called the Rape of Europa.”
“Okay, let’s assume Sam and Tom are right about the Nazi connection and the gold we found. So what? Who put the gold behind that wall doesn’t answer the question of what we do with it now,” Jon said.
“Yes, it does, Jon,” Sam said. “The fact that it is highly likely there is indeed a Nazi connection with the gold answers the question very clearly. Especially given what appears to be a re-emergence of the neo-Nazis and other hate groups in this country and around the world. We have no choice but to secure the gold. But then take the next step and do the research to return it to those it was taken from. I know we can’t find everyone, but we can certainly find some.”
“Sam, do you realize what this kind of commitment will mean in terms of your time and your life?” Ben asked.
“Yes, I do, and I’m not asking you guys to jump off this bridge with me. But, as Daddy said, we simply can’t allow a group of crazy skinheads or other hate groups to find that amount of wealth, period. But we also have a responsibility to at least, in some small way, undo part of what the Nazis did. It won’t heal the pain or take away the horror, but it’s just the right thing to do, and I’m going to do it with or without you guys.”
After more silence, Tom had a question. “Hey Ben, has Sam always been such an opinionated, bullheaded, walking, talking migraine?”
“Yeah, pretty much.”
“Okay, Sam, if we’re all on this bandwagon, I assume you have a plan, right?” Jon asked.
“Give me a week. In the interim, I have some homework for each of you.”
“Of course you do,” Tom said.
Chapter 54
Phoenix—1980
When Lester didn’t return to their suite the next day, Lucille knew he was dead. She also knew he had wanted it that way. Over the years, she tried to imagine what had happened to Lester after he had left J.T.’s that morning and headed east. While she accepted his death, every time she went to Maxine’s for dinner and sat in Lester’s booth, she expected to see him amble in and ask for his meatloaf.
For months after last seeing Lester that morning, J.T. rode his ATV into the desert a dozen times trying to find his friend, but the vastness of the Sonoran can swallow a man, aided by wind-fueled dust storms and raging rains. J.T. knew his search was hopeless, but he felt closer to Lester when on his searches into the endless sand and rock.
Lucille and J. T., with the help of Lester’s attorney, carried on Lester’s legacy of using the gold to help the people in and around Phoenix, particularly the poor, who never knew where the clothes and food came from that they would find scattered around the city, as if placed there by magic. They never found out who funded training and work programs in modern air-conditioned buildings or who provided medical care and food at no cost.
Eventually, the poor and homeless friends of Lester died off, and his memory faded, but J.T. and Lucille never stopped their work. They even set up a foundation that would carry on their giving after they were dead and gone.
A week after Lester disappeared, Lucille found a white envelope in her underwear drawer. She recognized Lester’s handwriting.
For some reason Lucille was afraid to open the envelope and read whatever Lester had written to her. Was it something about the gold? What to do with it? Was it going to be some kind o
f confession? Something he had been afraid to tell her? What if what he had written soiled her memory of him?
After several sleepless nights, Lucille decided it was time. The first thing she noticed when opening the envelope was the date on the handwritten letter. It was years before Lester died.
“Dear Lucille,
My name is Lester Jones. You just served me the best damn meatloaf I ever ate. And the peach pie weren’t bad neither. I’ve decided I want to marry you. Not now, mind you, but some time. You’re real nice to me, but I know you don’t love me or nuthin’ like that, but I startin’ lovin’ you first the time I seen you last week. Love you more this week. ’Spect I’ll love you more next week. By the way, I’m a rich son of a bitch and figure I could get you to love me just ’cause I’m rich, but that wouldn’t be no good. Wouldn’t last. So, I guess I’ll take it slow and easy like. Also need to tell you, I like the way you walk. Kinda smooth like. Figure I can sneak a look now and then, and you won’t know I’m a lookin’. Not sure when I’m gonna give you this letter, maybe I’ll just keep it to remind me when I started lovin’ you. Maybe I’ll give to ya when I know you love me. Hope it won’t be too long. Your future husband, Lester Jones. P.S. I really am a rich bastard but hope you love me ’fore you find that out for sure.
Lucille carefully folded the letter and placed it back into the envelope. She looked at it for several moments and said to no one, “You could have given it to me after that first meatloaf, Lester.”
Chapter 55
J.T.’s Shop—Phoenix 2014
Despite his advanced years, J.T. was still a physically imposing man, someone people didn’t mess with. It was more than the silver-plated .38 he still wore on his hip each day in his shop that had kept the bad guys from the neighborhood at bay for over fifty years. It was J.T.’s reputation for helping people who needed help that gave him “street cred” that was based on respect, not fear.
Maybe it was helping someone who needed surgery, or a deserving kid who needed college tuition, or a mother with too many kids and not enough food. Whatever the neighborhood needed, J.T., in his own quiet and sometimes gruff way, was there to help.
J.T. could afford to help. He had saved millions from his days working with Lester and never forgot the skinny white man whom he had grown to love like a brother. He missed their conversations over fried chicken, beer, and apple pie. He missed the only friend he ever had.
He often wondered what happened to Lester that last morning he saw him in 1980 when he had visited his shop then drove away heading east to the desert. J.T. hoped that Lester’s last hours were peaceful and often spoke with Lucille about the man they both missed. They also spoke of Lester’s diary and what he had written so many years before. Was it all true? Could it be true?
J.T. knew the gold part was true because he had visited Lester’s “bank” in the desert a few hundred times since Lester’s disappearance. However, with Lucille’s permission and encouragement, he did so by utilizing an ATV he would load onto the back of his Ford F-P450 Platinum pickup truck before venturing into the desert in the early morning. He had told Lucille, “It makes carrying twenty-pound bars a lot easier on an old man.”
J.T. also got permission from Lucille to begin moving the gold out of Lester’s not-so-well-hidden hiding place in the sand. They realized it would take some time but figured J.T. would get the job done within a few years. They were both afraid that at some point someone would stumble across the gold or hear the endless rumors about a treasure, and it would suddenly be gone. Lucille trusted J.T. and told him to do whatever he thought was best to protect Lester’s secret.
So they agreed that on J.T.’s trips to the desert he would retrieve at least two to three bars at a time, so he would slowly move the gold to a safer place. They decided that safer place was in a series of safe-deposit boxes at several Bank of America branches in and around Phoenix. On his trips, J.T. also deposited something into the desert that he hoped would convince gold hunters from continuing their searches. Every time he did, it made him smile.
Lucille and J.T. opened scores of safe-deposit boxes using over a dozen fictitious names, which gave them both safety and easier access to the gold when they wanted to sell the bars to generate cash for some worthy cause.
To eliminate any suspicion, J.T. would in many cases melt down the ingots at his shop into smaller sizes he could sell more easily. It took more time, but both J.T. and Lucille slept better.
Despite J.T.’s concerted efforts over the years to move all the gold bars from Lester’s “bank” in the Sonoran Desert, nearly twenty-five bars remained in the sand with a value of between $10 and $12 million. J.T. hoped he lived long enough to get all the bars to the safety of the B of A.
But there wasn’t a time J.T. ventured into the desert that he didn’t think of the incredible amount of gold that could still be in the Jasper. He hoped that if the trove really did exist and was ever found, it would be by someone who would put it to good use. But he worried that if the wrong hands got hold of that amount of wealth, what havoc they could wreak. He lamented he was too damn old to do anything about it.
On a Thursday night right after closing the shop, J.T. was about to leave and go home for the night when his front doorbell rang. When he looked into the monitor of his hidden camera that showed who was at his front door, J.T. saw an elderly man in what looked like an expensive dark suit standing next to a younger tall blond man with short cropped hair and a scar on his face. Through a microphone, J.T. said, “Sorry, I’m closed. Be open tomorrow morning at seven.”
Looking around for the camera, the old man said, “Oh my, we are looking for a Mr. Taylor and have flown in from San Diego to introduce ourselves to him at the suggestion of Juan in Juarez. He said you were someone with whom we could conduct confidential business.”
“I’m Jackson Taylor. What kind of business you talking about?”
“I would prefer not to discuss it here on the sidewalk. We can come back tomorrow. Thank you for your time.” The two men began to walk away. J.T hit the intercom button again.
“Hold on. Since you came all the way from San Diego and know Juan, come on in for a few minutes.”
After J.T. opened the steel door, he greeted the two men who entered his shop. “Thank you so much for seeing us at this late hour, Mr. Taylor. My name is Armin Martin, and this is my associate, Jagr.”
“Evening, Gentlemen, so how’s Juan doing these days?”
“I am afraid I am the bearer of sad news, Mr. Taylor. Juan passed away rather suddenly last week. It was quite unexpected.”
“Juan’s dead? How? He was in good shape and…”
“Juan fell. From a great height.”
“Fell? What about Maria and his boys?”
“They all fell. From a very great height.”
“What the hell you talking about? What’s your name again?”
When J.T. moved to his desk to try to retrieve his silver-plated pistol he had put away for the night, he was a step late. Jagr pulled his own gun, with a silencer attached, and pointed it at J.T.
“Mr. Taylor, I would greatly appreciate it if you would please sit down so we can have a discussion.”
Taking a seat, J.T. said,” If you guys are looking for money, I don’t keep it here.”
“Mr. Taylor, through some research with friends in Mexico, we have learned that you have had a many decades long working relationship with a gentleman named Juan Montez. Is that accurate?”
“You with the IRS, Mr. Martin?”
“No, Mr. Taylor; we are simply businessmen curious about the relationship between you and Juan.”
“No big deal, when prices around here dropped some, I’d call Juan and he’d sell it for me in Mexico if the prices were better there.”
“I presume you met Juan a few times?”
“Yeah, a few times, so what?”
As Dr. Martin and J.T. spoke, Jagr moved next to J.T. and placed his pistol on his shoulder next to his ear.
“Mr. Taylor, Juan was an uneducated and seemingly unemployed man, who along with a relatively large extended family, lived rather lavish lifestyles in Mexico. During our conversation with Juan, before his terrible accident, he indicated you were his biggest client.”
“So?”
“To be more accurate, after further inquiries from Jagr, Juan, and his wife admitted you were his only client.”
“Well, I’ll be damned. Never knew that.”
“Such knowledge would of course lead one to wonder things. Like where did you get the gold that you sent to Juan, on what appears to be a regular basis for decades?”
“Juan exaggerated. Never sent that much to him. Just a few ounces here and there.”
“Mr. Taylor you are far too modest. When Jagr searched Juan’s home after his untimely death, he found two gold bars worth nearly a million dollars. Hardly a trifling amount for a poor Mexican gentleman with no apparent income source.”
“Damn, you got me. Maybe Juan made his money selling drugs? Or he was a real good saver.”
“A possible conclusion, except Juan kept remarkably good, albeit handwritten records. And those records indicated he and his family had received over 200 twenty-pound gold ingots over a period of more than sixty years. Further, that those gold bars came from a gentleman in Phoenix named ‘el moreno Jackson.’”
“Small damn world. My name’s Jackson too. Like another few million folks in this country. Pretty common name.”
“Quite. However, I don’t believe in coincidences, Mr. Jackson.”
“Guys, I told you all I know about Juan, and what I sent him and …”
