THE BRIDGE TO CARACAS: A DOUGLASS CRIME AND ROMANCE THRILLER SERIES (THE KING TRILOGY Book 1)

by Stephen Douglass

  Reimer took a brief drink of water. “We’ve concluded that the only viable solution is to buy out the disease once the private-brander reaches a critical size. This policy is only marginally effective, at best. It makes me feel like the proverbial little boy with his finger in the dike.” He scowled and scanned the room. “If any of you can think of a better solution, I would be happy to entertain it. Thank you all for your kind attention.” Reimer displayed an obsequious smile, removed his spectacles, and returned to his seat.

  The audience responded with a polite applause.

  Mike was amazed. How could such a large and successful company allow itself to be caught in such a dilemma? And why would Reimer disclose the problem to such a broad audience? It was a sign of weakness, the sort that usually was a tightly held secret within the ranks of senior management. Reimer’s presentation had demonstrated the human characteristics of a large corporation—showed that the huge monolith had vulnerabilities. The man had destroyed Mike’s long held vision of the corporation as a flawless machine.

  In his talk, Reimer had compared Canam to a large ocean liner, forced to dodge traffic in a crowded harbor where small, fast boats had a decided advantage. The smaller boats were free to go wherever they wished, so long as they steered clear of the ocean liner. The speech strengthened Mike’s decision to leave Canam. He was certain it would be more exciting and profitable to operate one or more of the small, fast boats than to be a crew member on board the ocean liner. To gamble his youth on the corporate brass ring would involve too much personal compromise, particularly if the brass ring turned out to be no more than a solid gold watch.

  CHAPTER 14

  Servito’s success in the dark side of the gasoline business had blossomed beyond his wildest dreams. The control center for his illegal operations was a large farm he’d bought in the Caledon hills, about fifty miles north of Toronto. There, he installed a number of above ground gasoline storage tanks, which were subsequently filled with three hundred and fifty thousand gallons on which no taxes were paid. He also constructed a runway for his new twin Cessna. Most of the flight plans he filed were to tax free Grand Cayman Island, where he deposited large sums of cash out of sight of the probing eyes of the tax authorities of both Canada and the United States. While his personal wealth grew, so too did his appetite for more. Money had ceased to be a necessity. Accumulating it was now a game—and the game was about to assume a significant new dimension.

  He sat in silence in his long white Cadillac limousine as it glided across the Peace Bridge. His hand groped between the thighs of his paid mistress while he stared through a window at the reflection of the full moon on the rippled surface of the Niagara River below. He turned to Allison. “We’re gonna buy a bridge tonight, Jerry,” he said with a grin.

  Allison shook his head. “You’re crazy. Absolutely insane.”

  After stopping briefly at the customs checkpoint on the American side of the border, the limousine continued about two hundred yards to the parking area of a large, two story building. Servito’s driver Pete kept the motor running while Servito marched to the front doors of the building.

  The heels of his boots made a loud click with each step he took on the polished marble floor of the second floor hallway. He stopped in front of the door to an office at the southeast end of the building. “Director of Customs and Immigration” was printed in large gold letters on the door. Servito entered without knocking, closing the door behind him with a click. He turned the deadbolt.

  A tall, frail man in a tailored, gray pin-striped suit approached Servito from the inner office. He had only the suggestion of snow white hair. “You must be Jim Servito,” he declared with an enthusiastic smile.

  “Yup,” Servito replied grimly.

  “My name is Earle Langston,” the frail man said as Servito shook his hand. “I’m so happy to meet you, Jim. My assistant, Stanley, told me about you last week. Please come into my inner office and have a seat. Would you like a drink?”

  “No, thank you. I’m working on a very tight schedule tonight.” Servito reached inside his jacket and removed a large brown envelope. “This is for you,” he said, handing it to Langston.

  Langston opened the envelope and removed five neatly bound packets, each containing fifty hundred dollar bills. He placed them in a neat row on his secretary’s desk, then took one of them, removed the elastics, and counted the bills. When he finished counting, he looked up and smiled. “I won’t waste time counting the other ones. You’re a man of your word, Jim.”

  “Are you?” Servito asked.

  Langston nodded. “You can rest assured that everything here will be cooled. My people won’t bother with your trucks any more. No more delays or spot checks.”

  Servito glared at Langston. “Let’s be absolutely sure we’re both clear on this, Earle. The bridge is mine. If my trucks don’t cross that bridge, both ways, like shit through a goose, I’m going to hold you personally responsible. If there’s any trouble, you’re going to take a nice little trip over Niagara Falls… in a cement boat. Do we understand each other?”

  Langston’s smile disappeared. “Loud and clear,” he replied, his lips quivering.

  Servito turned and walked toward the door of the office. After opening it, he tilted his head slightly. “You have a nice evening, Earle,” he said, and then closed the door behind him. He hurried from the building and returned to the waiting limousine, slumping into the white leather seat.

  “What happened?” Allison asked.

  “We own the bridge, baby,” Servito shouted, and then burst into uncontrolled laughter.

  Allison slouched further in his seat and stretched his fat legs as far as they could reach. “I can’t believe it,” he said, shaking his head in amazement. “Are you telling me he bought the whole thing?”

  Servito raised both thumbs. “The whole deal. No ifs. No buts.”

  Allison continued to shake his head. “You’ve got brass balls, Jimbo. Did you tell him about the cement boat?”

  “Damn right! He nearly pissed his pants.” Servito turned to face the driver, who had been listening through the opened window that separated the front section of the limo from the rear. “Let’s get going, Pete. We’re behind schedule.”

  The limousine sped north on Route 190. Just before it reached the front gates of the Golden National refinery, the car turned off the road and proceeded slowly across a grassy field to an abandoned corrugated metal building. Pete stopped the vehicle fifty feet in front of the large door of the building and blinked the headlights twice. Seconds passed in silence before the door began to rise.

  When the door closed behind them, the building’s fluorescent ceiling lights flickered on.

  A giant of a man wearing dirty blue denim overalls and an oil-stained, yellow helmet approached. “Welcome to Buffalo, gentlemen,” he bellowed.

  Servito extended his right hand to the large man. “Good to see you, Sam,” he said.

  “You too, Jimbo,” Sam replied, nearly crushing Servito’s hand.

  Servito winced in pain, but quickly recovered. “Boys, I want you to meet Sam Martin. He’s the superintendent of that big still next door. He’s agreed to help us with our little plumbing job.” He pointed to each of his companions in order. “This is Jerry Allison, a close business associate of mine. The broad in the car is my latest toy. Next is Pete Sarnos, my faithful driver. Last but not least is Bob Sadowski, the best damn plumber in the world.”

  Sam chuckled. “If he’s such a good plumber, maybe you should get him to build you a pipeline across the Niagara River.”

  Allison, Sadowski, and Sarnos laughed, while Servito stared stonily at Sam.

  The bulky man pointed to a yellow van parked no more than ten feet from the limousine. “Let’s get going. When we get inside the refinery gates, just keep quiet and let me do the talking.”

  “I’ll get in the front with Sam. Jerry, you and Bob ride in the back,” Servito ordered. “Pete, you can stay here with the limo.
”

  Pete returned to join Dianne in the limousine while the others climbed into the van.

  Sam opened the large metal door by pressing a button on a small black box mounted on the dashboard of the van. He headed across the open field in the direction of the Golden National refinery, which resembled a gigantic midway with its myriad of lights and numerous flare stacks. When the van passed the heavy-gauge chain-link gates at the refinery entrance, the security guards and refinery workers all smiled and waved at Sam Martin. He was, after all, the refinery superintendent. Sam drove directly to the gasoline storage area at the east end of the refinery and parked as close as possible to the truck loading racks. He turned to Servito. “Relax,” he said, slapping his back with his right hand. “You’re too tense. Nobody’s gonna bother us. I’ve got it covered.”

  “Let’s just do it,” Servito ordered.

  Sam and Servito got out and opened the rear doors of the van. Sam and Sadowski dragged out two, three-way brass valves, a welding torch, and oxygen and acetylene tanks from the rear of the van. The four men carried the equipment up the metal stairway to the rear deck of the gasoline loading racks. For two long and anxious hours, Servito and Allison watched while Sadowski and Sam spliced one of the brass valves into the regular gasoline line and the second valve into the premium gasoline line. When he had completed his last weld, Sadowski removed his heavy metal mask and wiped his forehead with his sleeve.

  “It’s about time,” Sam said.

  “I don’t know anybody who could have done it faster,” Sadowski retorted, waving the torch close to Sam’s nose. “Did it ever occur to you that this could’ve blown us all to kingdom come?”

  Sam chuckled as he slapped Sadowski’s back. “Never! These lines were hospital clean. I had ‘em purged with nitrogen this afternoon. The bosses think we’re out here doin’ repairs tonight.”

  Servito sat in contented silence while the limousine headed back to Toronto. He stared out the side window into the blackness of the night. Tonight had seen the final steps of his crowning achievement. The scheme was so audacious, and yet so simple. Now they not only were able to avoid tax on their product, but they wouldn’t have to buy it, either. They could pull it straight from the tanks, so long as Sam got his cut. No one else would ever dream of doing such a thing. But Jim always had grabbed his dreams by the throat.

  CHAPTER 15

  July 21, 1968.

  At one minute before midnight, at North York General Hospital, Mike and Barbara celebrated the arrival of their first child, a beautiful seven pound, six ounce girl. By unanimous agreement, they named her Kerri Elizabeth.

  The arrival of Kerri was a defining moment for Mike. His daughter was such a precious gift, and she needed a perfect world to grow up in. He strengthened his resolve to do whatever he could to make his marriage work.

  Three days later, Mike and Barbara relaxed on the rear lawn of their new bungalow, twenty miles north of Toronto, watching the sun set over pine colored hills. Kerri slept in her crib between them. Mike separated the business section from his Saturday paper and began to search for something that might warrant careful attention. He reached the back page without finding anything of note, and was about to fold the whole section into the rest of the paper when a brief glimpse of an article caused him to stop. He bolted upright.

  Barbara frowned. “What’s so interesting?” she asked, continuing to stare at the horizon.

  Mike was excited. “I think this company is looking for me.”

  “Do you know anything about them?”

  “I sure do. International Fuel Brokers is a great company and extremely well respected in the industry. It imports petroleum products from all over the world and sells them in North America.”

  “What makes you so sure they’re looking for you?” Barbara asked.

  “I have exactly what they’re looking for,” Mike explained. “But what’s far more important is that International Fuel Brokers has what I’m looking for.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A box seat. I could learn more about the oil business in one year with that company than I could in ten at Canam.”

  The response to Mike’s letter and resume was swift. He received a telephone call at his home on Wednesday evening. “May I speak to Mike King, please?” a woman asked.

  “Speaking,” Mike said, struggling to conceal his excitement.

  “Mr. King, my name is Evelyn Wells. I’m the secretary of Mr. Owen Christian, the president of International Fuel Brokers. I’m calling to advise you that we have received your letter and resume. Mr. Christian has asked me to invite you to have lunch with him at the Dominion Club at noon this Friday. Would that be convenient for you?”

  “Yes, that would be convenient.”

  “Fine. Mr. Christian would like to meet you in his office at eleven forty-five. I presume you have our address.” From her lips, it wasn’t a question.

  “I do.”

  “Thank you very much, Mr. King. I’ll look forward to seeing you on Friday.”

  Christian was a tall thin man with extremely fine features and a mosaic of facial wrinkles spanning from the dark circles under his eyes. He was dressed in a perfectly tailored black, pinstriped suit. His thinning brown hair was graying at the sides and combed so that not one hair was out of place. His matching tie and handkerchief—in fire engine red—were over the top.

  Christian wasted no time. “Mike, I invited you here today to meet you and to offer you a job, if I like you. Your resume told us a lot about yourself, and I liked what I read. You appear to be eminently qualified to fill the position.”

  “Thank you,” Mike said.

  “I see that you’re currently employed by Canam,” Christian continued, staring at Mike with his almost penetrating green eyes. “It’s a fine company. It does a wonderful job of training people. Sometimes I envy Canam’s program, but I think they take far too long to develop talent.”

  Mike nodded in agreement, stifling a smirk.

  Christian placed his feet on his desk and leaned back in his chair. “Before we go to lunch, I want to tell you a little bit about IFB. Hell, we might discover you don’t like us.” He faked a smile. “Would you agree that’s a possibility?”

  Mike nodded.

  “IFB is a public company. It’s listed on the Toronto and New York Exchanges, and in Europe on the London and Brussels Exchanges. No company or individual owns more than four percent of the stock. It’s also a very successful company, and with a modicum of humility, I’ll tell you that I am largely responsible for that success. Every decision of consequence is made right here.” He pointed to himself.

  “Excuse me, Owen,” Mike interrupted. “How large is IFB?”

  “Good question. We move slightly over five billion gallons a year. Is that a satisfactory answer?”

  Mike nodded, impressed. “Yes, sir.”

  “We plan to get much larger. In the past several years, we’ve been in acquisition mode. Our current policy has been to acquire a half interest in independent distributors—mostly companies selling distillate fuel to homes and factories. The public call it fuel oil, but I call it pure gold. Our game plan is to identify target companies, romance them heavily, and buy fifty percent of their stock. We put the owner on a nice five-year management contract, sign a sweet long term supply contract with him, and then let him run. It’s a beautiful deal for both parties. We lock up the supply and avoid the aggravation and expense of running the companies. Our new partner has a pile of cash in his jeans, security of supply, and the IFB covenant behind him. You understand me so far?”

  Mike nodded again.

  “The person we’re looking for is someone capable of identifying target companies. We want someone good enough to move these companies through the romantic phase and drag them into the fold. For obvious reasons, the individual has to know the oil business well. More importantly, he must be an opportunist.” Owen squinted at him with a slight smirk on his lips. “Do you think you’re the man
we’re looking for?”

  “Yes,” Mike replied without hesitation, simultaneously experiencing a pang of insecurity.

  “The reason I’m doing this interview is because I’m a substantially better judge of character than any head hunter. The last idiot those jerks sent us was an accident looking for somewhere to happen. He fell flat on his ass and we’re still cleaning up his mess. It’s a damn shame, you know. The kid had all the right credentials.”

  Mike couldn’t resist. He had to interrupt again. “Do you mind telling me what his credentials were?”

  “He had an MBA from Harvard. Why do you ask?” Christian asked with a puzzled expression.

  “Just curious,” Mike said, fighting an urge to smirk.

  Christian glanced at his watch and at Mike. “Let’s have some lunch. You hungry?”

  “Very.”

  Christian continued to dominate the conversation at the Dominion Club, taking time only to swallow three dry martinis and a toasted club sandwich. When coffees were served, Christian stopped his dialogue long enough to ask, “Your resume said you took a year out of school. I’m curious to know why you did that.”

  “I didn’t like what I was doing, and wasn’t prepared to waste any more time and money until I found something I did like.”

  Christian nodded and winked. “Good answer. I like that.”

  Mike finally mustered enough courage to ask the big question. “Owen, how are you going to decide if I’m the opportunist you’re looking for?”