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

by Stephen Douglass

  Servito smiled, oozing pride. “I sold the whole load.” It had taken less than twelve hours for Pop Williams’s station to sell seventy-five hundred gallons of Jerry Allison’s boot-leg gasoline. Servito had brazenly rolled back the wheels in the pump meters by exactly that volume. He had replaced the two thousand dollars he had removed from Williams’s cash register, and happily pocketed the difference.

  “Want to do it again?” Allison asked. “I can have another load here by midnight. Same deal.”

  How could Servito refuse? There was no question that he wanted to do it again. His problem was Pop Williams. If large volumes of Allison’s gasoline were moved through the station, it was only a matter of time before Williams noticed the decline in his normal volume, particularly if it only occurred during the night shift sales.

  Instead of answering Allison’s question, he used his wily charm, piercing him with gray eyes and beaming with confidence. “Do you know anyone with a lot of cash to invest?”

  Allison frowned. “What for?”

  “To buy this station.”

  Allison was flabbergasted. “Holy shit! I thought you owned this place?”

  “I never said I did.”

  “If you don’t own it, who does?”

  Servito pointed to Pop Williams, who was smoking a large cigar behind his desk in the office of the station. “That old fart.”

  Allison narrowed his eyes. “How much cash do you need?”

  Servito shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. How much do you think this place is worth?”

  “It’s not worth a dime to me,” Allison said. “Call me when you get a number from the old fart. Then we’ll talk.” He scribbled his telephone number on a small piece of paper, handed it to Servito, and drove away.

  Servito stuffed the paper into his pants pocket and marched directly to the office. “Hey, Pop. You ever think about selling this place?”

  Pop removed his Yankees baseball cap and scratched the stubble atop his head. “Who was that in the Lincoln?” he asked, glaring suspiciously at Servito.

  “A customer. He wanted directions to Maple Leaf Gardens.”

  Williams nodded and took a long drag of his cigar. “Every day I’m alive I think about selling this place, kid. Who wants to know?”

  “Me.”

  Williams smiled. He liked Jim Servito, although he couldn’t say precisely why. It certainly didn’t hurt that Servito worked hard and long hours, giving Williams a well-deserved opportunity to relax. He knew that Servito was ambitious and that he wouldn’t be satisfied pumping gas for long. He decided to throw him a bone. He reached into his pocket and removed the keys to the station, dangling them at Servito’s eye level. “If you’ve got a half a million, these are yours and I’m out of here.”

  “No shit?”

  “No shit,” Williams responded with a wide grin. “I’ll make it easy for you. Give me fifty thousand cash, and I’ll give you a mortgage for the rest. If you screw up, though, I’ll be back in here so fast you won’t know what hit you.”

  Karen’s hand trembled while she dialed Mike’s home number. Questions and uncertainties plagued her.

  Mike’s mother answered.

  “May I speak to Mike, please?”

  “Who’s calling, please?”

  “It’s Karen Taylor.”

  “Karen!” Mrs. King exclaimed, surprised to hear from her and immediately confused about how to handle a situation she had not anticipated. “We were all so very happy and relieved to hear that you survived—”

  “It’s over, Mrs. King,” Karen interrupted. “It’s finally over.”

  “Where are you and how are you?” Mike’s mother asked, tactfully changing the subject.

  “I’m in Toronto. My parents brought me home today. I’ve lost sixteen months of my life and twelve percent of my weight, but I’m fine… Could you tell me where I could reach Mike?”

  Mrs. King hesitated, but only for a moment. “He has an apartment on St. George Street. He’s back at the University of Toronto.”

  “Do you have his telephone number?”

  In spite of her deep concern for the consequences, Mike’s mother closed her eyes and gave Mike’s number to Karen.

  Weary from a hard day’s work, Williams climbed into his gray Oldsmobile and left for home at 6:15 p.m. Servito waited five minutes before dashing to the office and calling Allison’s number. “Jerry, it’s me… Jim Servito.”

  “What can I do for you?” Allison asked, sounding perturbed. He was probably still miffed that Jim had lied about owning the station.

  “You can find fifty grand for me.”

  “Oh yeah? What would I do that for?”

  “To buy the station.”

  Allison chuckled. “That’s bull-shit, kid. Fifty grand isn’t enough to buy you a shit house in the boonies.”

  “I’m serious, Jerry. All I need is fifty grand. But if you can’t get it for me, I’m sure I’ll find someone who can.”

  Allison did not want to lose Servito’s business, nor the opportunity to broker an investment. There was his take to consider, of course. “I’ll see you tonight. Will you be at the station?”

  “I live here. What time?”

  “Before nine.”

  “Bring fifty big ones or don’t bother coming.”

  Allison hung up and made a phone call to Buffalo, New York.

  “Bushing,” Allison’s boss said.

  “It’s me again. I need to talk. It’s about something entirely different.”

  “About what?”

  “I need fifty grand.”

  “So do I. Now tell me what’s so entirely different.”

  “I dumped a load at a station in Toronto last night. I thought the kid I sold it to owned the place, but it turns out he doesn’t. Now the kid says he can buy the place for fifty grand.”

  “Come on, Jerry. What kind of dump is it?”

  “Nice. It’s a juicer. At least three and a half million gallons a year.”

  “Then you tell me how he’s gonna do it for fifty grand.”

  “I can’t. The only thing I know is that he says he can do it. He also says he can find the money elsewhere…”

  “Has this kid got any money?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Can you nail him to the wall?”

  “Yup.”

  “Okay. Use your float, and don’t call me with any bad news.”

  “Is this Mike King’s home?” Karen asked, surprised to hear a female voice.

  “Yes.”

  “May I speak to him, please?”

  “I’m sorry. He’s not home. Is there a message?”

  “Do you know where I could reach him?”

  “He’s at the university. I doubt he’ll be home much before eleven.”

  “Who am I speaking to, please?”

  “His wife.”

  Karen paused for a long time, at first, because she forgot how to breathe. And after, because she had no idea what to say. “Please tell him Karen Taylor called,” she whispered.

  “I will,” the woman said, just as quietly.

  Karen put the receiver down, her eyes brimming with tears. All the hopes and dreams she had clung to—the very love that had kept her alive—had disappeared like so much smoke.

  CHAPTER 9

  The fun of university life was nothing but a distant memory for Mike. His determination to succeed had become a consuming passion that had enabled him to rationalize the change in his marriage. Sure, he and Barbara behaved reasonably and interacted with pleasant demeanors. But the physical component of the union had deteriorated until both were filled with a gnawing combination of stress and guilt that simmered beneath the surface of all their polite conversations. Barbara had continued to be helpful and supportive, but had completely stopped initiating sexual encounters. She continued to make love to Mike whenever he wanted, but her responses were disappointingly passive.

  The change haunted Mike. Their mutually extemporaneous sex had be
en an appealing characteristic of their courtship. When he asked Barbara what had happened, she pleaded ignorance. She agreed that therapy was necessary, but procrastinated that step, hoping that everything would eventually resolve in their favor.

  One night, after a particularly clinical session of lovemaking, Mike withdrew with a frown. He lowered his head until his lips barely touched her left ear. “It isn’t working, Barbara,” he whispered.

  Barbara turned to face him. “What isn’t working?” she asked, her expression filled with righteous indignation.

  “Us. I’m convinced you’ve been hiding something from me, something very important. Under the circumstances, I think you owe me an explanation.”

  Barbara turned away and stared at the wall. “I can’t believe you would say that now,” she said with tear-filled eyes.

  “When the hell am I supposed to say it?” Mike asked. “You just participated in one of the most important functions of a marriage, but participation is too strong a word. It’s like you weren’t even there, like I’m making love to a manikin. I can’t keep on this way, Barbara.”

  “I guess, it’s because… there’s a part of my past that I haven’t told you about. I promised myself I never would, but now I think you should know… I had a baby,” she said, still staring at the wall, her words barely audible.

  “What!”

  Barbara wiped her eyes and again turned to face Mike, her expression showing deep pain. “I had a baby girl.”

  “Who’s the father?” he asked. Certainly he was not delighted to hear that she had such a burdened past, but it was a relief that she had finally begun to remove some of the distance between them.

  “That’s not important.”

  “Then tell me what is.”

  “He asked me to get an abortion when I told him I was pregnant. He said he wasn’t prepared for the responsibility of a child, or a marriage.”

  Mike wiped a tear from her cheek. “What happened then?”

  “At first I thought the relationship was more important than the child, so I agreed to have the abortion. But when the time came, I just couldn’t do it… I just couldn’t. It was impossible.”

  “What happened to the child?”

  “I gave her up for adoption,” Barbara whimpered, tears continuing to flow from her eyes. “It was the most painful thing I’ve ever done in my life, far more painful than having her.”

  “Do you know where she is now?”

  Barbara covered her eyes and shook her head.

  “Where’s the father?”

  “Alive and well… He’s a very successful stock broker.”

  “Have you ever seen him or talked to him since you met me?”

  “No,” she replied, avoiding eye contact.

  Mike reached for Barbara’s hand. “Look at me,” he demanded, and then waited until she did. “You never stopped loving him, did you?” he asked, staring into her eyes, probing for a response.

  “How can you say that?”

  “Because I need to know. Did you ever stop loving him?”

  Barbara turned and buried her face in her pillow. “Of course I did!” she whimpered.

  CHAPTER 10

  Friday, October 13, 1964. 10 a.m.

  Servito stubbed the remains of his cigar into his ashtray before telephoning Allison’s office. “Jerry, it’s Jim. I need to see you.”

  “What’s the problem, kid?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it on the phone.”

  “How about I see you at the station at noon? I’m going to the track this afternoon.”

  “Then let’s have lunch.”

  Servito left well before noon. He hurried to his favorite whorehouse, Triple A Modeling Service, they called it, and relieved his almost constant sexual urge. He then drove south to Lakeshore Drive and east to Ashbridges Bay, a filthy industrial area in the heart of southeast Toronto. Porky’s Diner specialized in greasy hamburgers, draught beer, and waitresses with large breasts. He found the diner already crowded with raucous factory workers. Wrinkling his nose, he proceeded directly to an empty table, as far as possible from the noisy beer drinkers.

  Allison waddled in ten minutes later and headed for Servito, his gigantic brown shoes slapping the wooden floor. “How you doin’, kid?” he asked, squeezing his oversized butt into a chair on the opposite side of the table. “You ordered yet?”

  “Nope. I was waiting for you.”

  “You wanna beer?”

  Servito nodded. No smile. No emotion.

  Allison turned and waved to the waitress behind the cash register on the bar. “Hey, Tess! Give us two Black Labels over here!” he shouted, and then turned to Servito. “What’s on your mind, kid?”

  “I’m having difficulty figuring out why I can never get a better gasoline price from anyone but you. The only conclusion I can come to is that nobody has a better price.” Servito leaned forward and glared menacingly into Allison’s eyes. “Are you paying taxes on the gasoline you’re selling to me?”

  Allison chuckled, and then scowled. “That’s none of your business.”

  Servito leaned closer. “Never mind the bullshit, Jerry! Just answer my question. Are you or are you not paying the taxes on my gasoline?”

  “You’re stepping over the line, kid,” Allison warned.

  Servito bared his teeth and pointed his index finger directly at Allison’s nose. His almost translucent gray eyes bored into the man. “I don’t give a flying shit about lines! I want the whole story and I want it now,” he hissed. “I don’t want to wake up some morning and find the feds climbing all over me for the taxes you evaded. And I don’t want them to tell me that you screwed off to never-never land with all the money.”

  Allison’s rotund face blanched and he shook his large head. “You’re an ungrateful prick!” he said, his expression bathed in acid. “If it hadn’t been for my fifty grand, you wouldn’t even be here to worry about things that don’t concern you.” He paused while Tess delivered two large, ice-frosted mugs of draught beer. He leaned back and gave Servito a long, hard look. “One of the things you have to understand is that the gasoline business is a rough game. You have to do whatever it takes to survive. If you don’t, someone’s gonna be there to clean your clock.”

  Servito tightened his lips and bared his teeth. “No more bull-shit, Jerry. Just answer my question.”

  “I’ve told you as much as I’m gonna tell you, kid. The rest of the story’s my business.” Allison stood, toppling his chair and causing it to clatter on the floor. “Call me when you need another load. If you don’t, I’m gonna send some people into your office to find out why. You got it?” He chugged half of his beer and headed for the exit.

  Servito caught up with Allison in the parking lot. “Jesus!” Allison shouted at the sharp pain at his ankle. Then he stumbled, falling forward and spread-eagling on the pavement.

  Servito pressed his right foot firmly against the back of Allison’s huge neck. “We’re going to play truth or consequences, Jerry,” he said, smirking. “I have a piece, here, and it’s pointed right at the back of your fat head. Get up and haul your fat ass into the car, now!”

  Servito lifted his foot and Allison complied, glancing hurriedly at the bulge in Servito’s right jacket pocket.

  Servito barged in beside Allison, pushing him to the passenger’s side. He slammed the door, and then revealed his pistol—a snub-nosed, 38-caliber revolver he had stolen on his way through Billings, Montana.

  He lowered his eyes and chuckled as Allison’s involuntary urination spread across the crotch of his beige trousers. “This is the end of the bullshit, Jerry. Just give me the answers.”

  “I don’t own a damn thing,” Allison said, shaking, mesmerized by the muzzle of Servito’s gun. “I’m just the pimp. I put people together.”

  “How does it happen?”

  “I… I do it through a broker and a trucker.”

  “Who’s the broker and who’s the trucker?”

  “The broke
r’s a man named Bob Bushing. He owns a company called Empire State Oil. His office is in Buffalo…”

  Servito waved the pistol, and Allison yelped.

  “The trucker is Dave Lasker,” he said hurriedly. “His company is Amerada Tank Lines. He runs outta Fort Erie and Niagara Falls.”

  “Very good,” Servito said, allowing a brief smile. “Now, how is the game played?”

  “Bushing buys the gasoline and Lasker hauls it.”

  “Who pays the tax?”

  “Nobody.”

  “So I was right. How does it get done?”

  “Empire State buys the gasoline from a refiner in the United States, I think, or maybe in Canada. Bushing warrants that the gasoline is purchased for export to the opposite country. The refiner sells the gasoline to Empire State at the refinery gate on an ex-tax basis on the assumption that the taxes will be collected by governments in the destination country. Then Amerada picks it up and hauls it across the bridge. From there it gets distributed.”

  Servito’s swarthy face displayed a puzzled frown. “So why aren’t the feds breaking down my door and demanding the taxes?”

  “As soon as the gasoline crosses the bridge, we make it disappear. The feds don’t have the slightest idea where it goes.”

  “How do you make it disappear?”

  “A million ways. The simplest is to haul it directly to the customer, but that’s risky. The driver has to make sure he’s not being followed, and the feds are real good at following trucks.”

  “So what’s the best way?”

  “They drop it into Amerada’s storage tanks in the destination country. Amerada waits a couple of days, and then takes it out of storage and hauls it to the customer. The feds have no way of knowing which gasoline came out of storage.”

  Servito was impressed. “That’s interesting. But that’s not the only game, is it?”

  “Ya, there’s a few,” Allison answered, displaying the hint of a relaxed grin. “One of my favorites is the Regina Loop. It’s beautiful—it shows real imagination… Say you buy gasoline from a Canadian refiner. You tell the refiner that the product’s going to the United States, so like I said it’s sold on an ex-tax basis. Your trucker picks it up at the Canadian refinery and hauls it across the border. He drives a few miles down the road, waits for an hour or two, and then turns around and hauls it back into Canada. He tells customs that the customer didn’t want the gasoline, or that he couldn’t afford to pay for it.”