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

by Stephen Douglass

  “I am always serious,” Servito confirmed, staring at Karen.

  Mary drove Servito to her office, where he made arrangements through an attorney in Toronto and a banker on Cayman Island to purchase the house. The purchaser was Bridge Financial, S. A., a company named after the Peace Bridge, which was the fulcrum of Servito’s incredible scam. The consideration was seven and a half million, the asking price.

  “I’m on a roll!” Servito declared as he scribbled an illegible signature on the purchase documents. “In less than two hours, I bought the house of my dreams and met the woman of my dreams.”

  Karen Taylor and Mary Langley stepped out of Everglades Realty’s white Rolls Royce in front of The Breakers at 6 p.m. and headed for the hotel’s front doors.

  “So he did it?” Karen asked as they headed for the hotel’s front doors.

  “It was amazing,” Mary replied. “He wasn’t the slightest bit interested in negotiating. He just asked me what the vendor was asking. He called a lawyer in Toronto and, less than thirty minutes later, seven and a half million was wired to our account from a bank in Cayman.”

  “What business is he in? Did you ask him?”

  “Not yet, but I’m going to—I’m dying to know. I think he’s gorgeous. I’d take a run at him if I wasn’t married.”

  Karen and Mary found Servito at the bar in the Emerald Lounge, which was an intimate watering hole adjacent to a brilliantly green swimming pool. He was dressed in light khaki trousers, sandals, and a blazingly red tropical shirt, which gapped open enough to show generous quantities of black chest hair.

  “Hi,” Karen said with a radiant smile. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”

  Servito shook his head. “I just got here. You girls ready for drinks?”

  Mary nodded. “What a wonderful idea. I’ll have vodka on the rocks.”

  “Karen, what’ll you have?” Servito asked.

  “White wine, please,” Karen replied before lifting herself up to the stool on Servito’s right. She was stunningly attractive in a red silk blouse and short white skirt. A thin gold chain adorned her neck.

  Servito experienced a strange and unique sense of nervousness. “Where in the world are you from, Karen?” he asked, struggling against a compelling urge to stare at her breasts and long, bronzed legs.

  “Toronto. I was born and raised there. Where are you from?” Karen asked.

  “What an incredible coincidence! I’m from Toronto, too.”

  “Born and raised?”

  Servito shook his head. “I was born in Oregon, but I found my way to Toronto ten years ago.”

  “What brought you to Toronto?”

  “Business.”

  Mary could wait no longer. “Arthur, do you mind if I ask what business you’re in? My curiosity’s killing me. It isn’t often someone your age buys ocean front property in Palm Beach.”

  “I’m in the oil business,” Servito replied.

  “Do you own oil wells?” Mary asked.

  Servito shook his head. “My business is at the other end of the pipeline. I’m in gasoline.”

  “Obviously, you’ve done well.”

  “I’ve been fortunate,” Servito said, resisting a strong urge to brag.

  “Do your parents live in Oregon?” Karen asked.

  “No. They’re both dead.”

  “I’m sorry,” Karen said, wishing she hadn’t asked.

  “I was only three when it happened. It was a freak accident.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “The plane they were in crashed in the mountains somewhere in Utah,” Servito said, looking away. “If my father’s car hadn’t broken down at the last minute, they would have driven to Salt Lake City. But they decided to fly.”

  “Who looked after you after that?”

  “Nobody,” Servito said. Part of him wanted to tell Karen more—reveal to her every inch of his soul—but a larger part wanted to block out the horrible loss of his parents and the miserable years that had followed.

  “Nobody!” Karen said, startled by Servito’s answer. “How did you survive?”

  “Orphanages.” He shrugged.

  Karen placed her hand on top of Servito’s. “You really don’t want to talk about it, do you?”

  Servito frowned and shook his head. Then he stared into Karen’s eyes. “Have you ever been in love?” he asked, hoping she would never let go of his hand. “I mean really in love.”

  “Just once,” Karen replied wistfully. “It ended a long time ago.”

  “So you’re not involved with anyone now?”

  “No.”

  “I can’t believe it,” he said, shaking his head.

  Karen released Servito’s hand. “You can believe it or not,” she retorted, annoyed by his suspicion. “It’s true.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t think I said it right. I was about to say that I can’t believe what’s happened to me in the past twenty-four hours.”

  “What’s happened to you?” Karen asked, turning to look over the bar.

  Servito resisted an almost overwhelming urge to wrap his arms around Karen and pull himself close to her. “I was shocked when the girl next door turned out to be the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen… I was overwhelmed when I found out she was single and uninvolved.”

  Karen conceded a grin. “Well, you’re forgiven.”

  Servito remained in Palm Beach for almost three weeks, long enough to move into his new home, mesmerize Karen, and disclose his real name to her. In addition to winning her heart, he succeeded in convincing her that he was a legitimate businessman, and that he had obtained his wealth by hard work and total dedication.

  Karen’s attraction to Servito might have been chemistry, his charisma, the magic of circumstances, or all three. Whatever it was, her interest in him intensified. He excited her. His energy and crazy enthusiasm made her happy again, and helped her to forget her loneliness and the horror of her captivity in Syria. She found herself looking forward to seeing him again and again, until she ached to be with him.

  CHAPTER 18

  The oil industry was large, but the community of gasoline independents was small. The players all knew each other, and keeping a secret was virtually impossible. So everyone knew there was an aggressive rookie in the market and that he was the man with a price.

  In spite of Mike’s persistence and the attractive prices he offered, he collided with reality. Too many gasoline independents had signed contracts that could not be broken without severe legal repercussions. To an independent with a signed contract, a good price was interesting but meaningless. After four weeks of concentrated effort, Mike had managed to sign only four independents.

  He met with Owen Christian to give him a progress report. “Owen, I have some good news and some bad news,” he said without expression. “I have four signed gasoline contracts. That’s the good news.”

  “What’s the bad news?” Christian asked.

  “To the limit of exaggeration, they have a combined annual volume of ten million. I expect IFB will lose at least a hundred grand on the deals.”

  Christian chuckled. “Chump change!” he scoffed. “We’re going to lose a hell of a lot more than that if we can’t buy fuel oil… But keep going, Mike. We need big ones. Find us some elephants.”

  In his search for elephants, Mike met Tom Fletcher, a consummate entrepreneur. The timing was perfect. Mike needed a large gasoline customer, and Fletcher desperately wanted a new supplier. A large, overweight man with thinning and slightly graying blond hair, Fletcher was ten years older than Mike. In only twenty years, Fletcher had managed to parlay his meager savings into a very respectable fortune by developing strip plazas in southern Ontario. All of them had been built on one- to three-acre parcels of extremely strategic commercial real estate, and he owned and operated retail gasoline outlets on thirty-one of his thirty-five properties.

  Fletcher’s gasoline outlets were all branded by major oil companies with whom he had s
igned cross-leases before the outlets were built. The cross-leases had provided Fletcher’s company with triple-A lease covenants, together with a great deal of money in the form of pre-paid rent.

  Initially, the cash proved to be a wonderful supplement to his plaza financing, but the emergence of enormous gasoline surpluses had changed the happy arrangement. With the surge of discounting independents, his gasoline outlets had become miserably uncompetitive. He now realized that if he had not been inhibited by the “exclusive supply” clause of his cross-leases, he could buy gasoline at substantially better prices and make a lot more money.

  Mike’s first meeting with Fletcher took place in a Tim Horton doughnut outlet in one of Fletcher’s Toronto plazas. Fletcher’s hazel eyes seemed to protrude from his reddened face as he relentlessly criticized the majors.

  “They’re ruthless, Mike! The bastards have absolutely no conscience. They should be in jail for what they’re doing to me,” he raged, and then poured a third heaping spoonful of white sugar into his coffee.

  “Tell me what they’re doing.”

  “Their contracts say they’re giving me a franchise, but that’s a laugh. They supply me with one hand and compete against me with the other. They’ve built and operated their own outlets directly across the street from five of my outlets. If that’s not bad enough, they’re dumping wholesale gasoline on the market at ridiculous prices. The independents are buying it and posting retail prices at ten cents a gallon below mine.”

  “Have you complained to them about it?” Mike asked.

  Fletcher nodded. “Exercise in futility. The idiots they authorize to talk to me have no authority to do anything but talk. It’s like dealing with robots.”

  “What about the cross-leases? Has your lawyer looked at them?”

  “Iron clad. No way in hell we can break them.”

  Mike raised his eyebrows. “Maybe there is.”

  Fletcher leaned forward, suddenly very interested. “How?”

  “Have you or your lawyer ever taken a good look at the demised premises in the cross-leases?”

  “Sure. Why?”

  “How much of your land do they cover?”

  Fletcher’s puzzled expression gradually gave way to a broadening smile.

  “Mike, you’re a genius. Why the hell didn’t I think of that? I’ve spent my whole life in the real estate business and I didn’t see it. It’s beautiful. I could offer a major price and an independent price. That’d be a million laughs!”

  The technicality Mike had noticed was that the portion of Fletcher’s land covered by the cross-leases—called “demised premises”—was only a fraction of the total area he owned. Although the demised premises were occupied by the gasoline outlets, Fletcher was legally free to do as he pleased with his remaining land, all of which was properly zoned.

  “It won’t be pretty, or cheap, and it’ll piss the majors off, big time,” Mike warned.

  Fletcher laughed like a kid with a new toy. “I don’t care who it pisses off. I think it’ll work. How much do you think it’ll cost?”

  “How many outlets do you have?”

  “Thirty-one, including this one.”

  “I think the whole thing could be done for less than a million if you did them all and limited them to bare-bones installations.”

  Fletcher turned his palms skyward, shrugged his shoulders, and stared at Mike. “So tell me where I’m going to find a million. I’m leveraged to my eyeballs.”

  Mike returned Fletcher’s stare. “If you’ll give me an exclusive supply contract, I’ll dig up the money,” he said, hoping fervently it was true.

  CHAPTER 19

  Buoyed by his progress, Mike tapped his pencil on the surface of his desk, pressing the telephone receiver tightly to his ear. “May I speak to Darcy Bell, please?” he asked.

  After a three-minute wait, Bell finally answered. “Darcy Bell here,” he said with a deep, graveled voice.

  “Mr. Bell, it’s Mike King, of International—”

  “I know who you are. Listen, if you’re interested in selling gasoline to me, you can continue to call me Mr. Bell. Call me Darcy if you’re interested in buying my company.”

  Mike was momentarily shocked, and then impressed. He seized the cue. “Maybe you and I could meet at your earliest convenience, Darcy.”

  “Be at my home in one hour? It’s at the southwest corner of Seventh Concession Road and Highway Seven.”

  “I’ll be there,” Mike said, convinced he was on the verge of hitting the mother load. This was indeed an elephant. Darcy Bell owned XG Petroleums Inc., an enormous independent with 284 retail gasoline outlets in Ontario, Michigan, and New York. The company’s annual gasoline volume was a mouth-watering 120 million gallons. If Mike could finesse a deal with Bell, IFB would no longer be in jeopardy.

  Bell’s estate was marked with a large, green sign that read “Bell Acres” in large gold letters. Bell’s house adorned the end of a long, curving, tree-lined lane. The spectacular stone structure occupied the crest of a steep hill overlooking a pond completely surrounded by mature willow trees.

  Mike parked his car beside a white Cadillac Eldorado convertible, which had the initials “D.E.B.” carved on the driver’s side door. He walked to the front door of the house and rang the bell.

  The door was opened by a stocky man with a very athletic appearance and a snow white brush-cut. His ruddy complexion hinted that his hair had been red when he was younger. The bright red bow tie he wore complemented his tweed jacket and gray flannel trousers. “I’m Darcy… welcome to Bell Acres.”

  Mike extended his hand. “I’m Mike King, Mr. Bell. It was kind of you to invite me to your home.”

  Bell shook his hand with a vise-like grip. “Unless I misunderstood why you’re here, I thought you would call me Darcy.”

  “My sincere apologies. I think we understand each other very well, Darcy.”

  Bell winked, and then led Mike to his den. It was a beautiful, sun-filled room, every surface of it covered with stacks of paper and file-folders. “Sit here,” Bell said after quickly removing two stacks of folders from a white wicker chair. “Please excuse the mess. I would never be able to find a damn thing if I put all of this paper away.” Bell cleared a small space on his desk and sat with one foot dangling and his arms folded. “I could have arranged for one of our distinguished attorneys do this, but it’s not the way I do business. I preferred to meet with you to tell you some important details about the company, and also about myself. XG is a great company. It’s taken me a lifetime to build it, and I’m very proud of it.”

  Mike was certain Darcy Bell saw him as a pigeon and resolved to keep him honest. Now that he had flown into Bell’s nest, the game was on. “If the company is as great as you say it is, Darcy, why are you selling it?” he asked.

  Bell’s freckled face quickly turned crimson. “I’m not getting any younger, Mike, and I think it’s time I made some changes in my life. I don’t think I have to draw you a picture?”

  “No.”

  “My good wife, Martha, rest her soul, passed away this year. She gave me three lovely daughters during her wonderful life with me. She also did a terrific job raising them while I was building XG. I had hoped that at least one of them would take over the company, but that was not to be.”

  “Why?” Mike asked.

  “None of the girls ever expressed interest, and I thank God their husbands all have their own careers.” Bell shook his head and raised his eyeballs skyward. “I don’t think those three are capable of running a bath, much less my company.”

  Mike smirked. “I think I understand.”

  “We have a lot of retail outlets in XG, and we burn a hell of a lot of gasoline.”

  “Is your supply all under contract?”

  Bell shook his head. “Good question. I used to sign long term gasoline supply contracts with the majors, but I don’t think they’re worth the paper they’re written on any more. You know, I actually believed them when they
gave me that old bullshit about security of supply? Now the spot prices they offer are a helluva lot lower than their contract prices.”

  “Are you interested in looking at a spot price from IFB?” Mike asked, although he was certain that Bell was not.

  Bell frowned. “Please don’t make me remind you of why you’re here.”

  “Another apology.”

  “Accepted. My game plan from the beginning was to get big fast, price the hell out of the gasoline, and live on the momentum and the cash flow. I never believed in owning any of the real estate—it just eats up capital. The outlets we have aren’t the most beautiful on the street, but they’re efficient and they move a lot of gasoline. I knew if I could buy right, I could price it right.” He winked at Mike. “And these days, I can sure buy right.”

  Mike winced, again reminded again of the severity of the buyers’ market. “How much do you want for the company, Darcy?” he asked.

  Bell chuckled. “As much as I can get. You know how much you can afford, don’t you? All I want to know is what that number is. Then I’ll tell you if it’s high enough.”

  Mike was reminded again of George Reimer’s speech in Lake Placid. Bell was living proof of the private-brand disease. He was a plunger—a businessman who shoots first and asks questions later. To Bell, big was beautiful and small was less than. Profile was everything. He thought only about upside potential and never about risk. Fortunately, Bell had been right for the times. He had plunged into the retail gasoline business at a time when gasoline was in surplus and when refiners had no alternative but to foster the growth of independents.

  Bell gave him a large envelope. “Here. It contains all the financial information you’ll need to make a decision. Please keep the information confidential and advise me of your decision as soon as possible.”

  Mike studied the statements. After only a cursory look, he realized XG was extremely vulnerable. While the company had a record of consistent profitability, it had to sell huge volumes of gasoline to cover its enormous cost base. Some of the rents XG was paying for properties were outrageously high. Even worse, Bell and his three daughters had taken out all of the retained earnings of the company in the form of dividends. With the exception of its large inventory of gasoline and deteriorating pumps and storage tanks, the company had no assets. Still, it moved 120 million gallons of gasoline per year.