Flying Too Close to the Sun

by George Jehn

  “What’d you do with the tape?”

  “The first time I took it home and burned it in the fireplace, but it probably would have been only a matter of time until some maintenance guy became suspicious if another tape mysteriously disappeared. If that happened Shepard or Preis might hear about it and put two and two together, meaning no more cockpit discussions, or worse yet a changed or canceled plan. Next time I brought along a portable tape player, listened in my car and then reinstalled it. Since I had done it before, that entire process only took about twenty-five minutes. I brought you in when I had all the needed info,” Woody added with a shrug of his shoulders. “I have to admit, the entire set-up was foolproof. They took all the risks and became prime suspects and we got the dough.”

  “Not a bad deal!” Rhodes exclaimed.

  A smiling Woody continued, “I even made Shepard and Preis hurry up during the robbery when I thought they were taking too much time. I didn’t want to make them appear too suspicious.”

  Ingrid got up and poured more wine. “It was flawless,” she added with a wry smile. “Woody even “slipped” with the cops and made his disdain for Shepard known. Can you imagine, that little bimbo complained to Woody’s boss about…”

  “Don’t give me all the credit,” Woody broke in holding up his hand, not wanting to rehash what she reported to O’Brien. “Shepard concocted it and we simply reaped the benefits of their work; the thieves stealing from the robbers. Not a bad deal.”

  A smiling Billy slid over on the couch and slapped Woody on his jelly-like shoulder. “C’mon, you did more. Wasn’t it your idea to have your dying old man sign the phony trust agreement right before he croaked, leaving you what turned out to be his hidden, but nonexistent nest egg?”

  “Not me,” Woody added, shaking his head. “Your sister invented that one, which would create a plausible explanation of where we got the money. I needed it just in case the cops wondered why I quit, or if we couldn’t bury it in the company. However, I do suspect the cops will have some more questions for me when they find out I resigned. But I’ve got a convincing reason.”

  “Then you both deserve a pat on the back.”

  “I don’t want that,” Woody added, shaking his head. “But, I will take a job starting at two-hundred thou, along with a piece of the action.”

  “Well, ah, you’ve got it!” Rhodes replied in a thick Boston accent. “I had the twang down pat for the eye-talian. I figured he’d concentrate searching in the Boston area.”

  “We planned every little detail ahead of time,” Woody interjected. “But hey, there’s another, important item that goes with my new job.”

  “What’s that? You want a car?”

  “Nah, but we have to get together more often, especially now that we’re partners and colleagues.”

  “While I’m thinking of it, partner here’s my new cellphone number. I finally bought one and it’s always on. And let’s not forget another important item.” Billy laughed loudly as he unbuttoned his shirt, exposing a tight-fitting white tee-shirt emblazoned in bold, black letters of the EAST BOSTON MARAUDERS. “The truth is that the three of us make a great team. And I don’t mean softball. We played hardball like the fucking pros.” Billy raised his glass, “To the East Boston/Parsippany Marauders.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  Erik was waiting patiently in the shadows on the dark, semi-rural road. Peering through a pair of cheap binoculars, he saw so many lights illuminated in the Montgomery household he figured they must be stockholders in the local electric company. While waiting until certain Woody’s daughter, Stephanie was tucked away, Erik pondered the depressing drive along Route 46. He was unfamiliar with Jersey, but was convinced its architecture must have sprung from an act of sorcery. There were high tension towers with wires that seemingly reached to the clouds and acres upon acres of gray concrete that made up desolate towns with grimy motels and restaurants with windows so dirty you could probably scrape a meal off them. The fast-food outlets were the only things interrupting the depressing landscape, with garish fluorescent signs announcing their presence. The twenty-four hour donut shops probably comprised most of the nightlife in a State sandwiched between New York City and Philadelphia that even Benjamin Franklin had referred to as a keg tapped at both ends. But when compared to New York, Jersey still had a slightly lower State income tax, confirming that the tightfisted airline pilots cared more about their wallets than anything.

  While waiting he was shivering, the prickly chill slowly climbing the vertebrae of his spine like walking up steps to a church, fear exacerbated because he didn’t know the true persona he was dealing with; a common criminal, a sociopath? The anxiety was compounded by the penetrating dampness on a night when summer was taking its last gasp, a time when the northeast winds replaced the comforting southern breezes, bringing the first hint of cold weather. The autumn-like wind whining through the leaves caused the tree boughs to rustle and sway, their branches clicking together, sounds that cooled his body even further. A number of times he wanted to start the car and flip on the heater but couldn’t, lest someone discover his presence.

  Montgomery’s front door abruptly opened and a man much larger than Woody emerged. Erik’s jaw muscles began twitching, followed by a warm feeling fueled by anger and forged into a steel-like rage spreading throughout his body. With head bowed, he silently exited the car.

  . . .

  Rhodes still had to meet with an architect at a posh upper east-side Manhattan condo he had just made a down-payment on, so he begged off more wine and bid adieu. Riding a high, he didn’t pay attention to the tall blond guy who passed him. But Erik noted the build, ratlike features and birthmark. Although there was no beard, with slick money written all over him, this had to be the scumbag. The guy got into a shiny black Mercedes with New York plates and drove off. Erik kept repeating the plate number aloud until he got back to his car and jotted it down.

  The Montgomery houselights were being extinguished as Erik walked toward his destiny. The doorbell was answered by a smiling, heavyset woman, dressed in what appeared to be a white linen skirt with a large crucifix encircling her neck. Erik surmised she was Woody’s wife.

  “Billy, I thought you were leaving…”

  So Billy is the guy’s name.

  “Excuse me,” as the smile vanished, “I thought you were someone else.” The woman stood perfectly still until she finally asked, “May I help you?” She was nodding her head, like she ought to know the person standing on her doorstep, but couldn’t quite place him.

  “I wanna speak with Woody,” Erik brusquely told her, quickly measuring her assets versus liabilities. The latter easily won out.

  “May I say whose calling?”

  “Erik Preis.” He almost heard the blood rushing to her head. Would she puke? Faint? “And tell him it’s urgent.”

  She stepped back and wiped her hands briskly on the side of her skirt for a long moment. Erik thought she would slam the door in his face, but finally whispered, “I’ll see if he’s in.” Leaving him standing outside, she disappeared inside.

  “Erik Preis!” a smiling, very married looking Montgomery bellowed as he offered his hand, which Erik ignored. The devils we anticipate are never quite as intimidating when we meet them face-to-face. “C’mon in,” Woody finally half-heartedly uttered while motioning Erik inside, a deer in the headlights look on his face.

  Erik scrutinized the entranceway where the walls looked soft, perhaps weakened by lies? “I’ll cut right to the chase, mister Airframe and Powerplant mechanic,” he commanded in a loud voice. His heart was thudding as he held back the pent up anger wanting to release itself with the fury of a summer thunderstorm. The woman was peering over Woody’s shoulder with dark eyes darting back and forth between
the two men. Her face was the color of paste, like the guy who just left. Pointing to her Erik said, “She knows?”

  “That’s Ingrid, my wife. What does she know? What are you talking about?”

  “I won’t play your fucking game all night, so I’ll talk turkey. I know you took our money.” He let the last sentence just hang in the air, begging for a reply. None came.

  Woody reassumed his plastic veneer expression and replied in a voice full of self-righteous, but phony-sounding indignation. “What money? I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

  “I also know that Billy, the prick who just left here and got into the shiny Benz was the one.”

  Woody’s complexion turned whiter than Santa’s beard as he began to reply, “But...”

  “I want our money; every last fucking dime.” Although it was obvious Woody wanted to say something, nothing came out. His skin tone changed to beet red and he took a wobbly step backwards. Did he have a gun? With response mechanisms revving in high gear and at the ready, Erik nodded in the direction of the street. “I got his plate number so it will only take some simple checking to unearth where Billy lives. But he fit my partner’s description to a tee, right down to his ugly fucking face and birthmark.”

  “But...”

  “By the way, just in case you never discovered my associate’s true identity—”

  Ingrid roughly pushed Woody aside and spat out, “We know. He’s—”

  With makeup thick as cake frosting that tried to mask a complexion riddled with pock marks, Erik pointed and commanded her, “Shut up!” From what he had just witnessed, maybe Woody must have met this bimbo at an anti-testosterone rally. These two people, including the female who looked like she had more cosmetic surgery than Joan Rivers, were definitely the ones. Although trying to contain his fury, Erik discovered a restrained response wasn’t possible. There’s a very fine line between justice and revenge, and this made for a difficult path for Erik to walk. He struggled to keep a balance—too far to one side of that line or in the other direction wouldn’t work. He hissed, “Since you think you already know so fucking much, allow me to fill you in on a few more details not on the voice recorder. My associate is a paisan who would love to even the score with every person responsible for his beating.” He added with a haughty grin, “Once your buddy whacked him he developed a bad case of Italian Alzheimer’s; when you forget everything but the grudges.” He paused to allow his words to sink in. “Wanna hear more?” Only silence. “But I’m here to offer you a deal.”

  “Go ahead,” Woody replied in a quavering voice with a mix of what Erik took to be either embarrassment or self-loathing.

  “Wait a goddamn minute!” Ingrid shrieked in surround sound, throbbing arteries clearly visible in her puffy neck, her face actually looking like it might crack. “You don’t have to cut any deals with this prick. What’s he gonna do? Go to the cops? Fuck him. If he does that he’ll—”

  “That wasn’t what I had in mind,” Erik hissed. “Maybe you read about those recent murders in Brooklyn Heights?” recalling some headlines in that morning’s NY Post. “The cops don’t know who committed them but I do. Wanna hear more?”

  Woody looked like he would cry, his face contorted. Was it rage or fear? He shouted, “Ingrid, for once just shut the fuck up!” Turning around, he rubbed his face with one hand and offered in a subdued tone, “What’s your offer?”

  “Offer? Fuck you. This is no offer. It’s a demand. I want it all, every last dollar. In exchange, I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

  Pushing Woody aside again, Ingrid screeched, “How the fuck do we know that?”

  “I’m afraid you’ll just have to take my word. The way I see it you have no choice.”

  Woody began, “I don’t have immediate access to the cash. It will take me a while to get—”

  “Not my problem,” Erik interrupted, now in a businesslike tone. “Let me make it clear what will happen to you—all of you—if I don’t get every last dollar or if I meet with an accident.” Standing on his tiptoes craning over Woody’s shoulder, he added, “By the way, where’s your daughter? Um, what was her name? Stephanie?”

  “Fuck you, you little—” Ingrid hollered as she tried to get to Erik, but Woody grabbed her by the arm and squeezed it, the red marks his fingers left clearly visible when she roughly pulled it away.

  “Take your bullshit act to Vegas, honey. I’ve arranged for all the info to be relayed to my associate.” Now looking Ingrid directly in the eyes, Erik added, “I included your names, your daughter’s and this address. Wanna hear more?”

  “But I can’t come up with the cash right this minute. The money’s not here,” Woody begged.

  Erik hoped he wouldn’t have to wait, but was prepared. “You have until tomorrow morning to deliver it to me, here. If you fuck with me or take any, the letter goes out and you’ll all be history, including Billy, ‘cause another letter will go out early tomorrow with his plate number on it. Understand?”

  Woody simply nodded his head.

  “No excuses and no extension.”

  A somber Woody nodded again.

  “Any questions?”

  “What time will you be here?”

  “Not important. But, if the money’s not in my hands by sometime tomorrow morning, the info gets sent. Thinking about clearing out? Don’t bother ‘because we’ll track your asses down.” Erik turned and left. He heard the door slam shut.

  . . .

  After Woody closed the door, Ingrid’s facial red hot contours of anger began to melt, replaced by a cloudburst of fear. She immediately went to the phone and called the new cellphone number her brother had just given them. He was halfway back to his Manhattan apartment, content listening to the new Mercedes’ hum of the tires on the blacktop. He answered on the second ring.

  “It’s Ingrid.”

  “I said we’d have to keep in touch more often, but I didn’t mean—”

  She cut him off. “There’s been a serious complication. We just finished with a surprise visitor and his call wasn’t a social one. It had to do with events in Boston a short time ago.”

  “Holy shit! Is he still there? Who?”

  “He’s gone. Just come back to the house—now!”

  “I’m on my way,” Rhodes replied, making a tire-screeching U-turn on the roadway, oddly pleased at how well the Mercedes handled. A short time later he bounded up the steps and upon reaching the top Woody swung open the door. Both men plopped down on the couch.

  “Who was it?” Rhodes pleaded breathing heavily, features so hard and pale they resembled a death mask. He was frightened out of his mind, afraid the reply would be Rosario.

  “Erik Preis.”

  Rhodes let out a whoosh of air and asked, “What the hell did he want? What did he know?”

  Their expressions conveyed his worst fear. “The whole fucking thing. He even knew you were the one. He said he copied down your plate number and...”

  “Okay! Okay! That’s enough, for Christ’s sake!” Rhodes yelled, waving his hand in the air. “What the fuck does he want? His cut?”

  “I wish. He wants it all, every last dollar. If we don’t give it to him by tomorrow morning Rosario will come after us, including you and Stephanie. What the hell can we do?” Woody begged, with contorted features.

  Ingrid shrilly broke in, “The little bastard’s blackmailing us. The hunter doesn’t fear the lion. Respect it? Yes. Fear it? No. When he comes to pick up the money we’ll get rid of him. We can’t—”

  “Now you wait one fucking minute,” Rhodes shouted, his eyes compressing to the point they resembled surgical incisions. “What the fuck are you talking ab
out? The heist was one thing, but murder is not in my DNA.”

  “What the hell are we supposed to do? Just fucking hand over the money?” Ingrid hollered, the color of her face now matching the remaining Chateau Lefils in the decanter.

  After a very short pause, a brooding Rhodes asked while shaking his head, “What other fuckin’ option we got? I won’t have any part of killing this prick ‘cause we really don’t know how many people he’s already told. No doubt someone would find out, including his partner and maybe the cops.”

  “All right, you made your goddamned point!” Woody shouted. “Can we get the money here by tomorrow morning?”

  “I’ll have to. It’s in a safe place and like I said, it’s even in the same bags. But it represents every last dime for the startup capital. I, we, can’t open the business without it. And my apartment and car will have to go too.” He hesitated only a moment, thinking aloud. “But the alternative’s worse. Come to my place tonight and I’ll have it there. Just make certain this motherfucker doesn’t follow you. He might have my plate number, but he might not be certain who I am or where I live.”

  “Somehow he found out your first name.”

  “What? How the hell? You tell him anything?” Before Woody could reply he added, “I don’t want his buddy to know anything about me. Who knows what that fucking lunatic might do?”

  “I’ll leave in about a half-an-hour.”

  “Make certain you’re not followed.” Rhodes reiterated. He turned to leave but hesitated and instead looked them both directly in the eye. “You guys better not be scamming me. If I find out you are...”