THE BRIDGE TO CARACAS (Volume 1 of The King Trilogy)

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.