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

CHAPTER 29

September 8, 1976. 11:45 a.m.

Mike hurried from his aging station-wagon toward Buffalo's River Club, a swank restaurant on the shore of the Niagara River. Bob Bushing met him at the front door with a big smile and an outstretched hand.

"Bob Bushing?" Mike asked, reaching to shake his hand.

"In the flesh. You have any problem finding this place?"

"No, your instructions were great, and Dave Lasker gave me a good report on you."

"I'll have to tell him how much I appreciate that." Bushing grinned. "But let's go inside. I've reserved a table with a view." Bushing led Mike to a table with a spectacular view of Lake Erie. "So you're interested in a little spot action," he said, attempting to initiate serious discussion.

Mike nodded. "It's not a desperation move. It just makes a lot of sense. My company's supply contract expires at the end of this month. I'm looking for some spot product."

"What's the volume?"

"Slightly over a hundred million."

Bushing's jaw dropped open. "Wow! You want to buy a hundred million?" he asked.

Mike grinned and shook his head. "I've already cut a one year deal with Golden National for seventy million. I'm looking for a spot price on all or a portion of the remaining thirty."

Bushing continued to salivate while mentally calculating his commission on thirty million gallons. "I'll make you an offer you can't refuse. Where are your locations?"

"Don't worry about locations. I want a rack price."

"Sure. No problem."

"First, I want to talk about your sources. Where do you get your product, and how do I know it meets government specs?"

Bushing grinned. "We buy most of it from refiners on both sides of the border. We buy some from Europe, and occasionally we get a hell of a deal from Caribbean refiners. It's all top quality product."

"Bob, if your price is right, and I decide to buy, I'll expect you to provide me with certified specs."

"Give me twenty-four hours. I'll have all of the above and the right price for the whole thirty million," Bushing promised.

Servito's telephone jangled, interrupting the tranquility of his farmhouse office. "Shit!" he barked, and then pushed a scantily clad Dianne Thorpe from his lap. He chugged the remainder of his beer before grabbing his telephone receiver. "What do you want?"

"It's Bushing. You told me to call if something big happened."

"What big happened?"

"I just had lunch with a guy who wants to buy thirty million gallons. You interested?"

"Who's the guy?"

"His name's Mike King. His office is in Toronto."

"What did you say his name is?"

"Mike King. You know him?"

"What did he look like?"

"Really good looking dude—he should be in the fucking movies. Tall. About six feet. Blond hair. Mid thirties."

"I'm interested. But not right now. Give him a highball price, but stay with him. Keep bugging him for the business. Keep your price high until I tell you to drop it."

"You're breaking my heart."

"One more thing...find out all you can about him and his business. I want a complete book on this guy."