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

CHAPTER 39

Four hours later, Servito relaxed in the rear section of his limousine while it glided south on Yonge Street. Seated close to him was Dianne Thorpe. The two laughed hysterically while they shared a joint and drank chilled martinis. At twenty-four years of age, Dianne was still extremely attractive, but had aged beyond her years. Her life in the profession had been hard and filled with compromise. She wore tight, faded blue jeans, brown cowboy boots, and a heavy, fur-lined brown leather jacket over a white turtle-neck sweater. She treasured her relationship with Servito, thrilled that he had selected her above all of her competitors and had kept on choosing her over the years. He paid her more than enough to forget other Johns.

Pete Sarnos eased the limousine to a full stop at the curb in front of the glittering entrance to The Harbor Castle, an ultra-modern and expensive hotel decorating the shore of Lake Ontario just half a mile from Toronto's business district.

That night, the lovers enjoyed a dinner of Chateaubriand for two, several bottles of red wine, and Irish coffees. Servito seemed happy, and was much more open and talkative than Dianne could ever remember. He exuded pride when he spoke of his achievements, which, according to him, included evading gasoline taxes, stealing gasoline, and smuggling cocaine in the manifolds of his trucks. He spoke with absolute contempt for the politicians, bureaucrats, and oil company executives he had bribed and deceived.

A waiter interrupted the conversation. "Excuse me, Mr. Servito," he said. "I have an urgent telephone call for you."

Servito turned and glared at the waiter. "Who's calling?" he growled.

"Mr. Allison."

"Shit!" Servito snapped. "Where can I take it?"

"You can take it in the office, or I can bring a telephone to your table."

"Bring it here."

The waiter quickly returned and placed a telephone on the table beside Servito. "Just press two," he said.

Servito jerked the receiver to his ear. "Why in hell are you calling me now?" he shouted.

"I had to. We've got problems. The feds are following our trucks again."

Servito rolled his eyes skyward. "Which trucks?"

"The ones going to Bushing's storage tanks."

"You sure it's the feds?"

"Yup. Same cars, same license plates as before."

Servito picked up his Irish coffee and finished it with one gulp. "Phone Lasker," he demanded. "Tell him to radio every driver. I want them to stop wherever they are and not to move for twelve hours. Then I want them diverted to the tanks on Grand Island. We'll store the gasoline there until the heat's off...got it? Good. I'll call you in the morning."

Servito dialed Bushing's home number next. "It's me. I'm in Toronto. I want you to call King tonight and give him all the gasoline he wants. Phone him right now and make him happy."

"I hope you know what you're doing," Bushing warned.

"Shut your mouth. I also want you to open the Golden National valves again, flat out."

"Have you gone stark raving mad?"

"Trust me. Just do it. I'll call you tomorrow."

"But what—"

Servito hung up before Bushing could say another word. His next call was to Sam Martin at his apartment in Buffalo.

"It's Jimbo, I'm in Toronto. I know you wanted us to cool the Golden Valve Program, but the plan's been changed. We're going into overdrive right now."