CHAPTER 8

Allison’s red and yellow striped tractor-trailer arrived at Pop Williams’s station at 2:45 a.m. It parked parallel to the fill-pipes of the gasoline storage tanks. Allison climbed from the cab of the tractor and slammed the door behind him, having replaced his wrinkled black suit with tight green trousers and an under-sized, matching green jacket. “Sorry I’m late. I had a few traffic problems,” he explained, looking entirely too much like an overstuffed sausage as he waddled toward Servito.

“Just hurry up and drop the gasoline,” Servito growled.

“You got the cash?”

“Just drop the fucking gasoline, Jerry! I’ll give you the cash when you’re finished,” Servito shouted.

Allison shook his huge head, his thatch of brown hair flying in the wind. “That isn’t going to happen. Once I drop that gasoline, it’s a son of a bitch to get it out. Then if I find out you don’t have the cash, we’ve both got big problems.”

“How do I know you’ve got seventy-five hundred gallons on that truck?”

“Climb up and check it out,” Allison suggested, pointing to the top of the truck. “The trailer has five compartments. All you have to do is lift the manhole cover on each and look inside. You’ll see that each one’s filled to a government-regulated brass finger.” He removed a flashlight from the cab of the truck and handed it to Servito. “Here. You can use this.”

Servito climbed the metal ladder at the rear of the trailer and carefully examined each compartment. As Allison had promised, each was filled with gasoline to the level of the brass finger. Servito returned to the ground. “Get your hoses hooked up,” he said as he marched toward the office. “I’ll get the cash.”

Servito had swiped two thousand dollars from Williams’s cash register, planning to replace the money with first receipts from the sale of Allison’s gasoline. “Here’s your bread,” he said, handing a large brown paper bag to Allison.

Allison snatched the bag and looked inside. “Jesus!” he hissed, glaring at Servito.

“What’s the problem?”

“How the hell did you expect me to count it? I’ll be here all night!”

Servito flashed a devilish smirk. “You said you wanted two thousand cash. That’s it. Where did you think I’d get the money? I pulled it from the register. If I take all those small bills to the bank and ask for large ones, somebody’s going to ask questions.”

Allison crumpled the bag from the top, and then pointed an angry index finger at Servito. “I’m going to count it later, kid. If there isn’t two grand in this bag, I’m going to come back here and break your knee-caps.” He hurled the bag through the opened window of his truck.

Karen stared in silence at the window of an airport limousine as it glided southward on Avenue Road. Jean Taylor placed her hand on top of Karen’s. “You’re so quiet, dear,” she implored.

Karen gave her mother an expressionless glance, and then turned away and shook her head. “It’s over, Mom. I just want to forget it. Those bastards stole sixteen months of my life, and there’s no way I’ll ever get them back.”

“What are you going to do now? Have you thought about that?”

Karen again turned to face her mother, her brown eyes showing a burning resolve. “I’m going to find Mike and spend the rest of my life with him. He’s all I could think of while I was in that hellhole. I’d be absolutely insane by now if it wasn’t for that.”

“How did it go?” Allison asked, leaning from the window of his black Lincoln.

Servito smiled, oozing pride. “I sold the whole load.” It had taken less than twelve hours for Pop Williams’s station to sell seventy-five hundred gallons of Jerry Allison’s boot-leg gasoline. Servito had brazenly rolled back the wheels in the pump meters by exactly that volume. He had replaced the two thousand dollars he had removed from Williams’s cash register, and happily pocketed the difference.

“Want to do it again?” Allison asked. “I can have another load here by midnight. Same deal.”

How could Servito refuse? There was no question that he wanted to do it again. His problem was Pop Williams. If large volumes of Allison’s gasoline were moved through the station, it was only a matter of time before Williams noticed the decline in his normal volume, particularly if it only occurred during the night shift sales.

Instead of answering Allison’s question, he used his wily charm, piercing him with gray eyes and beaming with confidence. “Do you know anyone with a lot of cash to invest?”

Allison frowned. “What for?”

“To buy this station.”

Allison was flabbergasted. “Holy shit! I thought you owned this place?”

“I never said I did.”

“If you don’t own it, who does?”

Servito pointed to Pop Williams, who was smoking a large cigar behind his desk in the office of the station. “That old fart.”

Allison narrowed his eyes. “How much cash do you need?”

Servito shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. How much do you think this place is worth?”

“It’s not worth a dime to me,” Allison said. “Call me when you get a number from the old fart. Then we’ll talk.” He scribbled his telephone number on a small piece of paper, handed it to Servito, and drove away.

Servito stuffed the paper into his pants pocket and marched directly to the office. “Hey, Pop. You ever think about selling this place?”

Pop removed his Yankees baseball cap and scratched the stubble atop his head. “Who was that in the Lincoln?” he asked, glaring suspiciously at Servito.

“A customer. He wanted directions to Maple Leaf Gardens.”

Williams nodded and took a long drag of his cigar. “Every day I’m alive I think about selling this place, kid. Who wants to know?”

“Me.”

Williams smiled. He liked Jim Servito, although he couldn’t say precisely why. It certainly didn’t hurt that Servito worked hard and long hours, giving Williams a well-deserved opportunity to relax. He knew that Servito was ambitious and that he wouldn’t be satisfied pumping gas for long. He decided to throw him a bone. He reached into his pocket and removed the keys to the station, dangling them at Servito’s eye level. “If you’ve got a half a million, these are yours and I’m out of here.”

“No shit?”

“No shit,” Williams responded with a wide grin. “I’ll make it easy for you. Give me fifty thousand cash, and I’ll give you a mortgage for the rest. If you screw up, though, I’ll be back in here so fast you won’t know what hit you.”

Karen’s hand trembled while she dialed Mike’s home number. Questions and uncertainties plagued her.

Mike’s mother answered.

“May I speak to Mike, please?”

“Who’s calling, please?”

“It’s Karen Taylor.”

“Karen!” Mrs. King exclaimed, surprised to hear from her and immediately confused about how to handle a situation she had not anticipated. “We were all so very happy and relieved to hear that you survived—”

“It’s over, Mrs. King,” Karen interrupted. “It’s finally over.”

“Where are you and how are you?” Mike’s mother asked, tactfully changing the subject.

“I’m in Toronto. My parents brought me home today. I’ve lost sixteen months of my life and twelve percent of my weight, but I’m fine… Could you tell me where I could reach Mike?”

Mrs. King hesitated, but only for a moment. “He has an apartment on St. George Street. He’s back at the University of Toronto.”

“Do you have his telephone number?”

In spite of her deep concern for the consequences, Mike’s mother closed her eyes and gave Mike’s number to Karen.

Weary from a hard day’s work, Williams climbed into his gray Oldsmobile and left for home at 6:15 p.m. Servito waited five minutes before dashing to the office and calling Allison’s number. “Jerry, it’s me… Jim Servito.”

“What can I do for you?” Allison asked, sounding perturbed. He was probably still miffed that Jim had lied about owning the station.

“You can find fifty grand for me.”

“Oh yeah? What would I do that for?”

“To buy the station.”

Allison chuckled. “That’s bull-shit, kid. Fifty grand isn’t enough to buy you a shit house in the boonies.”

“I’m serious, Jerry. All I need is fifty grand. But if you can’t get it for me, I’m sure I’ll find someone who can.”

Allison did not want to lose Servito’s business, nor the opportunity to broker an investment. There was his take to consider, of course. “I’ll see you tonight. Will you be at the station?”

“I live here. What time?”

“Before nine.”

“Bring fifty big ones or don’t bother coming.”

Allison hung up and made a phone call to Buffalo, New York.

“Bushing,” Allison’s boss said.

“It’s me again. I need to talk. It’s about something entirely different.”

“About what?”

“I need fifty grand.”

“So do I. Now tell me what’s so entirely different.”

“I dumped a load at a station in Toronto last night. I thought the kid I sold it to owned the place, but it turns out he doesn’t. Now the kid says he can buy the place for fifty grand.”

“Come on, Jerry. What kind of dump is it?”

“Nice. It’s a juicer. At least three and a half million gallons a year.”

“Then you tell me how he’s gonna do it for fifty grand.”

“I can’t. The only thing I know is that he says he can do it. He also says he can find the money elsewhere…”

“Has this kid got any money?”

“I doubt it.”

“Can you nail him to the wall?”

“Yup.”

“Okay. Use your float, and don’t call me with any bad news.”

“Is this Mike King’s home?” Karen asked, surprised to hear a female voice.

“Yes.”

“May I speak to him, please?”

“I’m sorry. He’s not home. Is there a message?”

“Do you know where I could reach him?”

“He’s at the university. I doubt he’ll be home much before eleven.”

“Who am I speaking to, please?”

“His wife.”

Karen paused for a long time, at first, because she forgot how to breathe. And after, because she had no idea what to say. “Please tell him Karen Taylor called,” she whispered.

“I will,” the woman said, just as quietly.

Karen put the receiver down, her eyes brimming with tears. All the hopes and dreams she had clung to—the very love that had kept her alive—had disappeared like so much smoke.