CHAPTER 33

Servito was well aware that the day might come when he would have to leave North America and never return. The primary thrust of his retirement savings plan was thus to launder his money and to spread it to as many safe havens as possible, thereby ensuring a comfortable exile. His monthly deposits in the Banco International Venezolano on Grand Cayman were courtesy of Bridge Financial Inc., a company incorporated in Curacao and named after the Peace Bridge, which was still the fulcrum of his incredible scam. From there, Bridge Financial transferred the funds to a numbered account in Switzerland. Occasionally, Bridge Financial wired funds to its account in a branch of the Banco International Venezolano in Curacao. Those funds were used to purchase U.S. government treasury notes, in bearer form, of course, to preserve the anonymity of the owner. A tax treaty between the U.S. government and the Netherlands Antilles allowed Bridge Financial to avoid the thirty percent withholding tax levied against non-resident recipients of treasury note interest income.

When Servito landed his airplane at the farm, the flashing red light on the answering machine in his office beckoned. Most of the messages were business related. One, however, was not. “Boss, it’s George… George Lanotti. I followed your wife like you said I should do. She’s been real busy while you’ve been gone. You ain’t gonna like the pictures I took. Call me when you get back.”

“Fuck!” he shouted, and then called Lanotti at his home in Toronto. “George, what the hell did you mean when you said my wife was real busy?” he asked.

“She’s been spendin’ a lotta time with another guy.”

“What other guy?” Servito shouted.

“I don’t know him, boss. I never seen him before.”

“Did you get pictures of him?”

“A ton of ‘em. I even got pictures of him and your wife goin’ in and out of your farm. You wanna see ‘em?”

“Jesus! When were they at the farm?”

“Yesterday.”

“How long did they stay?”

“About five hours.”

“That bitch! Get Allison and get your asses up here right now! Tell him to bring the limo, and don’t you forget those photographs!” Servito ordered. He slammed the receiver down violently, the desire to see his wife suddenly replaced with rage and hatred. He paced back and forth as he thought of what he would do to Karen, and of what he would do to the man he expected to see in Lanotti’s photographs.

A few hours later, Servito heard the sound of an approaching vehicle. He swore as he watched his white limousine racing down the lane toward the farmhouse, bouncing up and down before huge clouds of dust. He rushed outside and jerked the passenger side door open. “It’s about time you got here,” he snarled.

“We got here as quick as we could, boss,” Lanotti said, his sheepish smile displaying brown stained teeth.

“Did you bring the photographs?”

“Yup,” Lanotti replied. He removed a thick, white envelope from his jacket pocket.

Servito snatched the envelope. He frowned as he examined the pictures, one by one. His face flushed. “I knew it!” he shouted. “I knew that son of a bitch had the hots for her!”

“You know him, boss?” Lanotti asked.

Servito bared his teeth as he continued to stare at the photographs. “My wife introduced me to him a long time ago.”

“Who is he?” Allison asked.

“His name’s Mike King. He’s a big player in the gasoline business. He owns XG.”

“Wow! He really is big!” Allison said.

“What are you gonna do to him, boss?” Lanotti asked.

Servito flashed an evil smirk. “Fix his ass. Let’s go inside and I’ll tell you how.”

Allison and Lanotti followed Servito to his office. “You guys take a seat,” Servito ordered, clutching the photographs with his right hand and pacing back and forth. “My first inclination is to have both of them wasted.”

“You want me to cut ‘em, boss?” Lanotti asked.

“No, that would be too easy. I want them both to experience excruciating pain and I want it to last for a long time.” Servito turned to Allison. “Jerry, did you do those PCB tests with Patelski?”

“Yup. Two percent’s no problem. Even three percent works. We got too much smoke with four.”

“Good. Call Bushing, and get him in touch with Patelski. I want them both ready to cut our gasoline with PCB. Tell them not to move on it until I give the word to go.”

“You want PCB in all of the gasoline?”

“No, just the gasoline we’re going to deliver to King’s outlets.” He smirked. “George, I want you to keep watching my wife. Stick to her like her underwear and don’t let her out of your sight.”

Servito waited until Allison and Lanotti left the farmhouse. Then he called Bob Bushing. “It’s Jimbo. I want to talk to you about Mike King. You’ve been bugging him for his gasoline business, right?”

“At least once a week, but my price has always been a little too high.”

“I just found out he’s been screwing my wife, and that didn’t make me very happy. I want you to call that prick on Monday morning and give him a price he can’t refuse. Offer him a price that guarantees we get the whole thirty million gallons and make sure we do the trucking. I don’t care if Lasker has to do it for nothing.”

“No problem.”

“One more thing. I want you to do business with King through a company I’ve just incorporated. It’s called Reserve Oil Limited. My beloved wife is the president and sole owner of all of the shares.”