CHAPTER 38

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.”

“You’ve got to be kidding!”

“I’m deadly serious. We need the juice.”

“You might as well kiss the valves and your ass goodbye.”

“You worry too much. Just fix the meters like you said you were going to do. Tell the big boys you’ve found the problem and fixed it. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Mike was preparing to leave his office when his telephone rang. He lifted the receiver before the first ring had ended.

“Mike, it’s Bob Bushing. I’ve got some great news… I’ve got thirty million sweet gallons for you.”

“That’s fantastic!” Mike said, overjoyed. “How the hell did you do it?”

“I called in some markers and got a lot more than I expected. Some of the players down here think this shortage isn’t going to last much longer and I agree with them. So I decided to take a pass on the short term windfall and bet on the longer term. I’m going to need customers like you when the system gets back to normal. I just want it understood that you’ll move it exclusively through your own outlets. I can’t let you have any product if you’re going to wholesale it. If you agree to that stipulation, I can sell you thirty million.”

“Sure, but why the stipulation?”

“I don’t want the whole world to find out I’m giving you all you want. I’ve had to cut a lot people short and turn a lot of people down in the last couple weeks. I’m still doing it.” Bushing’s explanation and Mike’s desperate need for supply were sufficient to explain the unique terms of the agreement. His better judgment should have told him the gasoline supply crisis was not a short-term thing, that anyone with a lick of sense could tell, and that something was terribly wrong with the deal.

“Bob, I’m grateful. I want you to know that I’ll never forget what you’ve done for me,” Mike said, instead.

Servito and Dianne stumbled from the hotel and climbed into the limousine, laughing and hooting all the way. Servito leaned forward and pressed a button to open the darkened window separating the driver’s compartment from the rest of the limousine. “Take us to the Blue Tavern, Pete baby!” he shouted, waking Sarnos from a deep sleep. “We’re on a roll here!”

Sarnos jerked himself to an upright position and started the car.

The Blue Tavern was an extremely popular singles bar located less than a mile away. The music was live and loud, the dance floor jammed with bumping and grinding humanity. Flashing strobe lights created a psychedelic atmosphere. Servito grasped Dianne’s hand and led her to the dance floor, where they moved together in a microscopic space. Servito’s smile disappeared when he was accidentally bumped from behind by a pinstriped yuppie. He wheeled instantly and delivered a hard right fist to the yuppie’s stomach. When the man bent forward in pain, Servito broke his nose with an uppercut from his right knee.

Everyone surrounding the event watched in horror as the yuppie slumped to the floor, blood gushing from his nose. Servito kicked his victim’s ribs and raised the middle finger of his right hand. “Have a nice night, dickhead!” he hissed, and then turned to Dianne. “Let’s get the hell out of here,” he demanded.

Servito opened the rear door of the limousine, pushed Dianne inside, and jumped in beside her. “Take us to the farm, Pete!” he ordered before slamming the door.

Sarnos parked the limousine as close as he could to the front door of the farmhouse, but kept the motor running while Servito and Dianne struggled to dress and extract themselves from the limousine. “Take it back to Toronto, Pete. I’ll call you tomorrow,” Servito ordered.

The lovers stood in the parking area for several minutes, inhaling the cold night air while the limousine turned around and glided down the snow covered lane. When the car had disappeared from sight, Servito put his arm around Dianne’s shoulder. “Let’s go in and make love for a change,” he chuckled, guiding her toward the farmhouse. When Servito closed the front door, Dianne hugged and kissed him hard, her right hand sliding down his body until it came to rest between his legs. “Let’s get it on,” she whispered.

Servito faked a smile. Without a word, he released her and flopped on the couch. He removed a 38-caliber revolver, complete with silencer, from behind a cushion. Dianne froze in stunned silence, her hands raised as if to shield her extraordinarily magnificent breasts. He waved the revolver at her. “You’re a good broad, Dianne,” he said. “But time’s up. You know too much and I gotta let you go.”

“What?” Dianne whimpered.

“You know enough to put me away for the rest of my life!” He pulled the trigger twice in rapid succession.

Twenty-four-year-old Bobby Grieves and his twenty-year-old wife had entered the deserted stone farmhouse for a quick rest after a long evening of cross-country skiing. They had been giggling and warming up their cold hands when they heard the sound of someone trudging slowly through the snow. They stared through one of the glassless windows as a man dragged a large burden wrapped in a white sheet to the nearby barn. Once the man had returned to his Corvette and driven away, the couple raced to the barn. Bobby turned on the headlamp he wore for night cross-country skiing, illuminating the dust Servito had disturbed in a long cylinder of opaque light. “He left it in here,” Bobby whispered.

They both jumped at an unearthly sound.

“What was that?” Jan asked.

“It sounded like a moan,” Bobby said. He pointed his flashlight in the direction of the horse stall. The moan came again. He and Jan rushed to the stall, fell to their knees and began to grope through the pile of hay. Within seconds, they had uncovered a bloodstained white sheet.

“My God!” Jan shrieked.

Bobby removed the sheet from Dianne’s head and leaned down to place his ear against her chest. “She’s alive!” he shouted. “I can hear a heartbeat!” He jerked his head upward. “Stay here and try to keep her warm. I’m going for help.”