CHAPTER 44

Sam Martin was scared. He slipped across the Rainbow Bridge into Canada at 7 a.m. and drove his red Oldsmobile over the Queen Elizabeth Highway as fast as his conscience would allow. When he reached the western limits of Toronto, he stopped at a pay phone.

“How may I help you?” the operator asked.

“Ah, yes. I wanna make a collect call to anyone at that number.”

“Your name, please?”

“Uh… Auggie Doggy.”

“Who?” the operator asked, muffling a giggle.

“Auggie Doggy! Please hurry!”

“Yes sir. One moment, please,” the operator said.

After three rings, Servito answered. “Yah.”

“I have a collect call for anyone from Auggie Doggy. Will you accept the charges?”

“Yup.”

“Go ahead sir.”

“The Golden valves are dead. They went in there last night and found the plumbing.”

“Where the hell are you?” Servito asked.

“At a pay phone in Toronto. I’m running, man. I had to blow town. My ass would be history if I showed up there today.”

“Get your ass up here. We’ll figure out how to handle it together.”

Servito immediately called Bob Bushing. “The Golden valves are dead,” he announced.

“You’re kidding!”

“Nope. Sam Martin just told me they found ‘em.”

“Shit! What the hell am I going to do now?”

“Keep supplying King’s stations with as much gasoline as you can get. You understand?”

“I understand, but I haven’t the slightest idea where the hell I’m gonna get the juice.”

“Do whatever you have to do. Cut back other customers if you have to.”

“I can’t. I’ve already cut them back as far as I can. Most of them are already bone dry.”

“Call Lasker and tell him to haul from the barge and the farm. We still have some of Golden National’s juice in storage at both places. I want it all to go to King’s outlets, and I want it cut with maximum PCBs. Got it?”

“I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“Just do it,” Servito demanded.

He heard the slamming of a car door an hour and a half later. He stood and opened a hidden cabinet in the wall behind his chair, removed a twelve-gauge shotgun, and loaded it with two shells. He hid the shotgun under his long, black leather overcoat, and then proceeded outside to greet Martin.

“Jesus Jimbo, it’s sure great to see you,” Martin said, blowing on his hands while his brown street shoes crunched the snow.

“Does anyone know you’re here?” Servito asked.

“Not a living soul. I haven’t talked to anybody.” Martin’s mouth opened in horror as Servito lifted the shotgun and pointed it straight at him.

“Good,” Servito said. He unloaded both barrels into Martin’s face. Blood, bone, and brain tissue splattered the snow behind Martin, just before his headless body crumpled atop it.

Servito removed the keys from the pocket of Martin’s jacket, opened the trunk of his Oldsmobile, and hoisted Martin’s body inside. He drove to the top of a slope above the pond behind his barn, shifted into neutral, and climbed out. He pushed the car forward and watched as it slowly rolled down the slope, plowed through the thin layer of ice, and sank into the dark water.

Long before the next morning, the water in the hole would freeze again, entombing the car and Martin’s body at least until spring.