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

CHAPTER 17

February 16, 1969.

Among Servito's numerous criminal pleasures, none came close to the rush he experienced when he flew to Grand Cayman and deposited his stolen millions in a branch of the Banco International Venezolano. He had chosen that particular bank because of the secrecy and anonymity it guaranteed.

Servito's Cessna 421A raced down the farm's primitive runway, snow rooster-tails shooting from beneath the wheels as it accelerated to takeoff speed. Hidden in a number of strategic places on board was over two million dollars cash. To avoid paper trails in the process of transfer, Servito had engaged the help of some well-paid friends on the island who would pick him up at the airport and drive him directly to downtown Georgetown. These same friends also ensured that Servito's near insatiable sexual demands were met.

While on the island he partied with Glenda Sharpe, a twenty-three-year-old nurse employed by a consortium of surgeons from Canada and the United States. The consortium owned and operated a clinic in Georgetown for the purpose of providing reconstructive surgery. The wealthy patients happily flew at their own expense to Grand Cayman for the service.

"It's a mutually advantageous arrangement," Glenda declared. "The warm Caribbean sun offers a pleasant and obscure environment for recovery from the surgery, and the fees collected by the doctors are received tax free."

Servito laughed until he cried. "The more things change, the more they stay the same. Are these guys really any different from me?"

April 15, 1969. 9 a.m.

Christian paced back and forth behind his desk, his palms facing skyward. Before Mike could take a seat on the green leather couch facing his desk, he spat, "All my corporate life, I've managed to avoid the killing blow, Mike. It was always so easy. I could always put my arms around it and squeeze it to death. But not this one."

"What's the problem?" Mike asked.

Christian stopped pacing and faced Mike with tightened lips, his expression showing deep concern. "When I hired you, I forgot to mention that the business won't ever let you get comfortable.... For years, the refiners have been stumbling over each other to sell fuel oil to us. Now the bastards won't sell it to us unless we buy gasoline. They've even attached a formula to it. They want us to buy a gallon of gasoline for every gallon of fuel oil they sell to us. Dammit, Mike! This is an incredible mess. We need the fuel oil. It's our life blood."

"Why the formula? I mean, a gallon for gallon."

"They're giving us this bull-shit about a major gasoline containment problem. Whenever a refinery produces a gallon of fuel oil, it also produces a gallon of gasoline. And now the demand for fuel oil, or middle distillates, is far ahead of the demand for gasoline."

Christian's comments reminded Mike of George Reimer's speech at the Canam marketing conference. Reimer had not understated the refiners' problems of gasoline surpluses and containment. "So we'll just buy their gasoline," he responded.

Christian shook his head. "You don't understand. This thing is a lot bigger than us. Buying gasoline from domestic refiners is like pushing a rope. We don't have a market for it or a single place to store it. Furthermore, the market's swimming in gasoline. The big independents are making it worse. They're importing boatloads of it from Rotterdam."

Again Mike was reminded of George Reimer's speech. He saw a golden opportunity. "Then let's make our own gasoline market," he said.

"You must be joking," Christian scoffed.

"I'm serious. The gasoline independents are no different from the fuel oil independents. They're all human beings, just trying to make a buck. They have to get their gasoline supply from somewhere. Why not us? We could start by supplying them with gasoline. Eventually, we could work the good ones into our fifty-fifty deals."

At last Christian stopped pacing and took a seat. He appeared to be interested in Mike's suggestion. "It's a good idea, but...."

"Don't fight it, Owen," Mike protested, infused with a surge of confidence.

"Dammit, we need to move over three hundred million gallons of gasoline. Can you tell me who the hell's going to find enough independents to buy all that?"

"Me."

"Not possible. Who else will continue what you've been doing?"

"That's ridiculous. How can we take on any more customers if we can't buy fuel oil? If what you're telling me is true, we're going to have a hell of a time supplying the customers we have. We need to shift our priorities, and it sounds like we don't have any time to lose. Besides, it would take too long to find someone else to do the work I know I can do." Mike was amazed by his own confident tone.

Christian pursed his lips. "What do you know about the gasoline business?"

"Not much, but I can learn fast."

Christian leaned back and put his feet on his desk. "Well you certainly have proved that." A grin appeared. "How soon can you get started?"

"Today."

"Then go to it." Christian raised his eyebrows.

"We're going to take a hit," Mike cautioned. "I'm going to need a price if I'm going to barge into this market and try to displace domestic refiners and European gasoline. In fact, I'll probably bust the market."

Christian stared at the ceiling, and then lowered his head to face Mike. "Do whatever it takes. If you don't, someone else will."