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

CHAPTER 18

Ever since he'd come to Canada, Servito had acquired a deep and abiding hatred for cold weather. He longed for the warm sunny days of his reckless youth. Before returning to Toronto, therefore, he stopped at Palm Beach. Business further north had always been a priority, but now Servito was looking for a temperate vacation home.

"Nice plane. She yours?" asked the mechanic who had towed Servito's airplane to a resting place at the Palm Beach International Airport.

"Nope. It's owned by an offshore trust," Servito replied. "Where's a good place to stay around here?"

"Depends," the mechanic replied.

"Depends on what?"

"On how deep your pockets are."

"Suppose the price is no object," Servito replied with a sly grin.

The mechanic pointed east. "Definitely The Breakers. It's a big mega star hotel, right on the ocean."

Servito used the mechanic's telephone to call The Breakers Golf and Beach Club. He booked the Presidential Suite and ordered a limousine. Then he used a fake passport to clear customs, and relaxed while the limousine whisked him off to the island of Palm Beach.

A few minutes later, the Presidential Suite's drapes were flung open by an enthusiastic bellboy to expose a fantastic view. Even though the sun had set twenty minutes earlier, there was still sufficient light to see the vast expanse of greenish gray ocean and the profiles of cruise ships on the horizon. Servito felt he could look out at that view forever. Presently, he picked up the receiver close to the bed and dialed Jerry Allison's Toronto number.

Allison normally slept until noon, wasted his afternoons at Woodbine racetrack, and spent his nights collecting money for Servito. He answered after five rings. "Hello," he mumbled, his mouth filled with a bite of sandwich.

"It's me."

"Where the hell are you?" Allison garbled.

"Palm Beach."

"Are you out of your mind?"

"Don't worry about it, Jerry. Everything's under control."

"How did you get through customs?"

"I'll tell you when I get back. I'm going to stay here for at least a week. Can you handle things?"

"Don't even think about it. Have a nice time. You deserve a vacation."

"I'm at The Breakers," Servito said, and gave Allison the telephone number of his suite.

"Uncle Sam's going to nail you one of these days...and when he does, your ass is gonna be grass," Allison warned.

"You let me worry about that. Meanwhile, I suggest you cover your own ass."

"I'll try not to call you," Allison said. He hung up and reached for his next sandwich.

Dressed in jeans, running shoes, and a well flowered shirt from Cayman, Servito hurried from his suite to the hotel lobby the following morning. "I need the name of a real estate company specializing in beach front homes. Here in Palm Beach," he told the desk clerk.

The clerk nodded while staring askance at Servito's dress and unshaven face. "Yes, sir. I would recommend Everglades Realty. They're absolutely the best."

"Why don't you call them for me? Ask them to send an agent here."

"When would you—"

Servito winked. "Now."