The Bridge to Caracas

  “What happens then?”

  “Customs cancels your manifest and assumes you’re going to take it back to the refinery for refund. But it never makes it to the refinery. Now you’re home free to sell it in Canada. You sell it for a penny or two under the market and pocket the tax.”

  “That’s beautiful. Tell me another one.”

  “Yup. The old water trick. It’s an exquisite variation of the Regina Loop. You buy gasoline, ex-tax, at a Canadian refinery for export to the United States, and then deliver almost all of it to a Canadian customer. After that, you fill the truck with water and head for the border… gasoline floats on water you know.”

  Servito nodded.

  “If Customs check the truck, they see the remaining gasoline on top of the water and assume it’s a full load. You continue into the U.S., wait for an hour of two, dump the water in a farmer’s field, and then turn the truck around and drive back into Canada. Is that beautiful or what? Oh there’s one more. We do a lotta business with the Indians, and they don’t pay tax on gasoline sold on the reservations. So… maybe some of that gasoline finds its way off the reservations. Who’s to know?”

  Servito’s gifted criminal mind had shifted into high gear. “How much commission does Bushing pay you?”

  “One cent for every gallon I move.”

  “That’s chump change, Jerry,” Servito scoffed, aware that a penny was a fraction of the take. Bushing was pocketing a fortune. He returned the gun to his jacket and smiled. “Why the hell haven’t you gone after the big bucks? You know the ropes.”

  Allison shrugged his bulky shoulders. “I don’t know… I guess I didn’t want the risk.”

  “You’ve been working for nickels and dimes too long. How would you like to make some real money?”

  Allison grinned, experiencing a surge of relief. “Yeah.”

  Servito’s intense gray eyes focused on Allison’s. “From now on, you and I are going to be partners.”

  “Yeah?”

  “The way I see it, Bushing’s vulnerable as hell. The customers are yours, Jerry, and Bushing can’t function without them.”

  “So what are you saying?”

  “We’ll do our own deal. We’ll be the broker and give Bushing the commission.”

  “Where do we get the trucks?”

  “We’ll use Lasker’s. If he doesn’t agree to haul for peanuts, we’ll get our own trucks… hell, maybe we’ll even buy his company.”

  Allison’s surge of relief was extinguished by enormous fear. He squirmed in his cold, damp seat. “You’re talking about playing with fire. There’s gonna be big trouble.”

  “Fuck ‘em!” Servito snarled, flashing a fiendish grin. “Trouble’s my middle name. If they hassle us, we’ll arrange some very unfortunate accidents.”

  CHAPTER 11

  “Where were you born?” the young female customs officer asked, glaring suspiciously at Servito, who was perched languorously behind the opened window of Allison’s black Lincoln.

  “Toronto,” Servito lied, calmly returning her stare. It was his first return to the United States since his escape in July of 1963, and if his identity were discovered, his next home would be a U.S. military prison.

  “Where are you going?’ she asked.

  “We have a business meeting in Buffalo. We’ll be back here in two or three hours,” Allison said.

  “Have a nice day,” the officer said, and then directed her stare to the car behind Allison’s.

  The head office of Empire State Oil was located in the recreation room of Bob Bushing’s modest, four bedroom home in Tonawanda, a suburb of Buffalo. Servito and Allison were met at the front door by Bushing’s wife, a short, well-painted brunette adorned with too much jewelry. “Jerry!” she declared, her eyes widening with surprise. “What are you doing here?”

  “I gotta see Bob, Theresa. It’s real important.”

  Theresa ushered Servito and Allison into the house and down a flight of stairs to a tacky, 1950s style recreation room. Bushing was pushing papers at a large and very cluttered metal desk. A thin weasel of a man with a narrow black mustache, he looked like he belonged at a racetrack, making book. He directed an angry glare at Allison. “What the hell is this, Jerry? I told you I didn’t want to see you here. Ever.”

  Allison trembled as he attempted to explain. “I… this is Jim Servito… ? He’s here because—”

  “Jerry’s here because I brought him here,” Servito interrupted.

  “Then why are you here?” Bushing asked.

  Servito marched toward Bushing and perched on the corner of his desk. He leaned close to Bushing’s face. “We have a new agenda for you, Bob.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “We’re going to restructure your company, that’s what I’m talking about.” Jim grinned nastily. “From now on, Jerry and I are going to own a slice of the gasoline you’ve been selling to his customers. Empire State will continue to purchase it, but it’ll no longer be just your company. You’re going to sell a controlling interest to us. When that’s done, the company will pay you a commission for continuing as president. I’ll be the chairman of the board.”

  Bushing stood and cocked his right arm. Just when Bushing stepped forward, Jim jerked his head backward so Bushing’s fist just missed his chin. Then he dodged up under the unbalanced manager and grabbed his right wrist, twisting it until Bushing leaned forward and then wrapping it behind the man’s own back. “Don’t, Bob. There are three of us against little old you.”

  “There’s only two,” Bushing retorted, panting heavily. “And Allison can’t punch his way out of a bottle.”

  Servito let go of Bushing’s arm and removed his revolver as the man spun back around. “This is number three,” he said, smirking as he cocked the hammer. “Now sit down and listen.”

  Bushing’s face had flushed to crimson. “I don’t give shit if you have a gun. Who the hell do you think you are, coming into my house and telling me who’s going to do what?”

  “I’ll tell you who I am, Bob. I’m your new boss. The sooner you accept that fact, the happier we’re all going to be.”

  “You can take your new agenda and shove it where the sun don’t shine!” Bushing shouted, his face mean and glowing red. “You can’t take over my company unless I want to sell, and I’m here to tell you I don’t.”

  Servito smiled and winked. “You’re not going to like the alternative, Bob…” Something in Servito’s face made Bob blanch. “You’ve been enjoying a disproportionate share of the action for too long, and that’s going to change whether you like it or not. Jerry’s given me a complete and thorough description of how you do business and how you forget to pay gasoline taxes. Now, if you don’t want me to have a nice chat with the Canadian and the U.S. feds, then maybe you’ll do what I’m telling you to do, hm?” Jim stepped forward and smacked him lightly on the jowl. “You’ll be hearing from me real soon… Have a nice day.”

  A long, tense silence continued until the Lincoln crossed the Peace Bridge and entered Fort Erie.

  Then, and only then, did Allison give a deep sigh. “You really did it now, kid.”

  “Did what?”

  “Bushing’s mad as hell. There’s no way in hell he’ll ever do business with us.”

  Servito bared his teeth. “Trust me, Jerry. He will.”

  Two miles beyond the outskirts of the city, Allison turned and drove through the opened gates of a toweringly high chain-link fence. “Amerada Tank Lines” was neatly painted in large gold letters on a black sign above the gates. After parking beside a row of trucks and trailers in varying states of disrepair, Servito and Allison entered a gray building clad in corrugated metal. At a wooden counter, perched on a stool, was a young, dark haired girl wearing a breast-enhancing bra under a see-through, white silk blouse. Her long and curvaceous legs extended from a short, skin-tight, pink mini-skirt. Large sunglasses balanced on top of her hair. She peered over the top of her magazine and smacked her gum
. “Hi, Jerry,” she said, stilling her jaw long enough to smile. “What’re you doing here?”

  “Hi, Deb,” Allison said, returning her smile. “We’re looking for Dave. Is he here?”

  “Go right in. He’s in the back office,” Deb said, pointing her thumb at the heavy metal door behind her. Her head drifted back down toward the magazine.

  Lasker was seated at his desk, clamping a telephone receiver tightly to his ear with his shoulder as he leaned back. His feet were propped up on the desk in front of him. Below his close-cut blond hair was a badly sunburned face. He wore green trousers and a white shirt with his name printed just above his heart. He quickly cupped his right hand over the mouth piece when he saw Allison. “Have a seat. I’ll be with you in a minute,” he said, and then continued his conversation.

  Servito extended one last lecherous glance at Deb’s legs as he closed the metal door. He and Allison sat on metal folding chairs.

  Lasker ended his telephone conversation and greeted Allison with an outstretched right arm. “Good to see you again, Jerry. What can I do for you?”

  “I have someone I want you to meet, Dave.” Allison gave a squeamish smile. “This is Jim Servito. He’s one of my biggest customers in Toronto… And he wanted to meet with you to discuss some business.”

  Servito stood and shook Lasker’s hand, then twisted slightly to sit on Lasker’s desk. “I’d like to buy Amerada Tank Lines, Dave. How much do you want for it?”

  Lasker’s mouth dropped open in that unguarded moment. “Amerada’s not for sale, sir… and if it was, my price would be high.”

  “How high is high?” Servito asked.

  “Probably more than you could afford.”

  “I’ll give you a hundred thousand.”

  Lasker marched to his metal door and opened it. “You’re wasting my time, Mr. Servito. I’d like you to leave.”

  Allison hurried from the office, his mouth twisted in downcast horror.

  Servito stood and approached Lasker, his sneer displaying absolute contempt. “You’re not going to like the alternative, Dave. I know all about the tax free gasoline you’ve been hauling across the Peace Bridge. So, if you want to stay the hell out of prison, then I suggest you cooperate, real soon. You’ll be hearing from me shortly… have a nice day.” He turned and followed Allison.

  Allison turned to face Servito the second he entered the car. “Jesus, Jim, now you’ve really done it. I’m out of business! Lasker won’t give me the time of day after that little song and dance.”

  Servito rolled his eyes and pointed his palms skyward. “Come on, Jerry. Relax. You’re not even close to being out of business. By the time Lasker thinks about what I just told him, he’ll give us a hell of lot more than the time of day.”

  “What did you just tell him?”

  Servito bared his teeth and pounded his fist on Allison’s dashboard. “Same fucking thing I told Bushing! I just made some attitude adjustments, Jerry, baby. We’ll see who’s prepared to give you the time of day. When you have a man by the balls, his heart and mind will follow.”

  At a hastily convened meeting with Bob Bushing and Dave Lasker at Lasker’s Fort Erie office the following week, Servito completed a deal to purchase a fifty-one percent interest in both Empire State Oil and Amerada Tank Lines. The purchases were uncontested and based upon earn-out formulas designed by Servito. They allowed Bushing and Lasker to continue as presidents and chief operating officers of their respective companies, while Servito became chairman of the board. Allison was appointed vice president of marketing and received a hefty salary increase.

  With his audacious acquisition of Amerada Tank Lines and Empire State Oil, Servito had established a formidable business infrastructure that would launch him on a meteoric criminal career path. His enterprise was poised to grow, and the fuel for its growth would be Servito’s insatiable greed, his irrepressible ego, and—last but not least—inflation.

  CHAPTER 12

  June 5, 1965.

  Mike’s formal graduation ceremony was held on a warm, cloudless day on the lawn outside Convocation Hall. He received his degree in Chemical Engineering with honors, ranking seventh in his class. Barbara watched with pride as her husband mounted the podium to shake the hand of the Dean of Engineering and receive his diploma.

  The following day, dressed in the slightly threadbare gray flannel garment that was his one and only suit, Mike marched to the front doors of the imposing Canam Oil Building in Toronto at 4:45 p.m. The trappings of wealth and power oozed from every pore of the building, even more so than in the Vancouver office where Mike had visited Doug McAllister. When the elevator doors opened, he was on the top floor of the head office of one of the largest oil companies in the world.

  Mike scanned the expansive reception area and saw numerous expensive oil paintings adorning the walnut and mahogany walls. The pink marble floor was dotted with rich Persian rugs. He approached the receptionist to announce his arrival, but stopped when he heard a familiar voice to his left.

  “Welcome to Canam, Mike,” a smiling Doug McAllister greeted.

  McAllister had aged. He had lost almost all of the hair on top of his head, and the surviving strands were almost pure white. Signs of a stressful life were carved into his face. McAllister extended his hand. “I want to congratulate you on your academic achievement… I was so proud of you when I heard.”

  “I’m happy to be here, Doug,” Mike said, extending his hand. “How did you know?”

  “I telephoned your father when I heard you were coming to see me. He couldn’t wait to tell me.”

  “I should also congratulate you. Dad told me you’re now the executive vice-president of the company.”

  McAllister grinned. “Thank you. It’s been a long, hard climb… but let’s go into my office and talk. It’s this way.” He gestured Mike into his large corner office.

  Mike was mesmerized by the incredible view to the south. Beyond the tall buildings of the city, he could see the vast blue expanse of Lake Ontario. The sailboats in the harbor were no more than white dots in the distance. He tore himself from the window and turned to face McAllister. “It was very kind of you to see me, Doug. You must be very busy.”

  “Don’t mention it. I’m delighted you’re here. I’m even happier that you followed my advice.”

  “It was good counsel. I never forgot it.”

  McAllister sat in his dark brown leather chair and admired Mike’s athletic frame and captivating smile. “This might be presumptuous, but I assumed you came to collect on my promise. Was I wrong?” he asked.

  Mike was overwhelmed. He was certain he would have to remind McAllister of the promise he’d made in Vancouver in 1963. “You were not wrong. I very much want to work in the oil industry. I acquired a growing fascination for the business while I was at school. I would be honored to be part of it.”

  McAllister beamed. “One of the quickest ways to learn about the oil industry is in industrial sales. That’s where I would like you to start, if you are interested?

  “When can I get started?”

  “Would tomorrow be too soon?”

  CHAPTER 13

  After an exhausting two month training course, Mike was assigned to an industrial sales territory in Toronto. He dove into his new career with a deep and abiding commitment. His dedication to career, strong sales aptitude, and exceptional communication skills made him very good at the job. A collision with big business bureaucracy, however, brought a swift end to Mike’s initial surge of enthusiasm. The company’s compensation scheme was heavily based upon job categories and very lightly on job performance. No matter how hard he worked or how productive he was, his salary remained relatively constant. He didn’t want to complain about the apparent inequity, but he couldn’t help but wonder bitterly what he could do to get a decent raise. The restraint led to frustration and unhappiness, both of which he carried home with him at night and on weekends, further compounding the tension in his marriage.

  It soon
became clear that remaining at Canam without upgrading his academic credentials meant middle management mediocrity. He had traveled too far and paid too many dues to allow that to happen.

  Just when he had decided to look for another job, he was invited to attend a three day marketing conference arranged by Canam’s marketing management in Lake Placid, New York. The event was programmed to involve some rest and relaxation, but its primary purpose was to create a sense of teamwork and belonging within the sales force.

  The afternoon session of the second day was held in the conference wing of White Face Hotel. The speaker, George Reimer, was the director of retail gasoline for Canam. He talked for an hour with the help of the usual visual aids, including slides and bar-charts, magnified and illuminated onto a large screen. He spoke with pride about the incomparable retail gasoline network of Canam, the new and expanded credit card facilities, the aggressive real estate acquisition program, and the new, ultra-modern service station designs.

  After concluding the visual segment of his presentation, Reimer asked for someone to raise the lights. “I need to talk about a problem that’s facing our company—the entire industry, actually. We’re literally swimming in gasoline, gentlemen. Gasoline surpluses have given rise to what I consider to be a disease—that of the private-brander, an independent operator who buys gasoline at the refinery gate and retails that gasoline through his own outlets in direct competition with us. He can discount to a level which multiplies his annual sales volumes geometrically, and reduces ours proportionately.”

  Reimer scanned the audience above his spectacles. “The smart ones in the audience can readily see that I have just described a vicious circle. The private-brander, with about twenty thousand dollars in his pocket, can lease a piece of real estate at the corner of Spruce and Goose, throw some pumps and tanks in the ground, put a price sign on the street, and he’s in business. After he runs this shit-box for a year, he has enough money to build ten more shit-boxes. Then we’ve got ten times the problem. Even worse, the son of a bitch is indestructible.”