Mike stared at Christian in stunned silence. He had expected that the luncheon meeting would merely be the beginning of a long and tedious evaluation process, although he never doubted that he would ultimately receive a job offer.
“I asked you a question, son. I expect an answer.”
Mike considered a coy response, but the thought of doubling his salary overnight and working in one of the most exciting sectors of the business was far too compelling. He decided to plunge into Christian’s challenge and make it work, in spite of his concerns about the apparent ruthlessness of his new boss. He nodded. “If you’re prepared to commit the offer to writing, I’m prepared to give Canam my two weeks’ notice.”
“Then it’s done,” Christian declared. “I’ll have Evelyn type the offer, and you can take it with you. The only thing I won’t give you is a long term commitment. You must understand that you’ll have to earn your tenure at IFB. Nobody’s going to give it to you.”
Mike left the Dominion Club in a state of euphoria. He soon stopped to buy a large bottle of expensive champagne. “Screw the office—it’s party time!” he shouted aloud when he got home, clutching Christian’s offer in his right hand and shaking his fist high.
Barbara, however, refused to share Mike’s excitement. She agreed to share a single glass of champagne with him, and then went to bed, leaving him to finish the bottle alone.
CHAPTER 16
Mike’s success at International Fuel Brokers was immediate and spectacular. He took to Owen Christian’s game like a duck to water. Much of Mike’s success was due to his credibility and infectious personality. He was believable, extremely persuasive, and blessed with the ability to communicate.
Before he had finished his first full year, he had been instrumental in IFB’s acquisition of a fifty percent interest in no less than seventeen fuel oil companies. The jewel of the acquisitions was Seaway Petroleum Limited, a medium-sized fuel oil dealer with terminals in strategic markets in both Canada and the United States. Seaway had long been a target of IFB, but only Mike had been able to reel them in.
In early December of 1968, Christian threw a lavish staff cocktail party. Once the initial rush had dimmed and everyone had a drink in hand, Christian clinked a fork against his glass. “Could I have everyone’s attention, please?” he shouted. He waited for complete silence before pointing to Mike. “Please join me here, Mike,” he said, summoning him with his index finger.
Christian placed his left arm around Mike’s shoulders and raised his glass with his right. “I want you all to know that I have my arm around the best thing that’s happened to IFB in years. As you all know, this is Mike King. He has taken this company by storm. His contribution has been of legendary proportions.” He stared boldly around the room, daring anyone to disagree. “Effective immediately, I am promoting Mike to the title of Vice-President, Acquisitions.” He turned to Mike and smiled. “Congratulations, son. Well done.” He shook Mike’s hand to the shouts, whistles, and warm applause of the entire staff. “I think you should say a few words.”
“Thank you, Owen,” Mike said. His mind reeled with shock as he turned to face the staff. “Thanks to all of you. Thank you for your kind applause, and for the enormous cooperation you have all given me from the beginning. Without it, I could have achieved nothing. I appreciate your support from the bottom of my heart, and will cherish it for so long as I’m alive.” He smiled and raised his glass to loud applause.
Before Mike could step back into the crowd, Christian leaned close to Mike’s ear. “I want to see you when this is over.”
An hour later, Christian closed the door behind the last guest and turned to Mike. “I won’t keep you long, Mike. I just wanted to clarify something with you, eyeball to eyeball. Of course, I want to congratulate you for your well-deserved promotion and the large salary increase accompanying it. However, I have to put a string on it.”
“What’s that?” Mike asked.
“I want your business card to remain unchanged.” Christian’s expression turned hard, his eyes like rocks. “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. You’ll be my wolf in sheep’s clothing.”
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.”
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.”
“Your name, sir?”
“Durant. Arthur Durant. I’m staying in your Presidential Suite.”
“Yes sir. Just give me a minute.” Servito paced back and forth while he waited impatiently. The desk clerk returned less than a minute later. “A representative from Everglades Realty will be here in fifteen minutes, Mr. Durant,” he said, smiling. “Her name is Mary Langley. She’ll pick you up at the front door in a white Rolls Royce.”
Mary Langley arrived at the front of the hotel in exactly fifteen minutes. With ten years of experience in the Palm Beach market and a stunning dress, she was locked and loaded. Servito opened the door and jumped into the seat beside her before the Rolls had even come to a stop. “Hi. I’m Arthur Durant,” he said, flashing his irresistible smile. “How would you like to sell me a house?” he asked. His gray eyes scanned Mary’s well-proportioned body.
Mary was somewhat startled, but forced a smile and shook his hand lightly. “Did you have any particular location in mind, Mr. Durant? We have—”
“On the ocean.”
She gave Servito an incredulous stare. He scarcely appeared to have the means for any property in Palm Beach, let alone beach front. “Did you have any particular dollar amount in mind?” she asked, expecting to shock him with the reality of Palm Beach prices.
“If I like the house, the price is irrelevant,” Servito replied.
Mary Langley doubted her newest client understood how expensive “irrelevant” could be, but his rugged good looks and brash approach appealed to her. She gave him the red carpet tour, showing him eight waterfront mansions.
The last, just south of the Southern Boulevard Bridge, was a thirty-seven room Spanish hacienda with white stucco walls and a rust colored tile roof. The house surrounded a spacious courtyard that featured a large, kidney-shaped swimming pool in the middle. The pool deck and surrounding courtyard were covered with glazed Mexican tile and planters filled with brightly colored flowers and tropical palms. A portion of the east side of the complex was open to the beach, providing a panoramic view of the ocean.
Servito followed Mary Langley through the courtyard and eastward toward the ocean. She drew his attention to the landscaping as they traversed the rear yard. “The area has been planted with a variety of palm trees, palmetto bushes, and tropical flowers,” she explained. “The plantings have been placed strategically to provide maximum privacy without obscuring the ocean view.”
“Let’s keep going toward the ocean,” Servito insisted, after only a casual glance at the plantings. “I want you to show me where the property line is.”
They walked toward the ocean, but stopped when they saw a young woman approaching from the beach. She wore a scanty white bikini that contrasted magnificently with her deeply tanned skin and long raven hair.
Mary flung her hand over her head. “Where have you been?” she shouted, smiling and waving.
“Looking for you,” the woman replied.
“I’ve been trying to reach you for hours,” Mary said. “How did you know I was here?”
“I phoned yo
ur office.”
Mary turned to Servito. “I’m sorry, Arthur. I should have introduced you right away. I want you to meet Karen Taylor, a very dear friend of mine.” She turned to Karen. “Karen, this is Arthur Durant, a client of mine. I hope.” She winked at Servito, but he was staring at Karen.
“Nice to meet you, Karen,” he said, struggling to avoid a lecherous body scan. “Do you live around here?”
“If you buy this house, Arthur, Karen will be your next door neighbor. She lives right over there,” she said, pointing south.
“In that case, I’ll buy it,” Servito said, his eyes still locked on Karen.
“What did you say?” Mary asked, shocked.
“I’ll buy the house.” He smiled. “I like the neighborhood.”
“That’s wonderful.” Mary gulped, still doubting her client’s ability to pay for it. She had not even told him the asking price. How could she question his sincerity with class? “Karen and I are having dinner at The Breakers tonight, Arthur. Would you like to join us? My treat.”
“I’d be happy to join you. Do I need a black tie?”
“You don’t need a tie of any kind. Just meet us there at six-thirty. In the meantime, you and I can go back to my office and complete the paperwork. If you were serious about buying this house?”
“I am always serious,” Servito confirmed, staring at Karen.
Mary drove Servito to her office, where he made arrangements through an attorney in Toronto and a banker on Cayman Island to purchase the house. The purchaser was Bridge Financial, S. A., a company named after the Peace Bridge, which was the fulcrum of Servito’s incredible scam. The consideration was seven and a half million, the asking price.