Chapter 3
Albert Goldean coughed slightly as he puffed on the long black cigar, settling back in the imitation leather armchair. He'd swiped the cigar on his the last visit to his father-in-law's house. The old man half chewed, half smoked his way though so many of the thick stogies that Al was sure he wouldn't miss just one - and Al wanted something special to celebrate his coming triumph.
Of course, the old man would have given him the cigar if he'd asked for it, even though they were special and cost a fortune to smuggle into the country. But then he would have had to explain what he was celebrating, and he wasn't ready to do that yet. Just another couple of hours and the shipment would be in, and the worst of the waiting would be over. Then a week or two to move the stuff on the street, and he could tell the old man what he'd done.
Al grinned as he pictured the look on the old man's face when he heard what his son-in-law had pulled off - and without any help from anyone. For years, he'd had to endure the old man telling him that if he hadn't married well he'd be walking the streets now. Well, they'd all be eating their words soon, he thought with satisfaction.
"Yeah, pretty soon all this will change," Al told himself as he contemplated the naugahyde furniture, the acrylic carpet, and the imitation mahogany paneling. For the thousandth time, he easily convinced himself that his father-in-law's large house, set on a huge expanse of lawn, filled with only the best furnishings, was more the kind of spread he should have.
Sure, this place was all right - three bedrooms and a pool in the back yard. But the pool was small and the house looked just like all the others in the neighborhood. And the neighborhood. Factory workers and housewives. Not that the world didn't need the kind of people who lived in the houses on either side. It was just that he felt above them, part of a higher class. It was like making a hawk live in a chicken coop.
Al played with familiar thoughts of hawks and chickens for moment, finding once again how aptly they fit his view of the world. There are only two kinds of people, he told himself, hawks and chickens, that's what it all boils down to - and he counted himself among the hawks. The chickens were just there for the plucking by hawks who swooped down, grabbed whatever they wanted, and flew back up into the sky with their booty. The chickens flapped their wings and ran around in circles, but they just didn't have it in 'em to fly like the hawks. Al could feel the heights calling him.
Nice as his present house was, it a gift from his father-in-law just like everything else, and it grated on his sensibilities. “Someday soon,” he told himself, “I'll have a nest up among the clouds like the other big-time hawks. In fact, my nest will be so high up that even the old man and his buddies will have to look up to me.” Al grinned with satisfaction when he thought of that day in the future when he'd push the old man aside and take over as boss of the family. Then they'd all see a different Al than the one they made jokes about now. He'd show them all.
Al's thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the front door. He put the stogie in the ashtray and got up. Three steps away from his chair it occurred to him that it might be the old man paying a surprise visit. Hastily stashing the ashtray and stogie in the cabinet under the bookshelves, he hurried to the front door.
Standing on the front steps was a fidgety fat man in an ill-fitting suit. The fabric strained against a single button that held back the expanse of flesh threatening to burst the seams. The collar bit cruelly into his fleshy neck, soaking up the sweat that trickled down from his brow. The man pulled a rumpled handkerchief from his pocket and mopped futilely at his forehead and neck as he said, "I know you don't like me coming here to your house, boss, but we got trouble and I couldn't talk about it on the phone."
Al surveyed the man with ill-concealed contempt. Burt was what currently passed for his lieutenant in the business. As he watched Burt wringing his hands and mopping his brow waiting for a reply, it occurred to him yet again that the man seemed to be not much more than a trained dog waiting for his master's voice. "Won't be long before I'm rich and powerful enough to dump this dummy, and get me a super sharp lawyer or somebody to do my bidding," Al told himself. "But for now I gotta put up with a bunch of rejects."
"All right, what's the trouble?" Al asked, expecting to hear that the car had broken down or somebody'd stolen the hubcaps.
"Uh, can we go somewhere more private?" responded Burt plaintively. "You ain't gonna want nobody to hear what I got to say."
The tone in Burt's voice found a sympathetic nerve in the pit of Al's stomach - something must have had gone seriously wrong for Burt to be so cautious. "Ok, come on around to the garage," said Al. "We can talk there without being seen or heard."
Al led the way around the corner of the house. He slipped his key into the lock, and while the door was opening, carefully scanned the street in both directions. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, so he motioned Burt through the open door. Flipping the key to close, he stepped through as the door swung down to latch with a loud clank.
A flip of the wall switch lit the garage, illuminating the polished chrome and glistening paint of the black Mercedes limousine and bright red Corvette in garish light. Al leaned on the Mercedes and reluctantly asked, "Now, what's the problem?"
Burt, knowing better than to touch either of the cars, stood uneasily - knowing also that his boss was not going to like what he had to say. Burt cringed a little as he considered that the news he had to deliver now was the worst he'd ever told the boss. Al had a well-deserved reputation for having a bad temper, and Burt was sure what he had to say would set it off. He'd been fired so many times that he'd lost count. Al always hired him back after cooling off - with the length of his unpaid furlough determined by the magnitude of his real or imagined infraction. He mopped again at the sweat pouring off his brow and calculated how long he could live on the money he had in the bank. "Ok, I'll tell you, but you gotta promise not to take it out on me. It ain't my fault - what's happened - so you got no call to be taking it out on me. Ok?"
The longer Burt took to spill the news, the more that sinking sensation settled on Al's spirits - and the angrier he became in compensation. He was sure even before Burt said the first word that it had something to do with the shipment, and he could feel all his dreams of glory slipping away to be replaced with a desperate fear. If the shipment got lost or busted, instead of bragging about his operation to the old man, he could well be running for his life. The old man didn't take kindly to mistakes. "If you don't spill it quick, I might have to squeeze it out of you like pus out of a pimple. Now talk. What's gone wrong?"
Burt glanced around the garage, looking more for an escape route than for someone overhearing their conversation. Finding no alternative, he began, "Well um, it's the shipment, boss. You know how you decided to use two small planes instead of one big one? Well, one of the planes carrying the stuff crashed right into the side of a mountain. The other plane hung around for awhile to see if the pilot made it, but he didn't see anybody moving. Said the plane was broke up bad - hit a bunch of trees."
A cold chill ran up Al's spine as the implications of the plane crash sank in. It didn't matter to him that the pilot had died in the crash, or that the plane itself was lost. The half shipment of cocaine it carried - one hundred pounds of pure crystal - was worth over a million dollars, but even its loss could be absorbed. What mattered was that his father-in-law would now find out that he'd been "borrowing" large sums of money out of the old man's accounts, planning to pay it back with the profits from the cocaine. Now there weren't going to be any profits, and the money he'd "borrowed" wouldn't go unnoticed forever.
This was one situation where being married to the old man's daughter might not be enough to save him. The old man bragged too often about what he did to underlings he caught stealing from the family. It didn't matter how long they'd been with the family, or how much they stole. The old man would steal anything from anybody if he thought he could get away with it, but went totally crazy if anybody stole from him.
Al could feel the weight of the world falling down upon him, and he lashed out at Burt in his frustration. Grabbing the cowering fat man by his collar, he half snarled, half whined, "You did this, It's all your fault. If I hadn't listened to you, I wouldn't be in this mess. And let me tell you, if I'm going to take the long fall, then so are you."
"But, but," stammered Burt, realizing that more was at stake than an unpaid vacation. "But boss, this was all your idea! I was just doing what you told me. You can't pin the blame on me now that it's gone sour. Don't do this to me. Please, don't do this. I've done right by you all these years - don't that mean something?"
Al shoved the fat man away in disgust. It wasn't out of loyalty that he decided not to make Burt the scapegoat. In the back of his mind he knew it wouldn't work. The old man would know that Burt couldn't have done it all by himself, and that would just make him madder. "No," he admitted to himself, "all the trails lead to me. When they come for me some dark night, they'll also come for Burt and a couple of others who have worked for me, but it'll be me they really want. And they'll make me an example, just like they did Joey Granza."
The memory of Joey's body hacked into little pieces sent a violent tremor coursing through Al's body. No, it was better to run than to sit and wait for the knock on the door. Images of his house, his wife, his cars, flashed though his mind - all the things he would have to give up if he ran. Anger flared as he measured his loss.
As the violence of his temper boiled to the surface, he beat his fists on the top of the Corvette. The pain in his hands just boosted his rage, and he kicked the door panel to punish the car for hurting him. There was a loud crack as the fiberglass gave way, a spiderweb of fractures radiating away from the point of impact. Al felt sick when he saw what he'd done to his pride and joy. His anger turned to frustrated rage as he looked around and couldn't find a suitable target for his violent temper. For an instant he considered taking it out on Burt, but refrained when he considered that browbeaten as Burt was, he probably wouldn't put up with physical abuse. Getting hit back wouldn't help his mood at all.
Burt watched Al turning round and round, fists clenched, jaw muscles working, face bright red, while unintelligible sounds - half self-pitying whining, half howls of rage - sputtered out of his mouth. He wondered if he shouldn't just try to slip out quietly and call back later.
Burt started to leave, but turned around and suggested, "Well you know boss, I been thinking a little myself. Seems to me if we got the stuff out of the wreck before anyone was the wiser, wouldn't that fix everything? The guy in the other plane said the wreck was way out in the woods. Ain't nobody gonna find it any too quick out there. If we got there first and grabbed the stuff, we could be home free before the wreck was discovered."
"Oh sure," responded Al sarcastically. "The wreck's way out in the boonies where nobody can get to it, right? So how are we gonna get there? You better stick to using your muscles and leave the thinking to me."
"I got that figured too," argued Burt stubbornly. "I ain't thinking about you and me going to get the stuff. If I can't drive there I don't wanna' go. Nah, the way I figure it, anybody else headed for the wreck would have to get there on foot - and the pilot said it'd be rough going. But I thought, how did the plane get there - it fell down from the sky, right? Well, what if we hired a couple of those guys who jump out of planes for fun? Skydiving they call it. These guys parachute down to the wreck, grab the stuff, and hike it out to us."
Al paused in his pacing to stare in wonder at the fat man by the door. "You know, that might work. You got any contacts who could do the job?"
"Sure, I been doing some business with a guy who's into that kind'a stuff. I'm sure he could find at least one more guy who's willing to make a little fast money."
"Yeah, I'd have to pay 'em pretty good so's they wouldn't try to skip with the coke... or at least promise 'em big money... Ok, I'll go for it. You get in touch with your contact, then come back here and I'll tell ya' what to do next. Yeah, maybe I can save both of our hides in this thing after all. Good thing you've stuck with me all these years 'cause it's gonna take real brains to scheme a way out of this mess. A meat-head like you would be in a world of hurt without me looking after ya. Now get out of here and do what I told ya. I got thinking to do."
Burt started to say something but changed his mind. Turning to the door he muttered, "Ok boss, I'll get right on it. I'll be back in a couple hours with word on the skydivers."
Al watched Burt walk out the door, pausing to reflect on the changes this visit had wrought. While it looked like a disaster there for a while, he got a little pleasure out of how he'd figured a way out. "That's the mark of a true hawk," he told himself. "A hawk doesn't let anything stand in his way or get him down. He either smashes through the obstacles or figures a way round 'em."
He ran his hand over the spiderweb of cracks in the door of the Corvette, wishing he hadn't lost his temper and taken it out on the car. He doted on the sleek red sports car, but having to explain how it got damaged bothered him more than the actual harm to the car. Frances and her father were always getting on his case for losing control - using it as an excuse to keep him out of all but the fringes of the family business.
Sure he got a little carried away sometimes, but that was just a sign that he was frustrated with his situation in life. If he had the power to do what he wanted, he wouldn't be getting so pissed off. Al pictured himself as the Roman Emperor he'd seen on television the night before - his word the law of the land, his slightest whim sending the fawning advisers and senators scurrying to please him. "Someday, I'll be on top," he promised himself. "Someday I'll have it all my own way."
Admiring the way he'd schemed his way around his current problems, Al decided that it was just another example of his masterful brain power. With so much thinking power at his beck and call, he was confident that nothing would be able stand in his way for long.
Returning his thoughts to the car, it occurred to Al that cars were always getting banged in the doors by careless shoppers in parking lots. He hardly ever parked the Corvette around other cars for that very reason - but he could say he did this one time. He pictured a slovenly pig of woman, herd of screaming snot-nosed little brats in tow, parking next to his pride and joy. The woman drove a rusty old junker that smoked and belched as she shut it off. Before he could drive away from the rolling horror, the bitch pushing her door open all the way with her foot so she could drag her bulk off the seat. Al could almost feel the heat of his angry reaction as the door of the rusty old junker slammed into the pristine side of his Corvette.
"Yes," he told himself, "that's what happened. It was all that bitch's fault."
Al smiled as he returned to his cigar, feeling once again in control of his world.