Flying Too Close to the Sun Read online

  Hearing this she told him, “I won’t have anything more to do with your scheme, including warning you.”

  “Then how the hell are we going live?” an angry David asked. “If you’re forced to go on disability, then—”

  “Tell me about it. I’m the one with the rent, alimony and child support and still have to pay off all this other stuff you bought,” came her equally angry retort pointing to the surround sound system. “You could start to help by chipping in.”

  David looked into Christina’s eyes and she stared back with intensity like it went clear through him. Nothing more was said. He wondered if she was tiring of him or had found someone else.

  . . .

  Christina and Erik flew together after the picnic, but she said nothing until the seven o’clock shuttle was at the gate. Woody once again left and Christina told him to lock the door. “I discussed the plan with the guy I want to bring in. He’s originally from Brooklyn, now living in Jersey. His name is Juni Rosario and I believe he’s got the needed savvy you and me lack. He’s gonna scout the area and then we’ll probably get together to finalize everything. He wouldn’t give me a specific timeframe but knows this is time sensitive. He asked questions, one of which was whether to include Woody. We’ll discuss Woody when we get together.”

  “Did he commit?”

  “No. But I got the impression he would.”

  Glancing at his watch, Erik added, “If our decision is not to include Woody, I don’t want him recalling anything out of the ordinary. It’s best not to have any more cockpit discussions. If we need to speak let’s do it in another out of the way place before or after work.

  “I agree.”

  When they arrived at the cafeteria a smiling Woody was preparing to leave. “I didn’t know how long you’d be so I went ahead and ate. You have plenty of time, ‘cause I’ll do the pre-flight inspection. But I’ll send Erik a bill at the end of the month.”

  After he left a smiling Erik said, “You might think Woody’s an asshole, but he’s okay in my book.”

  “That’s ‘cause he’s doin’ your work.”

  Just before departure time, Christina was again handed a sealed envelope and informed they would be delayed for connecting passengers. Barely noticeable smiles crossed Erik’s and Christina’s faces.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  When Christina was called to the phone in the flight operations office a couple of days later, she was pleasantly surprised to hear Juni’s voice. “I’m at Newark airport and just returned from Boston where I surveyed the area. Let’s meet Friday night at an Italian eatery I know called Pepi’s located on Sixty-eighth Street and Fourteenth Avenue in Brooklyn. Can you both be there between ten and ten-thirty to do some brainstorming?”

  “The time’s good, but is the place secure?”

  “I’m goin’ there tomorrow night to make certain. If not, we’ll switch locations. If you don’t hear from me the meeting’s on for Friday night.” He provided directions.

  “This mean you’re in?” an anxious Christina asked, but the line went dead.

  . . .

  Pulling into the driveway at home, Juni’s old Ford practically disappeared into a huge pothole. When did that happen? I gotta fix it along with painting the entire house. His wife Angela was sitting in the kitchen and he gently kissed her. As he removed a piece of bakery cheesecake from the refrigerator and prepared a cup of coffee, she told him, “The washing machine broke today, so I used the public laundry.”

  “I’ll try to get my hands on a new one.” He was sorry for her and felt like he was caught in a washing machine tumbler. Glancing around, he brooded over how a Princeton graduate, instead of making a good living was running a bakery on a shoestring, all because of a crime he was falsely accused of. He threw the cheesecake into the garbage and went to his wife. “I’m sorry about all this,” waving his hand at the house. “You’re entitled to better.”

  She tenderly took his face between her hands and looked knowingly into his dark eyes. “Maybe someday you’ll catch that break? You can’t help the hand you were dealt.”

  “I love you.”

  “I love you too.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The grimy Ford ground to a halt in the parking lot of Pepi’s. The worn-out springs groaned and the engine ticked and pinged, ridding itself of the heat created by the hour-long drive. Juni dragged himself from the air conditioned-by-nature interior reeking of stale smoke. After mopping his face with a handkerchief, as the summer heat continued its late day assault he straightened his striped silver and black tie and grudgingly donned his jacket, knowing appearances were always important in Brooklyn.

  Entering the eatery was like unlocking a portal back in time. No trendy pâté and brie, henpecked men pushing kids in strollers with overbearing wives staring over their shoulders or other such crap. Unlike other cities like L.A. where everyone was from somewhere else, no doubt all these people either resided or grew up in Brooklyn. The front doorway still led directly into the dimly lit bar, with an equally shadowy, spotless dining room off to the right, where each wooden table was covered with the same red and white checkered cloth tablecloth under a single white chrysanthemum floating in a water-filled fine Lenox vase. Neatly arranged gold-framed vistas of Italy adorned the dark red velvet-papered walls, while the spicy fragrances of northern Italian cooking hung heavy in the air and made his mouth water even though he had already eaten. Juni stepped into the bar that smelled of nicotine and hard work, the conditioned air a welcomed relief. Frank Sinatra’s Summer Wind began playing as he hovered in the shadows with his cigarette, ignoring the black and formerly white but now yellowed official New York City sign boldly stating, Smoking Prohibited. His exhaled smoke added to the thick man-made haze layer hanging like a ghost under each tiny bar lamp.

  The mellow tune began. As the muted trumpets kicked in Juni instinctively began swaying ever so slightly, as memories flooded back. He took another long drag, but shook his head because he hadn’t come here to listen to Old Blue Eyes. Not spotting the person he was seeking, Juni drifted into the softly lit dining room his tailored suit and expensive leather shoes creating an impressive persona. Maybe the guy had sold the place? Only one person tracked his moves and when their eyes met the older guy, with bushy eyebrows that came together and a two-day blue-black and gray stubble on his face grinned, the smile emphasizing three missing teeth. Juni’s was probably the only full set of ivories in the entire joint. Why did old-time Italians rarely have good teeth, taking better care of their cars than their choppers?

  The owner, who might qualify as being athletic if barroom brawling could be passed off as a sport, was clad in the expected pleated black baggy trousers and a stark white, open collared shirt exposing a large gold chain and cross hung around his neck, partially buried in a tangle of gray chest hairs. Was a nickel-plated pistol also hidden there?

  He appeared surprised and perhaps a bit tense at encountering this person from a bygone era, but curiosity apparently overcame anxiety as he slapped Juni on the shoulder with a forced smile. “Holy shit! Juni the Lid! What’s happenin’? I ain’t seen ya in ages. It must be way more than a dozen years.” Eyeing the charcoal-colored Armani suit, he raised one thick eyebrow, “But ya certainly look like you’re doin’ okay.”

  Feels like a thousand years, Juni thought as the two men hugged; an Italian custom he never quite understood. A smiling Juni stepped back, unbuttoned his jacket and scrutinized his host, “Carmine DiLiberto you old sonamabitch. It’s at least that long and you and the place haven’t changed. Damn, you look even younger. Hey, never mind me, how you been? Is everything still good with you and Maria?”

  “I’ve been married to the same broad for so long it’s like I’m reading
the married man’s Penthouse; a couple of different stories but the same goddamned centerfold every month.” Making the sign of the cross, DiLiberto continued, “The only words that’ll be inscribed on my tombstone will be restaurant owner—forty fuckin’ years.” Cutting to the chase, he asked, “What brings ya back?”

  After the expected glance over his shoulder, a solemn Juni whispered in a suddenly reacquired thick Brooklyn accent, “Ya got somewhere we can chat; privately?”

  “Sure. I still got my conference room over there.” DiLiberto nodded in the direction of the tiny table he’d come from with two chairs off in a remote corner. Juni could still picture him discussing matters with the big boys at the same table, with most probably dead by now. They sat down and Juni fired up another Marlboro as DiLiberto leaned over and asked, “Can I get ya a bite to mangia, maybe a little macaroni or lasagna?”

  “No thanks. I ate at home earlier this evening with the wife and kids.”

  Shaking his head DiLiberto muttered, “Wife and kids? Where the hell does the time go?”

  Time had indeed flown since Juni gained respect from DiLiberto and other lowlifes. Only Juni knew it was undeserved, because none were aware of the true circumstances surrounding the incident that happened during the ‘86 World Series. Never a great baseball player because of his build, like almost everyone else in the Big Apple Juni got caught up in the Mets run at their second World Series title against the Red Sox. So much so he purchased a Mets hat declaring them the winners before the series ended and proudly wore it everywhere he went. One night in Little Italy an inebriated, connected thug named Antonio “Big Boy” Gallo came out of Mama Sorrento’s restaurant, saw the hat and demanded Juni turn it over to him. But Juni ran away as quickly as possible, which wasn’t very fast, around the corner and down a dead-end alleyway. To his chagrin Gallo pursued him and with nowhere to go, Juni meekly took off the hat and handed it to his pursuer who had actually drawn a pistol. Gallo was so drunk that when walking out of the alleyway with Juni’s Mets hat in hand, he tripped over a garbage pail and the pistol discharged. The bullet went into his stomach and severed an artery, killing him. After retrieving his hat, Juni ran off, but Gallo’s goombahs believed a struggle had ensued, with Juni disarming and shooting him and perception became reality. Gary Carter might have been the most popular Met, but God was Juni’s best fan that night because loads of unearned respect was piled on him. He immediately became known as Juni the Lid and adopted phony mannerisms to go along with his newfound status. No one but Juni and the cops knew the whole thing was a sham.

  Juni returned to the present when DiLiberto snapped his fingers, commanding the heavyset waitress with the constant smile, “Maria, bring us a bottle of good wine, the ‘88 Venizie Pinot Noir.” Turning to Juni he added, “Only the best for you.” After the waitress poured the wine Juni grasped the small wineglass in his thick mitt and both men raised their goblets, simultaneously reciting, “saluti.” DiLiberto looked directly into Juni’s dark eyes and as a faint smile crossed his lips knowingly asked, “To what do I really owe the honor of your return?”

  Another peek over his shoulder. “I need a spot for an important meeting with some, er, business associates,” he whispered. “We gotta have good food and privacy, not worried about anybody listenin’ or even rememberin’ we were here, if you know what I mean.”

  Knowing exactly what he meant, DiLiberto replied, “You got nothin’ to worry about ‘cause if anyone like that hung out here, someone would burn my joint down.”

  Juni abruptly pushed his chair back from the table and stood, ready to depart Memory Lane.

  “You’ll be comin’ in?”

  “Yeah. Make a mental reservation at a secluded table for this Friday. There will be three of us for a late dinner between ten and ten-thirty. I’ll let you know if anythin’ changes.”

  “Consider it done.” They again hugged and DiLiberto put his arm around Juni’s shoulder. “C’mon, have a bite. A small plate of pasta or some fried calamari?”

  “No thanks.” Juni took a twenty from his wallet. “But give this to Maria. And put me down for one of your pasta plates on Friday.”

  “Your order is placed.” A serious DiLiberto leaned over and whispered, “As far as anyone’s concerned I never spoke with or even seen ya tonight. I’ll instruct Maria on the same thing.”

  Juni smiled. Returning to his car the smile disappeared as he felt dejected for reverting to his previously self-despised persona. His internal civil war picked up where it left off years ago, black versus white; evil as opposed to good. But the conflict didn’t last long, as a singular thought, do or die, overshadowed everything. While driving to his Jersey home, a somber Juni pondered how fate or whatever else you might dub it, had taken two total strangers whose lives had collided a short time ago and dropped an opportunity in their laps, no doubt changing their destinies.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  After concluding his Shuttle Air flights, Erik checked the pilots’ computer and discovered another notice from O’Brien demanding to see him prior to his next trip. What could he want this time?

  Erik showed up as ordered the following day and without so much as a handshake the large man ushered him into his office. A frowning O’Brien sat down with such a crash it jostled his full mane of stark white hair. There was an open personnel file lying on the huge desk and O’Brien spoke while pointing to it. “During your first year management reviews your employment record at least twice. I’ve been going over yours and even though there’s nothing negative, I remain concerned about your role in the Boston incident.”

  “Like I told you, it had nothing to do with me.” Was O’Brien on a fishing expedition or had Woody or Christina said something?

  Ignoring Erik’s comment, a red-faced O’Brien continued. “In retrospect, do you want to fill me in on any other details of what transpired?”

  “There’s nothing more to say,” Erik replied with a shrug of his shoulders.

  Erik could see the lines in O’Brien’s face and crow’s feet around his eyes deepening. He asked Erik, “Are you’re nervous with your job?”

  “No. I’m very comfortable.”

  A stern-faced O’Brien began. “Captain Shepard wrote about…” but stopped. He quickly closed the folder and told him. “You can leave now.”

  While checking in for his flight Erik pondered what, if any connection there might be between Christina’s plan and O’Brien’s grilling? He would ask her when the opportunity arose.

  . . .

  Christina heard nothing further from Juni so after work on Friday she provided Erik with directions to Pepi’s, telling him, “Let’s take two cars.” He desperately wanted to get her take on O’Brien’s most recent fishing expedition, but decided to see if she said anything first. Erik changed into jeans and tee shirt in his car, while Christina left her uniform blouse and slacks on, removing any airline related items.

  . . .

  The dented Ford the size of a cabin cruiser that seemed to instinctively dodge the Brooklyn potholes came to an abrupt halt in the parking lot and Juni exited. Running beefy hands over the suit lapels, he fired up a Marlboro. All the medical hoopla not withstanding, he wouldn’t quit smoking for fear of gaining more weight. He glanced into the outside rearview mirror and patted down his well-greased, gray and black hair combed in the pompadour style because a full head of hair was important to his image. Recalling the words of an old paisan, “For us guineas, when you get old, you lose hair where you want it and find it growing where you don’t,” he paid extra attention to a small thinning spot he’d recently noticed on the crown, making sure it was covered. Since it was unknown who might be watching, with the butt dangling from his lips he unbuttoned his jacket and paraded across the street in his best Brooklyn swagger
, leather heels thundering on the concrete.

  After entering the still-crowded restaurant and after a warm greeting, the owner ushered him to an out of the way table. It was easy to pick out the few made men who had proven themselves in some manner and taken a solemn oath of allegiance to the Mafia organization, La Cosa Nostra that police insisted no longer existed, post-Giuliani. These well dressed and bejeweled guys were surrounded by their hangers-on, with the remainder of the diners mostly old-time Italians sporting five o’clock shadows; the hard-working guys, masons, carpenters, landscapers and the like, marked by their permanently dirty fingernails. Most had emigrated from different sections of the old country, now fortunate to be able to afford to eat dinner out once or twice a month with the old lady; the latter usually the result of an arranged marriage and the immediate acquisition of a coveted green card. Their wives were mostly first-generation Brooklyn-Italian; short, pudgy, with fat thighs that stuffed three or four cream-filled cannolis into their mouth for dessert, but made certain to put Sweet and Low into their cappuccino. Juni recently heard rumors the neighborhood was changing, with many Italians moving to the suburbs, replaced by first-generation Asians and newly-arrived Russian-Jewish immigrants. But obviously from the numbers, the paisans that might no longer live here still drove to get the food.

  . . .

  Erik parked behind Christina and entering together, many patrons gave them the once-over. Pepi’s was roughly thirty miles and a universe away from Farmingdale and Erik wondered if someone would be needed to do cultural interpretations. Between the barroom jukebox and loud conversations, there was a constant buzz, probably purposely done to make electronic eavesdropping impossible. Christina mentioned Juni’s name to a grungy-looking maitre d’ with thick eyebrows and some missing teeth and was ushered to an isolated table where a short, more horizontal than vertical forty-something guy with black hair fading to gray, looking worn down by hardship, work, or both was seated. Although his body exuded an undefined intensity, he resembled any other Italian. They sat down and pointing to Erik, Juni asked, “Who’s the kid? I thought you were bringing another pilot with you?”