Flying Too Close to the Sun Read online

“A Massachusetts driver’s license and some matching credit cards, by tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Tomorrow afternoon! Holy shit, that’s a pretty tall order. My contact will have to get ‘em today and FedEx or drive ‘em down.”

  “Hey, ain’t that what old pals are for?”

  After a moment’s silence Joey offered, “I’m pretty sure I can work somethin’ out, but I gotta make a few calls. Give me the number you’re at. If you don’t hear from me within fifteen minutes, pick the stuff up tomorrow afternoon at Lenny’s Lounge over on Twenty-First, but it’ll cost a little extra to get ‘em so quick.”

  “How much for everything?”

  “About a grand.”

  “No problem.”

  Juni was sure Joey added on a couple hundred for himself. He stood by the phone for a half-hour, but no call came through.

  On Sunday, after attending the eleven o’clock Mass with his family, Juni departed. Dressed in a comfortable short-sleeved shirt and pair of light fabric slacks, he first drove to Lenny’s Lounge in Bay Ridge, a shady joint that used to be called Lombardo’s Bar and Restaurant. The hangout had been bought by one of the connected boys who converted it into a gin mill now used for conducting this type of business. Juni sat on one of the creaky bar stools in the smoke filled, noisy saloon with the jukebox turned up full blast to prevent any wires from picking up conversations, and forked over a thousand bucks in hundreds to a heavy-breathing Martino. His jacket and pants must have been a size fifty or larger and he not only resembled an overstuffed Italian sausage but also smelled like one. For his grand, Juni got what to his eyes looked like a Massachusetts driver’s license and a matching set of stolen credit cards.

  Martino was curious and hollered over the blaring oldies rock music, “If you don’t mind me askin’, why you need a Massachusetts license?” Before Juni could respond he added, “And why so fast? My guy had to pull in a bunch of IOU’s to get this shit on such short notice.”

  “I ain’t got time for small talk, but I need it for a big deal I’ve got cookin’ in that area.” Juni hesitated, finally adding, “There’s absolutely nothin’ that feels as good as takin’ back money from a good uncle, in this case Uncle Sam. I mean, he’s been stealin’ from us for our entire lives.”

  Martino let a soft whistle out of his chipmunk shaped cheeks. “Don’t get fuckin’ caught. The Feds ain’t too kind when it comes to people filchin’ from ‘em.”

  “Who said anything about that? All I said was I was gonna take back what’s mine.”

  “Just be very fuckin’ careful,” Joey reiterated raising his thick gray, almost white eyebrows.

  Juni bought Joey a drink and left, but wondered if he made a mistake. Should he have mentioned anything? But on second thought, Joey was good people and knew to keep his mouth shut. Juni quickly glanced at his new ID and saw he was now Frank Sciotta. If anyone asked, Sciotta would be a self-described businessman from Pittsfield, Massachusetts, the address on the license. His story line would be that due to a pending divorce, a move to the Boston area was needed. He didn’t intend to use the credit cards, with the only exception being in the unlikely event the hotel refused to accept cash.

  Putting Brooklyn out of his mind on the drive, he first pulled over at an old newspaper bin in the Bronx, removed three bound piles of New York tabloids and threw them into the trunk. He next stopped at an Army/Navy store in the same area and another in Hartford, where he purchased a couple of Army duffel bags. After checking for video recorders and seeing none, he bought brass locks in two separate auto-supply stores in Dedham and Brookline, Massachusetts all the while listening to different radio stations as he clicked off the approximate two-hundred and fifty mile drive. The Boston skyline appeared just before dark and after a quick dinner of hamburgers and fries at a roadside diner just off the Mass Pike, he drove to Logan Airport and entered the long-term parking lot where people left their cars while on extended trips. It was a multi-tiered cement structure with loads of graffiti, smelling of gasoline, rubber and old exhaust. The graffiti meant there were probably no video cameras to catch the assholes that drew what they tried to pass off as artwork and a quick check confirmed that. On the second tier he stopped alongside a same year blue Buick parked head in. He got out and removed only the front Massachusetts license plate and did the same on the fifth level. When both owners returned the odds were good they wouldn’t discover the missing front plate. But if they did, they’d no doubt assume it simply fell off and neither would be reported as stolen. Juni stopped in a deserted section of the garage and replaced his New York tags. The entire process took approximately half an hour. As he exited the lot a hitch occurred when the gate attendant became suspicious, not raising the bar allowing him to exit. Juni felt perspiration soaking his underarms. Could he drive through the bar without damaging the car?

  “This is the long-term lot. What were you up to in there for such a short time?”

  Juni responded, “Scuza, but I no speaka too gooda English.” All the time praying the guy wouldn’t make a move for the phone. There was definitely a surveillance camera here because cash changed hands. If forced to make a quick escape, it meant ending everything. “I looka for my little brother Alfonso, because he fly toa Italy tonighta on Alitalia. Is thisa where I parka to meet him?”

  “No,” the guy sighed. Pointing, he said, “You gotta go out here and make a right, then, another right at the first light and park in the short-term lot.”

  “I go outa here and thenna two times righta?”

  “Yeah, but first you gotta pay.”

  “How mucha?”

  “You know you’re in the wrong lot?”

  Juni just sat with a quizzical look on his face, with the bar still down.

  “It costs twenty dollars.” After making certain there were no other cars in line the attendant hollered even louder, “Twenty dollars.”

  “It costa twenty dollars to parka the car?”

  “Yeah.”

  Juni handed the guy his ticket and a twenty-dollar bill. According to the posted sign the forty minutes he was there should have cost three bucks. As the gate was finally raised, a relieved Juni added, “Thanka you very mucha.”

  . . .

  Fifteen minutes later a more relaxed Juni pulled into the Holiday Inn parking lot, a couple of spots from an overflowing dumpster and tight up against the hotel wall so only the rear plate was visible. This was good because even in the daylight the car would be pretty much incognito from all but one side. Once inside, he found the standard American hotel. Plastic everywhere, including the clerks who had plastic smiles to go with plastic ID tags with their name and hometown written on them. There were fat-dispensing vending machines everywhere with crackers, candy, potato chips and the like, along with a typical American restaurant off to the right, most likely with frozen food tasting like garbage. After registering as Frank Sciotta he wrote in the car’s rear license plate number. While filling out the documents he struck up a conversation with the room clerk, an attractive, slight girl with light blue eyes and long, fake eyelashes that he estimated was in her late teens or early twenties. Her name was Irene and according to her nametag her hometown was Boston.

  “Between us,” he whispered while winking, “I’m getting divorced. I’ll be staying for about six days, maybe less. Instead of using a credit card, can I pay for everything in cash, in advance?” He took out a fistful of greenbacks.

  “That’ll be okay provided you give me enough for your entire stay. You’ll also have to pay cash for any hotel services.”

  “No problem.”

  She carefully counted the money, which was probably more than she earned in a month and handed him a receipt.

  “Once my divorce is finalized I’m
considering moving to East Boston,” he added, folding the voucher. “The town seems nice, but I’d like to explore the neighborhood a bit. Maybe I’ll buy a place here and—”

  “I’ve got a pretty good idea what you’re going through, Mr. Sciotta,” she interrupted sympathetically. “My parents divorced a few years back and it got messy. You should do well house hunting because lots of homes are for sale. Which part of town are you interested in?”

  “I’m not familiar with East Boston, but maybe close to the water?”

  “Try Smith’s Real Estate on Bennington Street. They handle the nicest waterfront and water-view homes.”

  The chambermaid would no doubt see the wetsuit and other paraphernalia, so he wanted to cover himself. “Do you know if there’s a beach where snorkeling is allowed? It’s my favorite hobby.”

  “There’s Orient Heights public beach and as long as you don’t use a spear gun you can snorkel. I dated a guy who liked to dive and he told me the water there is pretty murky and cold, meaning you probably won’t be able to see much and will definitely need a wetsuit.”

  “I brought mine along. Thanks for the info.”

  “That’s what we’re here for.”

  . . .

  After taking the briefcase containing the cash and some gear from the trunk, Juni went to the room with plastic veneer furniture camouflaged to resemble real wood. It was clean and contained an air conditioner large enough to freeze over the entire Boston Bay, along with a chained-down color television set with remote control. There was also a well-stocked bar charging five bucks for a lousy ounce-and-a-half bottle of booze. He figured there was a water saver on the showerhead and a quick glance confirmed that.

  Juni hopped into bed and was asleep within minutes. Funny thing was despite a myriad of problems, he never had trouble sleeping. He awoke just before ten the next morning feeling refreshed from the drive and following a quick breakfast, re-locked the money in the trunk and took the subway, known in Boston as the T, an abbreviation for the Massachusetts Bay Transit Authority, to Fenway Park. Just before the game began he went to a pay phone, put in some quarters and dialed the Shuttle Air operations office. When the clerk answered, he identified himself as the dispatcher and requested to speak with Captain Shepard.

  Christina picked up. “Captain Shepard here.”

  He said, “Sciotta, S-C-I-O-T-T-A,” and hung up. He left the game in the sixth inning to be in the room in time for Christina’s test call at four-thirty. The phone rang and he picked up. With trepidation in her voice she asked, “Mr. Sciotta?”

  “Yes. How’s everything on your end?”

  “So far so good, but Montgomery’s not with us today.”

  “Oh, why not?”

  “According to crew scheduling his father had a heart attack and is in the hospital, so he was given the day off.”

  “How long will he be out?”

  “He only requested a single day. Nothing to worry about though ‘cause the guy who replaced him is new and has his hands full flying.”

  “That’s very reassuring. Next time I’ll fly Delta.”

  “I’ll call you each day after our three and seven o’clock flights and give you the tail number of the plane we’re flying. I’d hate to see you chasing after the wrong one.”

  “If I’m not at the hotel, do not leave the plane number with anyone even if the weather’s on our side. Something might have come up or I’m not ready, meaning everything’s off for that day.”

  “Gotcha. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Good luck.”

  “Luck? Would you rely on luck to safely complete your flights?” Juni hung up without waiting for a reply. He’d burn in hell before he relied on luck for anything. There would be no visible fault lines. This was just like a chess or card game where you always had to think four or five moves ahead of the opposition.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  A perspiring Woody Montgomery ambled down the quiet, dimly-lit corridor of the Intensive Care Unit at St. Francis, the famed Long Island cardiac hospital. He hated all hospitals with their antiseptic odors and medical devices, which were synonymous with death. From the phone call early that morning, he knew his old man’s case was classified as a life-and-death situation, and closer to the latter. After identifying himself to the rotund nurse in charge who had more rolls on her stomach than a French bakery had behind the counter, he was ushered into his father’s room. The eerie silence was only punctuated by the hissing sounds of the ventilator used to keep the old man alive. The room smelled of disinfectant, with an underlying scent of something else Woody classified as disease. Glancing at the chart affixed to the end of his father’s bed, Woody saw lots of things were wrong with him. Once the nurse softly closed the door, it was just father and son. Although listless, Errol Montgomery was conscious but couldn’t speak due to the life-support system. Woody’s first task was to devise a means of communicating. While holding his father’s ashen hand he whispered that one squeeze meant yes, two no, three good and four meant bad. Asked if he understood, his father responded with a single squeeze.

  “How are you?”

  Four feeble squeezes.

  “They’re doing all they can for you.”

  One squeeze.

  Father and son had never been close, especially after Woody’s mother, Evelyn passed away several years earlier and Woody subsequently learned the old man had kept a young mistress in a Manhattan apartment for years, while forcing his wife and son to endure with the barest of necessities. Woody had confided in his wife, Ingrid that his father was a selfish codger who had only one use for women and as a result she also despised him. But they put up with him for a single reason—money. During the little time they’d spent together, he usually drank too much and mentioned cash he had stashed away, somewhere. When sober, however, he was more wary and wouldn’t utter a word about his finances. As a result, neither Woody nor Ingrid was certain about his true financial status. Over the years he and Ingrid had been careful not to let on how they really felt, but as soon as word arrived of his grave heart attack she’d dispatched Woody in case the alcohol-induced accounts were true. Maybe now he’d come clean?

  . . .

  “Dad, I know it isn’t the best time to raise this because you’re going to be fine. But since I’m the only family left, I want to make sure everything’s in order...just in case,” he whispered.

  One squeeze.

  “Do you have a trust agreement or anything like that?”

  Two squeezes.

  “Even though you’ll be fine, I think it best you sign a trust in order to avoid probate, which can be time consuming and costly.”

  One squeeze.

  He released his father’s hand.

  “I had a lawyer draw up this document.” Woody exhaled a long breath and removed two neatly folded pieces of paper from his breast pocket. “It makes certain you get the best care possible and in case anything bad happens, leaves everything to me in a way to make the tax implications minimal.” Taking his father’s hand again, he whispered, “Do you understand?”

  One squeeze.

  “Do you mind?”

  Two squeezes.

  . . .

  Woody summoned the same nurse to witness his father’s signature. The plump woman watched as Errol Montgomery scribbled his barely legible name at the bottom of a document he couldn’t read and probably wouldn’t understand even if able to. She then signed in the space provided for a witness, thinking that Woody was one crass bastard, but she’d seen stuff like this so many times she was getting used to it.

  Once finished, the nurse left and Woody stayed for another fifteen minutes watching television. “You’re gonna be
okay,” he assured his father before leaving, but knowing he’d probably never see him alive again and not really caring. In his detached opinion, life amounted to a bunch of different relationships and this was one he really didn’t care about. Outside the hospital he experienced a momentary coating of misery and pang of guilt, similar to the feeling he’d get when passing a homeless guy on a street corner, but this emotion quickly abated. He was simply returning the treatment the old man had given his mother and him.

  He stopped at a local bar near home for some drinks and made a single call from the pay phone. “The paper’s signed. The old man’s not gonna make it,” he said and hung up. Pleased with himself, Woody proceeded to get thoroughly smashed for the first time since the night before the Boston emergency. Back then, he had been out at this same bar drinking his favorite gin and tonic until closing. He had sworn off after that, figuring his drinking might cost him his job. But it didn’t, so what the hell?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Juni spent much of the following day wearing latex gloves, tearing up New York newspapers and stuffing the shreds into the four duffels. When finished he locked each. Looking outside, it appeared as though the air had grown soggier as the sunlight waned and quickly turned to darkness, the time for his first survey of East Boston. After donning a light parka, he exited the hotel through the back, locked the duffels in the trunk and walked in an easterly direction along Saratoga Street, the main drag running through town. He made mental notes of the location of the police booth and single cruiser, along with several Italian restaurants. Closer to the bay the entire make-up changed from commercial to residential with quite a few “Room for Rent” signs hanging outside the old wooden New England-style frame homes. It was easy to imagine how charming this area must have been before the constant din of the jet engines shattered the serenity. Closer to the water, the delicious New England saltwater scent you could almost lick from the air changed into a stench when mixed with the jets’ kerosene exhaust, with no way to escape the vile taste. His estimated mile-long trek brought him to the pothole-riddled, pebble parking lot of the East Boston Yacht Club. The driving time from the hotel would be only four to five minutes. From appearances the name of the marina was a misnomer as none of the boats vaguely fit the description of a yacht. Although there were a few sailboats, their masts like tall oaks peering above a forest of small pines, most were smaller powerboats between twenty and twenty-five feet, no doubt used for fishing. The nice weather meant the marina was alive, with fishermen entering and leaving with their gear. Juni walked inside while the entranceway gate was ajar. There were a number of unpainted wooden storage lockers off to the right, the numbers on them seemingly corresponding to the ones on the slips. Grubby-looking, unshaven anglers were in the process of removing fishing poles, smelly bait and other gear from the lockers and transporting it to some of the seventy-odd berthed boats. He walked onto the wooden dock floating on the water with worn planks resembling exposed human ribs, his footsteps hollow-sounding. Small waves gently lapped at the pilings holding the dock in place. The airport was clearly visible about three-quarters of a mile to the south-southeast across the bay. He could hear the high-pitched whining sound as the jets awaited their turn in line for departure, which changed into a thunderous roar that shook everything as takeoff power was applied.