Flying Too Close to the Sun Read online

  “Why’d you wait so long?”

  “I thought I might come up with enough without involving him, but couldn’t. I don’t know how he’ll react, and I don’t want to lose you.”

  Without hesitation she said, “I’ll speak with him now,” and went upstairs.

  Erik paced back and forth. Was he the “piece of shit” his father claimed? Would Sal help? Would he hold on to Carol; his career; his life?

  After explaining the entire story and the amount owed, with tears in her eyes she pleaded, “Please Dad, Erik desperately needs your help.”

  “I can’t access that amount immediately,” he muttered. As he looked at the young lady standing before him, he recalled when he had first fallen in love with Anita, a lifetime ago. Like her mother, Carol had the same warm heart, worth more than all the glamour in Hollywood. “You have to answer one question before I’ll consider this.” He hesitated. “Do you love Erik?” adding with a knowing sigh, “and I don’t mean only a physical attraction. I can probably get a home equity loan, quickly. But the cost will be burdensome. Will he repay me?”

  Carol wouldn’t beg and replied with so much conviction it surprised even her, “I do love him, very much. I can’t define what that means right now. But, I’m absolutely certain he’ll repay you as soon as possible. Without you he’ll lose his, our, future.”

  “What about his parents?”

  “They’re an entirely different story, from a different country and culture and drink a lot. I believe that because of them Erik has lots of private wounds, which are hopefully in the process of healing. The bottom line’s that his father wouldn’t loan him a dime and threw him out of the house. It’s you or nothing.”

  “All right,” Sal finally whispered, wondering how anyone couldn’t help their child in a time of dire need. Glancing at his watch, he said, “I’ll go to the bank first thing in the morning. My credit rating’s good, so it won’t take long.”

  “There’s more.”

  “What?”

  She told him the missing money story and how it might appear when money suddenly surfaced.

  Sal dismissed her concern with a mere wave of the hand. “Don’t worry. Just have him tell whoever asks I advanced it. I have nothing to hide.”

  “Thanks, Dad. I love you.” Carol kissed him and immediately relayed the good news to Erik. As a wave of gratitude ran through him, he went to Sal and also thanked him profusely.

  . . .

  Erik’s stomach was churning when he arrived at the Rodriguez home late the following morning. Maybe Sal had changed his mind? He and Carol cautiously stepped into the den, together. As they sat down Sal sensed their anxiety, so he immediately handed over a cashier’s check for full restitution.

  “I can never thank you enough for what you’ve done.” Erik took a step forward and seeing the older man through tear distorted vision hugged him. “I’ll repay every last cent. You have my word.”

  Sal let out a large breath and embraced Erik, the son he never had, while brushing his own tears aside. “Life’s a bitch. Get the hell out of here and to the bank—now!”

  Erik drove there at twice the posted limit and handed over the check. He then called O’Brien.

  With disappointment seemingly in his voice, O’Brien told him, “I’ll still be closely monitoring you,” and hung up.

  Erik’s next phoned Morganthaler and told him the details of how he repaid the loan. Morganthaler demanded information about Sal that Erik couldn’t supply. “You can rest assured I’ll check him out.” Maybe he could find inconsistencies in this all-too-convenient way out? He called Daly and relayed the information Erik had supplied. “What’s this guy Rodriguez’s relationship with Preis?”

  “His daughter’s dating him.”

  “It all sounds a bit too simple.”

  “I agree. I’ll check him out.” But the investigation into Sal Rodriguez turned up nothing other than some previous traffic violations, so both men drove to his home and grilled Sal in depth. The income tax returns, pay stubs and bank statements he supplied, however, showed his finances were in order, so unremarkable the cops felt like they already knew him. They were right back where they had begun; nowhere.

  With the weighty repayment off his back, Erik became all business; money business. At his apartment he penned a note to Juni and in it he outlined what he believed happened, sealed and placed a stamp on it. After marking it personal, he dropped it in the mail box on the corner to be picked up the following day. He returned, took a cotton ball, thoroughly swabbed the inside of his mouth and placed it another baggie alongside the one containing his father’s toothbrush. The FedEx office was a few blocks away, so he drove there and sent both items at the airline employee reduced rate via overnight delivery to Genetrack Bio Laboratory, including a return FedEx package. He next called Shuttle Air’s crew scheduling department. “I think I’m coming down with a cold. Can you cover my trips for a few days?”

  “We have plenty of reserves. Feel better soon.”

  As his thoughts returned to what happened, hatred won out over every other emotion and he turned his total attention to the impending task.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  After awakening from a short nap Christina checked the mail, discovering the new medication hadn’t yet arrived. She went into the grimy bathroom, showered and washed her hair. After applying a liberal amount of conditioner, she blew it dry, noticing that the shine was returning. According to her doctor’s strict regimen she also took two Gigotor tablets. Hopefully, the Keppra would arrive later that day or tomorrow via UPS. Thoughts of putting her seizures behind her, forever, actually made her feel like a Catholic school girl on her first date. As a kind of celebration of a hopefully seizure free life, she dressed in a light pink top accentuated by tight-fitting jeans and drove to a nearby Burger King. While waiting in line she dug money out of her purse and patiently awaited her turn in the slowly moving procession of people that wound its way between two heavy chrome railings. She planned to order two double cheeseburgers, fries and a root beer. This was her first time out in days and it was great just to hear the sound of other peoples’ voices.

  The counterman finally asked, “What can I get for you?”

  She began to speak, but her reply came out garbled and made no sense.

  The young man looked strangely at her asking, “Miss? Are you alright?”

  She wanted to tell him what was wrong, but couldn’t. Suddenly, she grasped for her chest, as she was having difficulty breathing. From somewhere, a voice asked, “You feeling okay? You don’t look good! Do you need help?”

  Why did he sound so far away? Why was she having trouble breathing? Heart attack? Not in my family? Suddenly, everything faded and she could no longer stand. Her knees buckled as everything in the room whirled about. With the full weight of her body behind it, she crashed headfirst into the chrome waiting line railing. She was on the floor and felt as though a hundred people were standing over her and looking down. She could hear them screaming something but couldn’t understand what. All she could feel was something warm spurting from her head. All the pain suddenly disappeared and she was spiraling toward the brightest and warmest light she had ever come in contact with.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Woody and Ingrid Montgomery were seated in their newly-renovated New Jersey ranch style home, in the living room done in contrasting hues of soft white, with both reading. The heavyset Ingrid shifted in her seat, put down her copy of the New York Times and spoke as she patted her swept back, dyed blond hair that attempted to convey a wind-blown look, but was so overdone it looked like she was inside a wind tunnel. “What are you going to do now?” she asked.

  “I dunno,” Woody exhale
d noisily, shaking his head. He laid his copy of the NY Post on the coffee table. “I do know I’m done with flying, finished. With all the new security crap and alcohol testing it’s no fun any more. Plus, I don’t see any long-term future for Shuttle Air. Your brother, Billy told me how well our investment in his new company will do, so maybe I’ll work with him?” Woody paused, “Why don’t you invite him for dinner? Do you think he’d object if I ask about coming aboard?”

  A knowing smile appeared on her face. “He’d probably be thrilled. You guys have always gotten along so well. If you think it’s secure, I’ll invite him.”

  “That would be fine. Just make it an innocuous conversation in case of the phone thing that we discussed after the police were here the last time.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Dressed in blue jeans, black tee and old tennis shoes, after making certain of no tail, Erik drove into New Jersey via the Holland Tunnel. He checked into one of the grubby motels ringing Newark Airport or Sew-ark, as pilots regularly called it due to the nauseating stenches emanating from the countless refineries and other heavy industries that ringed it. The single-story fleabag with peeling paint he chose was situated near the always busy New Jersey turnpike interchange used by many eighteen wheelers.

  The motel’s presence was announced by a huge red neon sign, with the last letter of the name The Newark Country Motel either broken or burned out, making it The Newark Country Mote. After ensuring it wasn’t surrounded by water, even with the misspelled word, he parked in the rear and walked into the closet-sized lobby. Judging by the scarcity of cars in the lot, it was mostly likely almost empty, meaning it was probably a cheaters joint. A skinny white guy in his twenties, with a pimply face and long, unwashed hair sat behind a bulletproof partition. Even through the divider he smelled like he hadn’t gone near a shower for days. It was a dismal place with fluorescent lights and a noisy Coke dispenser. Erik asked, “Can I pay cash?”

  “Cash is always good here,” the dirtbag replied and handed Erik a registration card.

  After sizing Erik up, the creep mentioned at least four times there were free X-rated movies in each room, with a new one every night. This meant the movies were probably changed more often than the sheets. After discovering no ID was requested or desired, he registered under the name John Smith and paid a hundred bucks cash for two nights. At one time this might have been a decent place, but the merciless march of time had left it far behind with no attempt to catch up.

  His room had bars on the windows and smelled of chlorine disinfectant. Although he wasn’t expecting a robe on the bed and mints on the pillow, gloom hung over every corner just like outside, with the entire place glowing an off-shade of sulfurous yellow. Besides a twin-sized bed, the small room was adorned with a cigarette-scarred, scratched Formica nightstand with initials and phone numbers inviting a call etched everywhere. This décor matched a badly discolored dresser and streaked mirror. Stale cigarette stench was permanently suspended throughout and the plywood-walled closet was bare, except for rows upon rows of empty wire hangers hanging on an unpainted wooden pole. Erik didn’t unpack his clothing or toiletries, fearful of what might find its way into his underwear or worse yet, toothpaste. Trying to focus on the task at hand, he finally got up the courage to sit on the creaky bed that almost dipped to the floor and pore over a map providing directions to the Parsippany, New Jersey street address he’d found in the phone book for Mr. Howard Montgomery. The smoldering embers of hatred spread throughout his body screaming out only one word, revenge. He anxiously awaited the needed darkness, which seemed to never come as it was as though the light was working well past its normal quitting time. But when the blackness finally arrived, with it came an accompanying taste of promise.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  The Montgomery front doorbell rang at five-thirty sharp. Ingrid’s strapping brother, Billy was a walking timepiece. After hugging and kissing him, she took his hand and led him into the living room. He and Woody shook hands and embraced. “It’s great to see you,” Woody clucked as he took a step back and looked at Billy Rhodes who was dressed in designer slacks and an open collar, short-sleeved shirt that exposed his hairy chest and meaty forearms. “But I just can’t picture you with a beard.”

  “My whole fucking face was itchy so I couldn’t wait to shave it off.”

  “I’m glad it’s gone.” Woody said, “We sent Stephanie to a friend’s for a sleepover, so it’s just the three of us for a leisurely dinner.

  The word dinner sent Rhodes scurrying into the kitchen with the gleaming checked ceramic black and white tiled floor and glistening granite countertops. Opening the stainless steel Viking oven, he exclaimed, “Rib roast, my favorite!”

  “I remembered,” a beaming Ingrid cooed as she gave it a final basting.

  “But I feel bad that I won’t see Stef.”

  “You can see her next time.”

  As they sat down for dinner, Billy admired the fine red wine, holding it up. He gingerly scrutinized the bottle in the muted light of the gaudy crystal chandelier hanging over the table. “1976 Chateau Lefils! This must have cost a fortune. You shouldn’t have.”

  “When the going gets tough, the tough go shopping,” Ingrid clucked.

  They made small talk and as dinner was ending Woody finally asked, “How is our investment doing?”

  “I printed these out just for you,” Billy smiled with a wink and removed some spreadsheets from his pants pocket.

  “One thing I always admire about you,” a jovial Woody added pointing to the papers. “Everything is planned well ahead of time, down to the smallest detail.”

  Billy arranged the crumpled papers on the black glass coffee table, pressing them down with his beefy hands. “These show your half of our investment was worth a bit over a million, one million, one hundred and sixteen thousand bucks, to be exact.” He chuckled, adding, “The cash is safe and sound, still in those gorgeous green sacks, minus the locks. From what I’ve lined up, it looks like our small enterprise should have initial annual sales of a bit below three million and over two-hundred grand in earnings. I’m estimating the really big bucks and profits will begin rolling in next year when sales should reach almost twenty million, even in a sluggish economy. The profits should be just under a million after tax breaks and start-up costs. Since everyone wants to feel green today, recycled paper is an up and coming enterprise. The big boys, including the mob people, are no doubt watching closely, so once things get up and running I’m pretty sure they’ll make an offer to buy us out, if for no other reason than to eliminate the competition. Then, we just sit back and count our money. The bottom line is right now I’m projecting your original investment to be worth just under three million by next year. If someone buys us, well that would be off the chart.”

  Woody interjected, “That’s great. Since 9/11 there’s no more fun in airline flying. Plus, all I ever hear from management is negative bullshit, with constant intimidation along with it. So, I resigned and probably can’t return, which is fine by me. Unfortunately, I can’t collect my retirement money ‘til age sixty, if there’s any left by then.”

  Rhodes didn’t hesitate. “That’s okay, ‘cause I can offer you an executive position, Director of Marketing at a starting base salary of two hundred grand a year, plus expenses and profit sharing.” Billy paused to savor the bouquet of the fine wine.

  “That’s fantastic!”

  “Wait. There’s more. You’ll also have a direct fifty-percent partnership and I’ll issue you privately held stock.”

  “I’ve said many times that your business savvy borders on brilliance.”

  Billy waved away the compliment and took another sip of the velvety vino. “Speaking of brilliance, weren’t you the one who first discovered what those two shit-fo
r-brains pilots and that pudgy guinea were up to?”

  “Yeah, but give Shepard some of the credit. I couldn’t believe she thought up the whole thing down to the tiniest details; a brilliant fucking scheme. But she was also dumb. Can you imagine discussing everything in the cockpit? She must have actually believed their entire conversation would be wiped out in forty-five short minutes...”

  “But didn’t you say that would have happened if—”

  Woody held up his hand. “The voice recorder does have a constant forty-five minute erase feature. Except, when I suspected they were up to no good, during the preflight inspection I did as a favor for Preis, I secretly removed its power source by pulling a circuit breaker in the jet’s aft airstair area. That preserved its contents, even if they believed they deleted it by pressing the erase button in the cockpit.” A smiling Woody nodded his head. “I got to hear their entire conversation, intact.”

  “How’d you do that?”

  “Oh, that was easy. Back at LaGuardia I simply hung around the maintenance shack for a while like I often did. The first time it took me almost twenty minutes to open the recorder’s metal cover and remove the eight track tape cassette. You probably remember those babies from the good old rock ‘n roll days.”

  Rhodes smiled and shook his head. “In this modern age they still use ancient shit like that?”

  “They do on the older 727’s. The newer jets have more advanced digital systems. Fortunately, the same was true for the flight data recorder. If it had been the new digital type, then the door opening on the ground would have shown, but Shepard probably checked that out ahead of time and knew it didn’t. I don’t know for sure, but we were still covered either way. Once I got my hands on that tape, I listened right here on my stereo. They were speaking on the ground and their conversation was crystal clear. I realized there was lots of money to be made, but still needed more details.”