Flying Too Close to the Sun George Jehn (best non fiction books of all time .txt) 📖

the parking lot and Erik returned to a now-darkened house. He went directly to his bedroom and locked the door. The windows were wide open, but the oppressive air still wasn’t ready to surrender the day’s heat to the night’s coolness, even with the chugging fan. He removed his clothing and lay down, knowing there would never be air conditioning in this house. His father loved to quote the German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche. “That which doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” The old man repeated that over and over. Erik wanted to tell him Nietzsche eventually suffered a mental collapse, was institutionalized and died from syphilis, but never did, instead letting him live in his false world. While lying there he glanced at the blue and white aviation navigation charts he’d pinned to the walls seemingly eons ago, done so his imagination could fly off anywhere, anytime. Retracing the route he and Carol had flown, he found himself wishing she was still here with him.

He also longed for his problems to be put behind him. But the inability to wish them away caused the dreaded anxiety to return. His mind and stomach churned as a fitful slumber finally came. But in his nightmare he wasn’t flying with Carol, but was on a bus with bars on the windows and headed to prison.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

The game was about to begin and for now Juni was the only player and still wasn’t certain of the rules. Hopefully victory would follow, but right now the scoreboard read zero. Dispensing with the phony confidence he had displayed with his partners, after many thoughtful hours he had come up with a plan. He’d leave for Boston the following day and would lie low during the daytime, maybe take in a baseball game at Fenway Park, major league baseball’s oldest stadium. Nighttime would be different. He’d always felt more comfortable moving about under a shroud of darkness, a black slipstream where he could look out, but no one could see in. Although doubtful they’d be able to quickly pull off the job even though the tide would be favorable, and notwithstanding the weather might cooperate, there were still other items to accomplish like finding the right boat.

Juni descended to a locked home basement closet and rechecked his gear: a hand-held compass, wet suit, diver’s gloves and booties, snorkel, small LCD flashlight, wire cutters, set of copper wires, latex gloves and a portable VOR radio. Christina explained pilots use the VOR to navigate by and it was essential. He loaded everything into the car, except for the borrowed money, a bag of smoked sausage and four loaves of Italian bread. He would depart the next afternoon for the approximate four-hour drive to East Boston. He told Angela he was leaving on an unspecified business trip and needed to use her car. The weather forecast for the following two days in New York and Boston was for partly cloudy skies with a chance of thunderstorms toward evening, with the four-day extended forecast calling for deteriorating conditions due to a stalled stationary warm weather front to the south. He drove to a pay phone and placed a call to area code 718—Brooklyn. It was picked up after a few rings. “Joey Martino. It’s Juni Rosario. How you been?”

“Juni the Lid, you old fart. I ain’t seen ya in ages. I thought you croaked or somethin’. What’s happenin’?”

Skipping the formalities, Juni told him, “I need somethin’ fast for an important deal,” silently praying Martino could deliver.

“What you need?”

“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