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

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“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.

Sizing up the place, the locked cyclone fence gate leading to the plain wooden clubhouse and slips wouldn’t present a problem. He could easily enter by jamming the rudimentary fastening mechanism open with a small piece of wood or cardboard. It was also possible to gain access by swinging his body around the right side of the gate, bypassing it completely, but this would entail a messy descent down a slippery mud bank, followed by a vault from shore to the dock, so he would use it as a last resort. There were no security guards or video cameras and there weren’t even any of the huge spotlights common in other marinas, probably due to the smaller size of the boats. While meandering along he used a pen to jot down the slip numbers where the berthed