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

“I don’t have a watch, but it must be a little after ten.”

Remembering his own, he looked down at its luminescent dial showing a fuzzy 10:25.

“What’s your name, son?”

“Anthony. Anthony Conte, sir.”

Juni looked off in the direction of his car, thanked and dismissed him. As he staggered toward the ramp, he saw the lad still watching, so he gave a hopefully reassuring wave. The last thing he wanted was for an ambulance or the police to be summoned because they would ask questions he couldn’t answer. Slowly making his way up the gangway, the minute he saw them though the soggy mist the pain was forgotten as his keys protruding from the car’s trunk lock told the story. Juni hoped, but knew better as he peered inside and saw the wetsuit, praying the money was still there. Seeing no bags or cash, the throbbing in his head returned with a vengeance; not only the duffels, but also the remaining borrowed money that had been in his briefcase were gone. He looked around, but the lot was deserted. He put the keys in his pocket and had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach as he stumbled his way back down to the Pride of the Navy. There was no sign of the other duffels. With his body feeling somewhere above sheer agony he returned to the car, somehow remembering to remove the cardboard from the marina lock. What would he tell Erik and Christina? How would he break the news to his brother-in-law? What the hell was he going to do?

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

It was late and United States Treasury employee Sara Jones, a young, single parent, hurried to finish up her nighttime job. She disdained the cold, fluorescent-lit government building where she worked and was anxious to return to the snug environ of her two-bedroom apartment in Washington Heights where her young children were waiting with a baby-sitter, hopefully watching them closely. The attractive dark-haired, emerald-eyed young lady detested the walk from the US Treasury building, located on New York’s Sixth Avenue to the Eighth Avenue subway line for the fifteen-minute journey to her place. Being required to follow the Federal government’s strict dress guidelines meant wearing a skirt or dress. Most nights it was like running a gauntlet while walking past the derelict buildings dotting the area, as the lowlifes who called them home hooted foul things. But there was no choice because she couldn’t afford many cab rides on her GS-11 salary.

She placed a key in one bag’s padlock to empty its contents, scan and record the bills serial numbers and to confirm the amounts, as she had done thousands of times before. But this time the lock wouldn’t budge. She immediately summoned her supervisor Jim Hennesy, a career civil servant who she believed never had an original thought in his entire life. “Something’s wrong with this lock. My key won’t open it.”

Hennesy, whose glasses were so thick she didn’t understand how he could see anything, stood over her, looking down with disdain. He confidently inserted his master key in what turned out to be a futile, almost comical attempt to unlock it. He tried the same thing on the seven remaining bags and only four opened. A now ashen-faced Hennesy hiked up his pants waistband, normally near his shoulders even further, and hollered at Sara, although she was sitting right next to him, “Call inspector Hank Selac at extension 552 and get him down here—now!”

.     .     .

Fitful sleep finally came, but a startled Erik was awakened on the couch by the doorbell ringing. The only other noise was the TV, with some infomercial stating why the viewer should buy a product to promote hair growth. His first brain wave questioned why would Juni come to the house? Squinting, he turned on the dim hallway light and clad in his boxers apprehensively opened the door with veils of sleep still clinging to his eyes, keeping them partially closed. Confronted by two burly men dressed in ties and jackets, a quick glance back at the clock showed it was 1:30. The street was deep in shadows and sopping August heat, with the breathless darkness combining to make it all seem surreal.

“Are you Erik Preis?” the obviously better fed of the two asked, holding up a gold-colored badge in the faint light. These were the vultures who would be circling, looking for the guilty carcass. Although Erik knew they would be coming and soon, he still felt unprepared. As the skin on the back of his neck tingled with gooseflesh he suddenly felt more exhausted than ever before and only wanted to get this over with. Turning around, he saw both parents peering down from the upstairs hallway.

“Yes, sir,” he replied with a gulp, feeling the blood rush to his head and the roses in his cheeks involuntarily blossoming.

“I’m FBI Chief Inspector John Daly and this is Sergeant Frank Morganthaler of the Port Authority Police. May we come in?”

“Of course. I’m sorry,” he said nodding his head and gesturing with his hand. The two men seemed to bring more of the heat and humidity inside with them. Erik estimated the gray-haired, pot-bellied FBI man whose jowls had lost the battle against gravity to be about fifty-five. The younger, fortyish sergeant was built like an inverted pyramid and had a pair of distrusting ice cold cop’s eyes that seemingly knew your darkest secrets at a single glance. They shook hands, with Erik surprised the older Daly had a vise for a grip, while the other guy’s felt more like a wet mop.

What hit Daly as they stepped into the tastefully decorated house was the unique scent: more accurately, the essence. This caused him to recall a girlfriend from the distant past. Johanna Schumacher’s parents had emigrated from Austria and this place had the same aroma. It was a unique fragrance far different from an American household, an alluring