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The Tainted Trust, (Volume Two of The King Trilogy)
The Tainted Trust, (Volume Two of The King Trilogy)
The Tainted Trust, (Volume Two of The King Trilogy)
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The Tainted Trust, (Volume Two of The King Trilogy)

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The Tainted Trust, Volume 2 of The King Trilogy, is, in addition to a moving and action packed thriller, a brilliant depiction of what perfectly normal people will do for love and money.

No one wept when Jim Servito died. He left an estate amounting to $325,000,000 when his wife, Karen killed him in Caracas. He had accumulated the fortune the old fashioned way: he stole it from the U.S. and Canadian Governments using a brilliant gasoline tax evasion scam. The money is hot, deposited in a Cayman Island bank, and it was cursed. It has a profound affect on everyone who touches it. It is managed by Alfred Schnieder, an aging and unscrupulous Caracas banker.

Mike King, the love of Karen’s life, and nearly ruined by the Feds’ scorched earth efforts to recover Servito’s fortune, convinces her to keep the money, instead of returning it to its rightful owners. Privately, he chides himself for his obsession to keep the fortune, but his pride refuses to allow him to return it to its rightful owners. “They didn’t care about me,” he shouts. “All they cared about was recovering their money.” With the assistance of Alfred Schnieder, Mike and Karen form The King Trust, a catastrophic and near fatal mistake. To avoid the possibility of the money corrupting him, Karen informs her son Phillip that his fathers fortune was returned to the Canadian and U.S. governments.

Desperate to recover the money, the Feds continue to spare no expense and effort to do so. Leading the charge are John Hill, head of the Criminal Investigation Department for the Internal Revenue Service, and Alex McDowell, head of Canada’s Security Investigation Service.

LanguageEnglish
Release dateSep 5, 2016
ISBN9781626600188
The Tainted Trust, (Volume Two of The King Trilogy)
Author

Steve Douglass

Born, raised and educated in Canada, Stephen spent the first half of his career working for the two largest oil companies in the world: Exxon and royal Dutch Shell. He spent the second half working for one of the smallest oil companies in the world; his own. He has three sons and one daughter, all of whom are grown and “off the payroll”. Now retired, he spends his summers with his wife, Ann, and their two cats, Abby and Samantha, at their Canadian home near Niagara Falls. They winter at their Florida home in Port St. Lucie. When he is not writing, he is reading, traveling, or playing horrifying golf. He plans to write until the day he dies, probably longer.

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    The Tainted Trust, (Volume Two of The King Trilogy) - Steve Douglass

    CHAPTER 1

    New York. April 23, 1980.

    Louis Visconti was a happy man. Alone at his massive glass topped desk on the fifty-sixth floor of the south tower of The World Trade Center, he stared pensively in the direction of the windows, refusing to allow his steely grey eyes to focus on anything. He reflected on his considerable achievements. Thirty-three years of age, ten years out of Harvard Business School, and already a multimillionaire, he figured his income for the year would be between two and three million, his lofty projection based on annualizing outstanding results of the first half of the year.

    His personal spending had increased in proportion to his considerable investment successes. With every reason to believe the cash flow would continue forever, there was no need to save. The cost of most anything he wanted was irrelevant. Image and profile were everything. When he threw a party, his only concern was how lavish he could make it. No expense was spared to make certain it was more ostentatious than any he had attended. There were women in his life, but only one of his relationships had ever reached critical mass, the price of love and commitment refusing to allow that threshold to be breached. Money was his real lover, possessions and power his consuming passions.

    Finally realizing his dream of becoming one of the most important figures in New York’s financial community, his picture had not only appeared in the Wall Street Journal and Barron’s, but also in the financial sections of most important newspapers in the industrialized world. His brilliant and phenomenal investment record had become legendary. He was the man, in demand. Movers and shakers stumbled over one another to be and seen in his company. His schedule had become so tight that he was compelled to turn down numerous invitations to speak at luncheons, dinners and conventions in North America, Europe and Asia.

    His brief experience with marriage was an unmitigated disaster, fortunately ending before wealth and children. He was strikingly handsome and extremely eligible, the only child of near penniless Italian immigrants who had fled to the United States in late 1946. He frequently boasted about the source of his survival instincts by claiming that both he and his mother had narrowly escaped death when she gave birth to him within minutes of her arrival at Ellis Island.

    Blessed with a brilliant mind and fanatical ambition, he had scratched and clawed his way through public and high schools in Queens. Hustling, working and studying hard eventually earned him a near full ticket scholarship at Harvard Business School. His lucky break was to have been offered a full partnership with his two friends and former classmates, Jerry Mara and Allen Griesdorf. Seven years earlier, the three had taken an enormous gamble when they quit the relative security of their jobs as account executives with Green, Waltrum, a large and extremely prestigious Wall Street investment banking firm. With the horsepower of youthful courage and a boatload of borrowed money, they boldly formed their own company.

    Mara, Griesdorf and Visconti grew quickly. The partners took a pass on ordinary money. They romanced and managed only wealthy money in a single investment fund. From the very beginning they had set an unrelenting minimum per account of five hundred thousand dollars. By investing the bulk of the fat portfolios in tangible assets during the highly inflationary seventies, they had enriched their clients and achieved personal success beyond their wildest dreams.

    As word of the company’s brilliant investment techniques and incredible track record spread, more clients came, anxious to receive the twenty-plus percent annual return others had enjoyed for five consecutive years. Now that the partners were managing over a billion dollars, the fund had become unwieldy. Closing it and refusing further entry was now well within the partners’ contemplation.

    Visconti displayed a lecherous smirk as he watched Susan, his secretary, a shapely twenty-eight year old brunette, enter his office.

    I have a call for you on line eight, she announced with a fetching smile, then placed a black coffee mug on Visconti’s desk.

    Who is it? Visconti asked, refusing to shift his grey eyes from Susan’s tantalizing breasts.

    Alfred Schnieder. He’s calling again from Caracas… You know him?

    Visconti nodded. One of the old-time banking farts. Been around since Methuselah was a teen-ager.

    Want me to tell him you’re busy?

    Visconti took a micro sip of his coffee, then shook his head. Nope. I’ll take it. Thanks for the coffee. He lifted his receiver, then forced a smile. Alfred, thanks for calling. What’s shaking?

    I have clients for you.

    Visconti tightened his lips and rolled his eyes skyward. Don’t do me any favors. I need more clients like I need another wife.

    But these are not ordinary clients.

    What makes them different?

    Over three hundred million reasons.

    Visconti bolted upright and immediately began to salivate. How much? he shouted.

    I believe you heard me the first time.

    Who are they? You said clients.

    I had the distinct impression you had no interest.

    Well suddenly I do. Who are they?

    The ownership is quite complex. I’m compelled to tell you it’s hot money.

    If it’s In God We Trust, I don’t give a shit what the temperature is.

    Schnieder chuckled. Am I to assume you’re interested?

    That’s a gigantic understatement! Jesus, Alfred, who the hell are these people?

    Shortly, you will receive a telephone call from a man named Mike King. He will arrange a meeting with you to determine your qualifications to manage that vast sum of money.

    Is he one of the clients?

    Yes. His wife was married to the man who accumulated the money. Currently, it’s under my care and control, but the wretched calendar never lies. Soon I will be too old to continue the responsibility. That is the primary reason I have referred you to Mike King. If he approves of you, I will make the necessary arrangements to transfer the responsibility to you.

    What’s your fee?

    One percent on the capital, and ten percent of real annual gains in excess of ten percent.

    Visconti completed a quick mental calculation and salivated more. He wondered however, why Schnieder had chosen him. Why me, Alfred?" he asked.

    Elementary, my friend. You are the most qualified, Schnieder conceded, well aware of Visconti’s larcenous tendencies.

    Cut the bullshit! What’s in it for you? I know you’re not doing this for the good of your health.

    As perceptive as ever, Louis… I want my retirement to be as comfortable as possible. If King gives you the job, I plan to give you the number of my bank account in Geneva. Then before we complete the transfer of responsibility, I will expect to see the balance increased by five million.

    I’m sure you will. Maybe you can tell me where the hell I’m going to get five big ones.

    From the trust, my friend. Your first assignment will be to arrange five million of transitional slippage. Of course it will have to be replaced with first proceeds… Do you understand what I’m saying?

    Exquisite, Visconti declared, chuckling at the irony of Schnieder’s proposition. Five million dollars would be removed from the trust during the transfer, wired to Schnieder’s Swiss account, then replaced with future income in the trust. Subsequently, the accounting would be cooked to hide the removal. You need me to help you to steal five million dollars of stolen money.

    Precisely, my friend. I prefer to think of it as an interest free loan, to be used for the balance of my useful life… I expect King will call you very soon. When he does, you must be prepared to romance him.

    I’ll be ready. You can bank on it.

    Good pun… One final word of advice. Beware of interest rates. They are heading north.

    When and how far north?

    Soon. Bankers are living in fear of Paul Volcker’s intentions. They’re convinced he’s serious about killing inflation. They think he’ll raise Prime to twenty percent, perhaps higher. With twelve percent inflation in the United States, you can draw your own conclusions. Real rates must climb well above historic norms to break inflationary psychology. You know that.

    Thanks again, Alfred. I’m gonna start liquidating. I’ll talk to you soon.

    CHAPTER 2

    Washington, D.C. April 24, 1980. Nine A.M.

    John Hill, head of the Criminal Investigation Division of the I.R.S., relaxed uncomfortably in his Washington, D.C. office on Constitution Avenue, his mind struggling with a multitude of trivial problems. The silence was rudely shattered by the shrill sound of his telephone. He lifted the receiver. Hill, he barked.

    The call was from Alex McDowell, Head of Canada’s Security Intelligence Services in Ottawa. He and Hill had met as students at Dartmouth College in the early fifties, Hill at the outset of his career and McDowell, a retired R.A.F. pilot, as a mature student.

    To what do I owe the pleasure of your call? Hill asked.

    Would you believe Jim Servito is dead?

    You’re kidding!

    I kid you not. I just received a call from one of our External Affairs people. She told me he was killed in Venezuela. Evidently he kidnapped his son in Toronto and flew him to Caracas. King and Servito’s wife followed them there to try to get the boy back. There was a messy confrontation and Servito ended up with the short stick.

    King killed him?

    Nope. Servito’s wife did. She messed up his face with a tire-iron and then pushed him over a railing into a three hundred foot canyon.

    Wow! Sounds like she really wanted him dead. How the hell did she and King get out of the country? I thought you had them locked up.

    They shocked us by posting a million dollar bail, then they disappeared. Both have refused to disclose how they did it, but we’re amazed they were able to pull it off.

    Where are they now? You got someone on them?

    Nope. We had to drop the charges. The Toronto Police got a full confession out of Jerrold Allison, one of Servito’s slaves. He was involved in a nasty automobile accident in Toronto about two weeks ago. He told the police everything they wanted to know before he died in the hospital. His statement cleared our friends and implicated Servito in everything we thought we had on them.

    That’s just fucking wonderful! Hill bristled. Everybody lives happily ever after and we get the shaft. Dammit, Alex! Servito stiffed us for hundreds of millions. Now tell me how the hell we’re going to get it back.

    I can’t, but we have a pretty good idea where it is.

    Where?

    The Cayman Island branch of The Banco International Venezolano.

    Why am I not surprised? Have any of your people talked to anyone there?

    Exercise in futility. Short of torture there’s no way we can get tax haven bankers to tell us anything about client activities.

    So where do we go from here?

    Several options. One is to put pressure on the Venezuelan government, and the other is to talk to King and Servito’s wife. We think they know where Servito hid our money.

    You must be joking. They won’t give you the time of day. In fact, I’ll be shocked if they don’t sue our asses.

    I wouldn’t blame them if they did, but the Minister of Finance is breathing fire. He’s ordered me to put a full-court press on this thing, and not to stop until we get every dime of that money back.

    CHAPTER 3

    Toronto. April 24, 1980. Ten A.M.

    Mike King lifted a silver canister from the shiny surface of the large oval mahogany table in front of him. Coffee? he asked.

    Please, Karen Servito replied with muted disinterest, pushing her gold rimmed cup and saucer in Mike’s direction.

    The heavy oak twin doors to the ornate boardroom burst open and Dan Turner, nattily dressed in his usual grey pin striped legal uniform, appeared. Welcome back, he bellowed with a warm smile, then hurried to kiss Karen’s cheek and shake Mike’s hand. He moved to the opposite side of the table, placed his black briefcase on the surface and took a seat. Sorry I’m late. It’s the telephone. It’s become an appendage of my ear.

    He leaned backward and clasped both hands behind his head. I’m so happy for both of you. I had pretty well written you off when you left the country. I had recurring nightmares of your horrible demise in Venezuela.

    It nearly happened, Dan. If it hadn’t been for a hell of a lot of luck, we wouldn’t be here, Karen confirmed, then took her first sip of coffee.

    How does it feel to be free? Turner asked.

    Wonderful, Mike replied with an enormous smile, You start, Dan. My curiosity’s killing me.

    I’ll give you the highlights, then I want your story. I can’t wait.

    Mike nodded.

    Two days after you and Karen left for Venezuela, I received a call from a man named Alex McDowell, the head of Security Intelligence Services for the Feds. He advised that they’ve dropped all of the charges against you. After I climbed back onto my chair, I asked him for an explanation. He told me Jerry Allison lived long enough to confess everything. He confirmed everything you were trying to tell me.

    Incredible! Mike exclaimed. I was convinced he was dead when I left him in Servito’s limousine.

    The police managed to pull him out and transport him to the hospital in one piece. His neck was broken and both of his legs were crushed. Miraculously he kept breathing long enough to give them a pretty good statement.

    Did McDowell ever apologize? Karen asked.

    Turner nodded. He asked me to convey a sincere apology to both of you, and to express his deep regret any inconvenience the Fed’s actions may have caused.

    Mike gritted his teeth and pounded his fist on the table, his deep blue eyes exuding outrage and contempt. Inconvenience! he shouted. Those actions nearly cost us our goddamned lives, Dan!

    When an elephant walks, he’s totally unaware of the insects he tramples.

    Do the insects have remedies? Karen asked.

    Turner spread his hands and turned his palms skyward. You could sue, but I would strongly advise against it. You’d be locked into a protracted and expensive pissing contest. The Feds would defend themselves vigorously. They would insist that they acted entirely within the law, that they had probable cause, and that Jim Servito was entirely responsible for the damages you sustained. At best, you’d get a settlement, but it would be a Pyrrhic victory.

    Mike turned to Karen and winked. Turner’s assessment of the situation had vindicated his decision. He waited for her nod, then turned again to face Turner. We’ve already settled with the Feds.

    Turner glared at Mike. You’ve done what! How?

    I want it clearly understood that Karen and I continue to enjoy lawyer-client privilege, Mike insisted. If there’s any question about that…

    Understood.

    Phillip led us to his father’s money after I was released from the hospital in Caracas. Before he died, his father introduced him to Alfred Schnieder, a bank manager in Caracas, and instructed Schnieder to make Phillip his beneficiary. Phillip had Schnieder’s business card in his wallet.

    Turner leaned as far forward as he could, his deep set grey eyes fixed on Mike. How much is it? he asked.

    Somewhere north of three hundred million, Mike replied.

    Incredible! Turner declared, his eyes bulging. Does anyone else know this?

    Alfred Schnieder, Karen, me… and now you. We told Phillip that we’re returning it to the Feds. We don’t want the money to corrupt him.

    Turner squinted. Surely you’re not planning to keep it.

    Mike nodded, his tightened lips displaying deep resolve. An eye for an eye.

    Absolute insanity! Turner protested. As your attorney, I’m compelled to advise you in the strongest possible language. You must abandon this madness and return the money to its rightful owners. You can’t imagine the trouble you’ll be in if the Feds ever discover what you’ve done. They’ll lock both of you up and throw away the key. No bail this time. You’re both flight risks.

    Mike shook his head and pointed a defiant finger at Turner. All the king’s horses and all the king’s men aren’t going to convince me to change my mind. What the Feds did was nothing short of atrocity. You can’t imagine the anguish they’ve caused Karen and me. The money stays where it is. No negotiation.

    Sensing Mike’s determination, Turner re-directed his protest to Karen. Can you knock some sense into this man’s head?

    Even though Mike had displayed an uncharacteristic larcenous trait in making the decision to keep the money, Karen still had difficulty faulting his logic or his motive. She too had suffered greatly at the hands of the Feds. Sorry, Dan, she said, shaking her head. I agree with Mike.

    Turner shrugged his shoulders and raised both hands in surrender. At least I tried. You can’t say I didn’t warn you. He smirked. Off the record… I might be inclined to do the same thing if… That’s not legal advice, just a private thought.

    I appreciate your candor, Dan, Mike said. Karen and I want to thank you for sticking with us.

    My pleasure. You’re the most exciting clients I’ve ever had… You have any plans for the money?

    Mike shook his head. Only to make sure the Feds never see it again, he said.

    Karen stood, walked around the table and kissed Turner on his forehead. Mike and I are finally getting married.

    Turner chuckled, his face reddened. Congratulations. Where and when?

    We’ll send you a formal invitation as soon as we know.

    Wherever it is, I’ll be there.

    Turner stood and accompanied his clients to the elevator. Good luck to both of you, he said. I hope we never have to meet again under such unfavorable circumstances.

    Karen waited until the elevator door had closed, then wrapped her arms around Mike’s waist. Pressing her head against his chest she felt a sense of closure. At last she was completely free to be with the man she had never stopped loving. She lifted her head and kissed him hard. I love you, Mike King. I love you from the bottom of my heart… Do you think we could ever make up for all the years we missed? she asked, her lips barely grazing his.

    Mike grinned. We could have a hell of a lot of fun trying… When and where do you want to get hitched? Have you considered that?

    You bet your cute butt I have! It’s all I’ve done for the last eighteen years.

    Then let’s do it, soon.

    The two lovers proceeded toward the heavy glass doors leading to Bay Street, then Karen squeezed Mike’s hand to get his attention. I’m really worried, she said. What the hell are we going to do with over three hundred million dollars of stolen money? What’s going to happen to us if we’re caught?

    Mike frowned. He was not sure what to do with Servito’s millions. His only certainty was that he would rather die than turn it over to the Feds. We won’t get caught if it stays out of sight long enough. Schnieder will continue to manage it, we’ll forget we even have it and let time take care of the details.

    Do you trust him?

    I do, but I worry about his age. He’s getting a little long in the tooth. He’s sixty-four. He told me he was twenty-eight when he left Germany in nineteen forty-four.

    What if he dies?

    He’s covered that. He’s picked a successor. His name is Louis Visconti. Alfred told me he’s in his early thirties, brilliant, extremely capable, and very discrete. He lives in Connecticut, works in New York. With our permission, Alfred’s prepared to bring him up to speed on the trust.

    Then five people will know about it.

    It has to happen eventually, Babe. Even if Schnieder lives, someone will have to replace him when he retires.

    Did he tell you anything more about Visconti?

    Yup. He gave him a heavy duty testimonial and said he would trust him with his life.

    I think we should meet him first, and I don’t think we should give Schnieder permission to tell him anything until we do.

    Definitely. I’m going to call Visconti and set up a meeting.

    Are you going to include me?

    Mike grinned and nodded. Unless we both agree, without reservation, Visconti’s out. Okay?

    Deal, Karen replied, feeling only slightly more comfortable.

    CHAPTER 4

    Caracas. Friday, April 25, 1980.

    A brilliant financier, Alfred Schnieder fled war torn Germany in early 1945, leaving behind all of his wealth, almost all of his teeth, and a dubious past. Arriving in Caracas, Venezuela without a cent to his name, he committed his remaining years to the banking business. He was acutely aware that by keeping his mouth shut and remaining religiously discrete with clients’ money, he could live like a king in South America. And he did.

    A gentle knock on his office door caused him to turn his bald head and raise his graying eyebrows. Hold for a minute. Someone’s at my door, he said into his gold plated telephone receiver, then placed it on his desk and hurried to the door. He opened it to see a very excited Manuel Blanco, his diminutive administrative assistant, about to knock again.

    Mister Schnieder, two people from the United States Internal Revenue Service are in my office, Blanco announced. They have been very rude and have demanded to see you immediately. They have refused to tell me why they are here.

    Stall them for a minute, then show them in, Schnieder ordered, then returned to his desk to pick up the receiver. Forgive the delay. I have visitors. I’ll call you later.

    Thirty seconds later, Blanco appeared at his door with the two I.R.S. agents. He politely ushered them in. Mister Schnieder, these are the people from the Internal Revenue Service who want to see you.

    Schnieder stood and nodded to Blanco. Thank you, Manuel. You may leave now, he said, then turned to face his visitors with a confident smile displaying a glittering array of gold capped teeth.

    One of the two I.R.S. agents, a short fat man with a white brush cut, removed his standard issue sunglasses, took several steps toward Schnieder’s desk and removed a badge from his sweat-stained beige summer suit. He held it out for Schnieder to see while he introduced himself. It was kind of you to see us, Mister Schnieder. My name is Charles Anderson. With a pompous sweep of his right arm, Anderson introduced his partner, a very attractive Mexican in her thirties, wearing dark sunglasses, a white blouse, beige cotton skirt and navy blue jacket. This is Mary Sanchez. We’re with the Criminal Investigations Division of the I.R.S., in Washington, D.C. We have a few questions.

    In no way intimidated by his visitors, Schnieder had been subjected to similar interrogations numerous times in his long career. I’m at your service… I must remind you however, if your questions relate to the activities of any of our clients, I am by no means obliged to answer. He winked at Anderson. Besides, it would appear that you are considerably beyond the limits of your jurisdiction.

    Shaken by Schnieder’s response, Anderson took a deep breath. We’re very much aware of your banking laws, sir. And you’re quite correct about our jurisdictional limits. It would be appreciated however, if you would try to cooperate with us. The government of the United States is attempting to recover a very large amount of money and Miss Sanchez and I have been directed to find it.

    What money? Schnieder asked, aware his bank was home to the fruits of crime and flight capital of many clients. Perhaps you could be more specific.

    Hundreds of millions of stolen gasoline tax dollars. We have reason to believe they’ve found their way into your bank… Several years ago, it came to our attention that a Canadian citizen by the name of James Servito might be involved in gasoline tax evasion. In addition to other things we did, we followed him all the way to your branch in Grand Cayman. Anderson riveted his green eyes on Schnieder’s. We did that too many times not to conclude that he was making very large deposits in your bank. Would you care to comment on that?

    You know I can’t do that, Schnieder replied.

    Let’s cut to the chase, Mister Schnieder. Anderson said. Our people have photographed Servito’s wife and Mike King enter this building on several occasions. Did they visit you?

    Yes.

    Why?

    That’s privileged information.

    Have they ever deposited any money in your bank?

    None, Schnieder replied, aware that he had provided a truthful answer, in spite of the fact that he was not obliged to do so.

    Then if they didn’t put money in your bank, what the hell were they doing here?

    Even though Schnieder knew he was not required to answer Anderson’s question, he decided to deflect suspicion. You appear to be an intelligent man, Mister Anderson. Did it ever occur to you that they too might be looking for Jim Servito’s money?

    Are you saying they are?

    I’m not saying that. I merely asked you a question.

    Do you know where they are now?

    No, but I will tell you that Mike King and the former Karen Servito are now husband and wife, and I believe they’ve gone somewhere to enjoy a honeymoon.

    Obviously frustrated, Anderson pursed his lips, turned to Sanchez and shook his head. Let’s go. We’re wasting our time, he hissed.

    Schnieder stood and followed them to the door. I’m very sorry I could not be of more help. If you care to leave a card, I’ll call you if I learn anything which might help.

    Anderson gave his card to Schnieder, then left with his partner.

    Mary Sanchez stopped several feet outside the bank’s front doors. Hey Charlie, she said, then lit a cigarette. Stay in the shade. Let’s talk.

    Anderson leaned against the building beside Sanchez.

    What did you think of our friendly banker? Sanchez asked.

    Anderson turned and spit on the pavement. Fucking ice man. We could put that son of a bitch on a rack and still get nothing out of him.

    I think he knows a hell of a lot more than he’s telling us, don’t you?

    No question. I bet my pension he knows exactly where Servito’s money is, and he’s giving it his personal attention.

    CHAPTER 5

    Mike’s return to his office in North Toronto was a defining moment in his unique career. At last he was free to resume his duties as the president and owner of an extremely successful company. His staff stood and gave him a long, standing and loud ovation when he hobbled into the reception area on crutches. After spending more than an hour drinking champagne and telling them the details of his life-threatening excursion to Caracas, he proceeded to his office and immediately placed a call to Paul Conrad, the president of Golden National Oil Inc. Conrad liked Mike from the day they met. He saw a lot of himself in Mike. He had taken a chance on Mike years earlier by giving him a sweetheart gasoline contract. The generous credit terms gave him the financial horsepower to launch his business. The price escalation clause had later rewarded him beyond his wildest imagination. He waited patiently for Conrad’s secretary to connect them.

    Congratulations, Mike, Conrad said. I’m delighted to have you back in the saddle.

    How did you know?

    Dan Turner called me this morning and told me the whole story. He’s maintained close contact with me ever since you left the country… So what are you going to do for excitement now?

    Mike chuckled. Watch the grass grow. I’ve had all the excitement I need for a long time.

    You might have that opportunity. You might even enjoy the luxury of boredom now that the business has settled down to a dull roar.

    In that connection, I want to thank you and Golden National for supplying my company in my absence. I appreciate that more than you could possibly know.

    It was nothing. We had the extra gasoline available. More importantly, we need people like you in the business.

    Thanks to you I’m still in it, and thanks to a fortunate break, I’m about to get married.

    Congratulations. Who’s the lucky girl?

    Her name is Karen. You don’t know her but her former husband stole a hell of a lot of your company’s gasoline.

    Well I’ll be damned! Where did you meet her?

    "Long story. Karen and I

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