Flying Too Close to the Sun by George Jehn (novels for beginners .txt) 📕

they arrived at the cafeteria a smiling Woody was preparing to leave. “I didn’t know how long you’d be so I went ahead and ate. You have plenty of time, ‘cause I’ll do the pre-flight inspection. But I’ll send Erik a bill at the end of the month.”

After he left a smiling Erik said, “You might think Woody’s an asshole, but he’s okay in my book.”

“That’s ‘cause he’s doin’ your work.”

Just before departure time, Christina was again handed a sealed envelope and informed they would be delayed for connecting passengers. Barely noticeable smiles crossed Erik’s and Christina’s faces.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

When Christina was called to the phone in the flight operations office a couple of days later, she was pleasantly surprised to hear Juni’s voice. “I’m at Newark airport and just returned from Boston where I surveyed the area. Let’s meet Friday night at an Italian eatery I know called Pepi’s located on Sixty-eighth Street and Fourteenth Avenue in Brooklyn. Can you both be there between ten and ten-thirty to do some brainstorming?”

“The time’s good, but is the place secure?”

“I’m goin’ there tomorrow night to make certain. If not, we’ll switch locations. If you don’t hear from me the meeting’s on for Friday night.” He provided directions.

“This mean you’re in?” an anxious Christina asked, but the line went dead.

.     .     .

Pulling into the driveway at home, Juni’s old Ford practically disappeared into a huge pothole. When did that happen? I gotta fix it along with painting the entire house. His wife Angela was sitting in the kitchen and he gently kissed her. As he removed a piece of bakery cheesecake from the refrigerator and prepared a cup of coffee, she told him, “The washing machine broke today, so I used the public laundry.”

“I’ll try to get my hands on a new one.” He was sorry for her and felt like he was caught in a washing machine tumbler. Glancing around, he brooded over how a Princeton graduate, instead of making a good living was running a bakery on a shoestring, all because of a crime he was falsely accused of. He threw the cheesecake into the garbage and went to his wife. “I’m sorry about all this,” waving his hand at the house. “You’re entitled to better.”

She tenderly took his face between her hands and looked knowingly into his dark eyes. “Maybe someday you’ll catch that break? You can’t help the hand you were dealt.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

The grimy Ford ground to a halt in the parking lot of Pepi’s. The worn-out springs groaned and the engine ticked and pinged, ridding itself of the heat created by the hour-long drive. Juni dragged himself from the air conditioned-by-nature interior reeking of stale smoke. After mopping his face with a handkerchief, as the summer heat continued its late day assault he straightened his striped silver and black tie and grudgingly donned his jacket, knowing appearances were always important in Brooklyn.

Entering the eatery was like unlocking a portal back in time. No trendy pâté and brie, henpecked men pushing kids in strollers with overbearing wives staring over their shoulders or other such crap. Unlike other cities like L.A. where everyone was from somewhere else, no doubt all these people either resided or grew up in Brooklyn. The front doorway still led directly into the dimly lit bar, with an equally shadowy, spotless dining room off to the right, where each wooden table was covered with the same red and white checkered cloth tablecloth under a single white chrysanthemum floating in a water-filled fine Lenox vase. Neatly arranged gold-framed vistas of Italy adorned the dark red velvet-papered walls, while the spicy fragrances of northern Italian cooking hung heavy in the air and made his mouth water even though he had already eaten. Juni stepped into the bar that smelled of nicotine and hard work, the conditioned air a welcomed relief. Frank Sinatra’s Summer Wind began playing as he hovered in the shadows with his cigarette, ignoring the black and formerly white but now yellowed official New York City sign boldly stating, Smoking Prohibited. His exhaled smoke added to the thick man-made haze layer hanging like a ghost under each tiny bar lamp.

The mellow tune began. As the muted trumpets kicked in Juni instinctively began swaying ever so slightly, as memories flooded back. He took another long drag, but shook his head because he hadn’t come here to listen to Old Blue Eyes. Not spotting the person he was seeking, Juni drifted into the softly lit dining room his tailored suit and expensive leather shoes creating an impressive persona. Maybe the guy had sold the place? Only one person tracked his moves and when their eyes met the older guy, with bushy eyebrows that came together and a two-day blue-black and gray stubble on his face grinned, the smile emphasizing three missing teeth. Juni’s was probably the only full set of ivories in the entire joint. Why did old-time Italians rarely have good teeth, taking better care of their cars than their choppers?

The owner, who might qualify as being athletic if barroom brawling could be passed off as a sport, was clad in the expected pleated black baggy trousers and a stark white, open collared shirt exposing a large gold chain and cross hung around his neck, partially buried in a tangle of gray chest hairs. Was a nickel-plated pistol also hidden there?

He appeared surprised and perhaps a bit tense at encountering this person from a bygone era, but curiosity apparently overcame anxiety as he slapped Juni on the shoulder with a forced smile. “Holy shit! Juni the Lid! What’s happenin’? I ain’t seen ya in ages. It must be way more than a dozen years.” Eyeing the charcoal-colored Armani suit, he raised one thick eyebrow, “But ya certainly look like you’re doin’ okay.”

Feels like a thousand years, Juni thought as the two men hugged; an Italian custom he never quite understood. A smiling Juni stepped