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

“Who said anything about that? All I said was I was gonna take back what’s mine.”

“Just be very fuckin’ careful,” Joey reiterated raising his thick gray, almost white eyebrows.

Juni bought Joey a drink and left, but wondered if he made a mistake. Should he have mentioned anything? But on second thought, Joey was good people and knew to keep his mouth shut. Juni quickly glanced at his new ID and saw he was now Frank Sciotta. If anyone asked, Sciotta would be a self-described businessman from Pittsfield, Massachusetts, the address on the license. His story line would be that due to a pending divorce, a move to the Boston area was needed. He didn’t intend to use the credit cards, with the only exception being in the unlikely event the hotel refused to accept cash.

Putting Brooklyn out of his mind on the drive, he first pulled over at an old newspaper bin in the Bronx, removed three bound piles of New York tabloids and threw them into the trunk. He next stopped at an Army/Navy store in the same area and another in Hartford, where he purchased a couple of Army duffel bags. After checking for video recorders and seeing none, he bought brass locks in two separate auto-supply stores in Dedham and Brookline, Massachusetts all the while listening to different radio stations as he clicked off the approximate two-hundred and fifty mile drive. The Boston skyline appeared just before dark and after a quick dinner of hamburgers and fries at a roadside diner just off the Mass Pike, he drove to Logan Airport and entered the long-term parking lot where people left their cars while on extended trips. It was a multi-tiered cement structure with loads of graffiti, smelling of gasoline, rubber and old exhaust. The graffiti meant there were probably no video cameras to catch the assholes that drew what they tried to pass off as artwork and a quick check confirmed that. On the second tier he stopped alongside a same year blue Buick parked head in. He got out and removed only the front Massachusetts license plate and did the same on the fifth level. When both owners returned the odds were good they wouldn’t discover the missing front plate. But if they did, they’d no doubt assume it simply fell off and neither would be reported as stolen. Juni stopped in a deserted section of the garage and replaced his New York tags. The entire process took approximately half an hour. As he exited the lot a hitch occurred when the gate attendant became suspicious, not raising the bar allowing him to exit. Juni felt perspiration soaking his underarms. Could he drive through the bar without damaging the car?

“This is the long-term lot. What were you up to in there for such a short time?”

Juni responded, “Scuza, but I no speaka too gooda English.” All the time praying the guy wouldn’t make a move for the phone. There was definitely a surveillance camera here because cash changed hands. If forced to make a quick escape, it meant ending everything. “I looka for my little brother Alfonso, because he fly toa Italy tonighta on Alitalia. Is thisa where I parka to meet him?”

“No,” the guy sighed. Pointing, he said, “You gotta go out here and make a right, then, another right at the first light and park in the short-term lot.”

“I go outa here and thenna two times righta?”

“Yeah, but first you gotta pay.”

“How mucha?”

“You know you’re in the wrong lot?”

Juni just sat with a quizzical look on his face, with the bar still down.

“It costs twenty dollars.” After making certain there were no other cars in line the attendant hollered even louder, “Twenty dollars.”

“It costa twenty dollars to parka the car?”

“Yeah.”

Juni handed the guy his ticket and a twenty-dollar bill. According to the posted sign the forty minutes he was there should have cost three bucks. As the gate was finally raised, a relieved Juni added, “Thanka you very mucha.”

.     .     .

Fifteen minutes later a more relaxed Juni pulled into the Holiday Inn parking lot, a couple of spots from an overflowing dumpster and tight up against the hotel wall so only the rear plate was visible. This was good because even in the daylight the car would be pretty much incognito from all but one side. Once inside, he found the standard American hotel. Plastic everywhere, including the clerks who had plastic smiles to go with plastic ID tags with their name and hometown written on them. There were fat-dispensing vending machines everywhere with crackers, candy, potato chips and the like, along with a typical American restaurant off to the right, most likely with frozen food tasting like garbage. After registering as Frank Sciotta he wrote in the car’s rear license plate number. While filling out the documents he struck up a conversation with the room clerk, an attractive, slight girl with light blue eyes and long, fake eyelashes that he estimated was in her late teens or early twenties. Her name was Irene and according to her nametag her hometown was Boston.

“Between us,” he whispered while winking, “I’m getting divorced. I’ll be staying for about six days, maybe less. Instead of using a credit card, can I pay for everything in cash, in advance?” He took out a fistful of greenbacks.

“That’ll be okay provided you give me enough for your entire stay. You’ll also have to pay cash for any hotel services.”

“No problem.”

She carefully counted the money, which was probably more than she earned in a month and handed him a receipt.

“Once my divorce is finalized I’m considering moving to East Boston,” he added, folding the voucher. “The town seems nice, but I’d like to explore the neighborhood a bit. Maybe I’ll buy a place here and—”

“I’ve got a pretty good idea what you’re going through, Mr. Sciotta,” she interrupted sympathetically. “My parents divorced a few years back and it