The drive on the super strada from Florence to Rome was beautiful. Along the way, the Tuscan countryside filled their eyes with one lovely hill and scene after another. They arrived at Fiumicino Airport to find Bobby Boots and his co-pilot, Tommy, inside the Gulfstream, ready for departure. Once on board, the steps folded up and the outer door locked behind them. The fun wasn’t over.
Booby Boots flew the jet out of Rome and on to Alice Springs in Australia where the group spent two relaxing weeks, unwinding, doing relatively nothing as the guests of Charlie Hodge at his ranch, far from the ancient Roman ruins, deep in the remote Outback of Australia.
One morning, as Lucky was enjoying a cup of Charlie’s bold, aromatic coffee, he received a call from Jimmy Lamb, Doc Lamb’s son and a childhood friend of Lucky’s. It was a brief conversation. Jimmy asked Lucky when he would be returning home and at what airport they would arrive. Lucky informed him that they were leaving the following morning and landing at JFK airport with an arrival time of four pm Eastern Standard. Jimmy seemed evasive and anxious and informed Lucky that he would meet him at the airport to fill in him on a few things
Chapter Three
Jimmy Lamb was there at JFK to meet the plane, just as he said. He helped Lucky’s friends place their luggage into cabs and put Mickey, Sam, and Lucky’s bags into the new black Navigator.
“Buckle up,” Jimmy said. “We’re heading to the safehouse.“
The safehouse was the place that Lucky maintained because of his agent days. On many an occasion, he needed a place to run as his old boss at the Compound (Centrally Organized Military Program Organized Under National Directive) was miffed that Lucky had brought him down, exposing his corruption and greed. Lucky had learned a long time ago to continue looking over his shoulder, so Jimmy’s words about going somewhere safe came as no surprise to him now.
Jimmy took the Grand Central Parkway to Horace Harding Boulevard, hooked a left onto One Hundred Eleventh Street, and then a right on Forty-First Avenue. It was a short, twenty-minute drive from JFK to the safehouse in Corona. Traffic was light and they arrived at the safehouse a little faster than usual. Lucky liked using the Corona
safehouse as his base of operations. It was in a mixed neighborhood of mostly Italians and Latinos where neighbors looked out for each other. On the other side of the tracks of Roosevelt Avenue was a predominantly black neighborhood situated nearer to Northern Boulevard.
Mickey put up a pot of his German coffee. He brewed it like a scientist mixing liquids in a beaker. His idea of coffee was to boil a pot of water and without measuring, dump a large quantity of coffee into the bubbling water, and stir it until the water became dark, almost black in color. Mickey took the pot and poured the coffee through a strainer and into each cup.
“Okay, let’s hear it, Jimmy. What’s up?” Lucky wasted no time asking.
“Well,” he answered. “Seems that ‘Doc’ Lamb, my dad, has a friend with a problem that he can’t handle, but he feels certain that you and the guys can.”
Lucky had never heard of the Doc being unable to handle any problem that was dealt him. Doc’s father, Doc Sr., was the politician in the family and because of his connections; he was the one everyone consulted for their problems or issues in life. It didn’t matter what the problem – Doc Sr. would always find a solution. Doc Sr.’s son would inherit this honor when his father died. Doc Sr. saw to it that his son, Jr., kept all of his contacts and connections. It would be a smooth transition and once Sr. passed away, Doc Jr. would become just “Doc.” Both Sr. and Jr. were given that nickname, not as a result of medical training, but rather because they were “fixers.” Like father like son, and like his father, “Doc” was the unofficial town captain. If a son got arrested, it was Doc you went to see. If wise guys were making threats, you went to see Doc. If you had one too many traffic tickets, Doc handled it. Trouble getting a kid into college? Doc. Doc got people jobs and watched over them. Political aspirations? Doc would take you right to the movers and shakers who could get it done. It didn’t matter if you sided
with
the law or
against
it. If he liked you, he helped you. Lucky knew that all too well.
When Lucky was eighteen, he received a traffic ticket and was afraid that his insurance would increase. His father told him to visit Doc and he told him to make sure that he gave him a little “something,” because that’s how he made his living, that’s how he survived. It seemed that Doc always took care of “the problem,” but he never mentioned a fee. He just left it up to you to do the right thing. Lucky recalled walking around the corner to Forty-Second Avenue where Doc lived and where Doc’s father before him had lived. He rang his doorbell. It was early in the morning and a window opened at the side of his house. Doc poked out his head and Lucky thought that he looked like the Great Wizard from Oz behind the curtain in the Emerald City. When he saw Lucky, he immediately asked, “Lucky, everything okay? You’re not in trouble, are you?”
Lucky shook his head.
“No trouble, Mr. Doc,” he answered. “But I have a traffic ticket and my father thought you might be able to help.”
“Well, as luck would have it, my boy, I have to go the Queens County courthouse this very morning on some business. You can drive me there, Lucky.”
Lucky remembered how challenging it was to find a metered parking spot in that area, so he parked in the lot across from the courthouse. They entered the building and walked directly into the judge’s chambers. The judge, donned in his black robe, stood, greeted Doc with a smile, and shook his hand.
“What can I do for you, Doc?” Judge Abernathy asked.
Doc reached deep down into his right coat pocket, took out a thick wad of traffic tickets, and handed them to him. The judge shook his head.
“Doc, these are not the old days when we could just fix a ticket. It’s all changed now. I can’t do that anymore.”
Doc’s face turned as red as a stop sign. It did not take a genius to see that he was ripping mad. Doc gritted his teeth a bit, tilted his head a little to the side, and held out his hand.
“Give ‘em back, judge,” Doc said. Without waiting for a response he said, “As soon as I walk out that door, I’m headin’ straight to the Democratic Headquarters and I’m gonna ask ‘em, ‘What kind of judges are you appointin’ these days where you can’t get a measly traffic ticket fixed?’ And then I’m gonna emphatically encourage the party to not support you when you come up for reelection.”
Judge Abernathy stood there, clearly uneasy. He stood quietly for a second or two, knowing very well that Doc could make good on his threat. He walked over to his window, peered out and then walked back over to Doc.
“No need to do that, Doc. I’ll handle it,” he said.
Doc smiled, nodded his head, and handed the tickets back to the judge.
“And next month, I’ll be back with another batch, for old time’s sake,” he said as he headed toward the door. “See ya soon.” And with that, the door closed behind them.
Once outside, and as they were walking down the courthouse steps, Doc looked at Lucky, shook his head and said, “What is this world comin’ to when you can’t even fix a simple traffic ticket?”
Doc walked a tenuous line between the good guys and the bad, but he was always honest and fair with everyone, and in turn, he was respected for it. There was another time when Doc had helped out Lucky’s family. Lucky’s father, thanks to Doc, worked for the Highway Department. One day he was fired – an infraction over a cup of coffee. This happened on a Friday. Doc loved Lucky’s father like his own son. He was the neighborhood amateur boxing champ and Doc had seen him fight many times, had come to know and respect him. Doc listened patiently and when he finished his story, he told Lucky’s father to show up at his house at nine o’clock Sunday morning. That’s it. He didn’t comment, didn’t get angry, didn’t say anything other than, “show up.” Lucky’s father did as he was instructed. Come Sunday morning, he was up bright and early and at nine am, there was a rap on Doc’s door. Doc opened the door, stepped outside onto the porch, and told Lucky’s dad to get into the car and take a drive with him. And so it was that on a cold Sunday morning that the car eventually stopped, Doc got out of the car and rang the doorbell of the NYC Highway Department Commissioner’s house.
Commissioner Kennedy himself answered the door. He invited the two men inside and when he did, Doc wasted no time getting down to business. He didn’t mince words, telling the commissioner that his friend had been “improperly terminated” and that it was necessary that he be reinstated, as he “has a large family to support.” The following day, Monday, Lucky’s father was back on the job and from that day forward, there was never a work issue, a complaint, nothing. He stayed in that position until he retired.
There was yet another time when one of the local boys had been jailed for suspicion of robbery. The boy stated that someone had taken his car from the lot and used it without his knowledge. The kid had a dozen witnesses attesting his innocence, but the police, nevertheless, detained him at a precinct in Flushing. There, using a rubber dildo, the officers tried beating a confession out of him, intermittently stooping to such tactics as calling his mother names. When that didn’t work, he was denied bail. All efforts to get the boy released failed until the boy’s mother made a call to Doc. The boy was released on bail a half hour later.
Doc was in his sixties. He had thick, white hair. He stood about five feet seven and was a bit portly. Doc was a legacy of sorts, cut from the same mold as his father who had even helped out Big Red, boss of the Yip Carnevale crime family, who owned the Starlight Club. He did him a little favor after James Roman, the movie star kid whose career Red had directed, was killed.
At the safehouse, Jimmy Lamb began to tell his story. He explained to Lucky that one of his neighbors, a Doctor Henry Lindstrom, also known as the “professor,” had a problem. Dr. Lindstrom apparently had an invention that would eliminate the need for oil and gas in any moving vehicle, even cars and planes, but it appeared that his patent application was refused due to national security concerns. Shortly after its rejection, Arab oil men made their way to the doctor offering him one billion dollars to sell them his idea and his patents. But the doctor refused the offer, stating that his invention was to be shared for the good of all people and was not for sale for any limited group of individuals.
“His refusal,” Jimmy said, “is reminiscent of a man named Stan Meyer, who invented a car that could run on water, and after refusing a billion dollars of Middle Eastern currency, was found murdered.” As Jimmy spoke, Lucky did a quick Google search and found a YouTube video titled, “Stan Meyer 1992 Interview.”
“After the professor refused the Arab offer,” Jimmy continued, “he began receiving threatening phone calls.”
Hearing that, Lucky stood up and started toward the door.
“Let’s not waste any time,” he said. “Let’s go straight over to Doc’s house right now.”
Doc knew Mickey and Lucky, as they were homegrown boys, but he did not know Sam. When the guys arrived with her, he wasn’t quite sure if he could speak openly until Lucky said, “Doc, she’s from The Company, helped me out when I was sick. She’s no longer with them, just like me. It’s okay.”
“I don’t know, Lucky,” Doc said. “This time, I can’t seem to help. That’s why I reached out to you. I can’t get physical protection for Dr. Lindstrom.”
The look on his face was one of disappointment. It was most unusual for Doc to be helpless and this was one of those rare moments. Lucky understood. Doc was a fixer, a negotiator. He wasn’t a fighter, never was. He couldn’t protect Lindstrom physically, which was why he needed Lucky.
Later that afternoon, Lucky returned to Doc’s house where he was introduced to the professor, Doctor Henry Lindstrom. Dr. Lindstrom was an accomplished, educated man. He had a degree in Astrophysics, had worked for the government for thirty years, and carried a top security clearance. He had retired a few years prior and now devoted most all of his time to inventing “things.” Some of his inventions were inspirational and others were of commercial value, let’s say. In the latter category, there was the egg cracker. It worked by tension and percussion by lifting one end, sort of like a rubber band, only the part was metal, and let go. It snapped around the egg, leaving a perfectly round circle in the eggshell. He intended to pair the egg cracker with a yoke separator and market them commercially for a dollar. Another invention was called the Laser Smoke Penetrating Device. A laser is used to cut through dense smoke, clearing a visual path, allowing fire fighters to see. As he explained it, while driving through a dense fog with bright lights on, there is often a reflection from the light bouncing off droplets of water, thus effectively blinding an individual. But some light still passes through the fog. The laser device blocks the reflected light and is timed to allow only the light from the object to come into view. At a fire, the system is designed to block the light reflected off particles of matter suspended in the atmosphere and allow the light from the distant object to be seen. The combination beam splitter/electro-magnetic optical shutter was designed to close before the reflected light reached it, but timed to open before the light from the distant object reached it, thereby allowing the object or victim to be seen. In other words, the invention allows a person to look within the modulated beam of a laser and see through smoke. Using the same principal as his first patent application, he received a continuation, in part patent. This meant that the patent covered trucks driving through fog; it meant that airplanes could now see through clouds; and it meant that submarines could see clearly under water. The test results were patented, but nothing ever came of his creations. It was his magnetic propulsion system that threatened his life. It used something he called “universal energy,” or unlimited energy from the universe.