Death Never Sleeps

by E. J. Simon

  “Now, of course I know you won’t read all this, but take it in case you change your mind. Let me take you through it verbally.”

  He opened the “Artificial Intelligence” folder immediately but listened as Karen summarized the reports.

  She began, glancing occasionally at her handwritten notes. “You have a lot of very sophisticated research going on all over the world on this—from high-tech companies like Google and GE to major universities. The centers for all this are Silicon Valley and various places in Europe—”

  “What the hell is it, exactly?” Michael interrupted.

  “Okay, Boss. I can tell I’m missing something here. But here goes. Artificial intelligence is the use of computer technology to simulate the human mind. It’s supposed to eventually be better than the human mind because the computer can store an endless amount of information and can be programmed to make better use of logic than most humans. There is supposedly some very sophisticated software that replicates the human mind and its reasoning and judgment.”

  “Does it replicate the human mind in general—or a specific person?” Michael’s mind was overheating as he tried to guess what his brother had been up to.

  “Both. The material I’ve read and printed out for you mostly talks about the human mind in general. But you’ll also see some work that’s being done to really emulate a particular person and, in a sense, create a computer model of that individual’s mind.

  “They do it by feeding into this software millions of bits of information, the person’s past decisions, and all kinds of data. There is a very complicated questionnaire, with thousands of theoretical situations and questions that the subject person would have to feed into the software. Then it constantly gets updated by new events, and the person keeps interacting with it so that eventually, the computer can pretty much predict or emulate the behavior, actions, or decisions that the person would make in real life. I understand that they are also working on simulating a person’s emotions.”

  Michael pressed further. “What do you mean, simulating the emotions?”

  “Well, as you know from your own peculiar political tendencies, we don’t always make decisions or have beliefs based upon common sense or logic. Sometimes what we do or what we believe defies logic, or is just plain stupid.” Michael could see that Karen was obviously feeling more comfortable again, poking fun at his left-leaning politics. He just raised his eyebrows ever so slightly and let the remark go.

  She glanced at Michael, and he noticed the beginnings of a repressed smirk, but she continued on. “The point is, part of what makes a person unique is the emotion—as opposed to just the abstract logic—that goes into that person’s belief and decision systems. So if you are going to, in a sense, replicate someone’s mind, you have to also build in their emotional state.”

  “I guess this could be powerful stuff if you were trying to predict the behavior or decisions of a competitor or an enemy, in business, in the courthouse, or politics or wars.” Michael was grasping the point of it all. What he couldn’t figure out was whether it had any applicability or value to Alex.

  “It’s none of my business, but where are we going with all of this? What does this have to do with Gibraltar’s business?”

  Michael ignored the question and pressed on. “What about the image of the person? Can the computer show the head or body of the individual?”

  “Well, there have also been great advances in computer imaging, sometimes even 3D imaging. There are programs being developed that continually photograph a person using a camera—called a webcam—attached to a computer monitor. Eventually, the computer learns to accurately reproduce at least the facial qualities and expressions of the person in a way that is compatible with the feelings or verbal communications coming out of that person.”

  “What else? What about the voice? Can the computer speak?”

  “Yes, Boss, with what they call voice replication technology, the computer learns to reproduce the subject’s voice, perfectly. That part is pretty easy.”

  “And can this artificial—or re-created—person recognize who he’s talking to?”

  “My goodness, you are on a roll today. That part is trickier. You’ll see from the reports, if you read them, that there have been some breakthroughs on this. Through the latest voice and visual recognition technology, this artificial person, in a sense, cannot only recognize who is speaking to him—or her, by the way—but can also visually recognize the other person. All of this technology, the software at least, is pretty exotic and is being created and perfected, separately, in various parts of the world. But what’s interesting is that it’s all done through a computer with a webcam, microphone, and speakers, which are pretty much standard these days.”

  Michael nodded, his eyes drifting off. “I see.” He could see from Karen’s expressions that her curiosity was killing her. He was also thankful that she hadn’t asked about the coordinates that turned out to be Saint Michael’s cemetery. After all, he still didn’t know himself what to make of that message from Apple.

  “Does this all make sense?” she asked.

  “Yeah, it does,” Michael answered, trying to figure out if all this had anything to do with what Alex and Russell were working on. “Has anyone put the computer imaging, voice duplication, and recognition together with the artificial intelligence?”

  “Yes, he was called Dr. Frankenstein. Is that what you mean?”

  Chapter 21

  New York City

  November 19, 2009

  It was time to get acquainted with Sharkey.

  Michael chose to meet him at Pete’s Tavern in Manhattan’s Gramercy Park neighborhood. Michael had eaten there many times over the years, starting after college when he lived a block away on Irving Place. It wasn’t exactly his home turf, but it was a place where they at least used to know his name.

  The tavern was likely to be unfamiliar to Sharkey, the crowd there was too young, the owner Irish, and its legacy was literary, not mobster. Michael appreciated its history: it had been around since 1864 and stayed open, disguised as a flower shop, during Prohibition; and O. Henry wrote one of his famous short stories there, in his favorite booth by the front door.

  Michael walked up to the redbrick building and passed under the black canopy reaching out to the end of the sidewalk. Forever etched in his mind was the memory of one particular dinner here, the last one he would ever have with his father, just before he passed away.

  The bar was busy with hard-core drinkers from the afternoon and a younger crowd that just arrived as their workday ended. Michael walked past the old zinc bar lined with endless rows of bottles and polished glasses waiting for the thirsty neighborhood dinner crowd. He wished he was still part of it. He longed for the carefree times he enjoyed at Pete’s so many years ago.

  Michael sat down at one of the tall private booths just past the bar, ensuring that, even though he was in a public and well-exposed place, he and Sharkey would have reasonable privacy. Fat and Skinny Lester were in a car less than a block away, south on Irving Place. If he needed them, Michael knew two things. First, he was in serious trouble. Second, they would be too late.

  As he waited, Michael felt the same nervousness he felt before meeting with an important client. But he knew today’s meeting would be different. He thought about the extensive briefing about Sharkey that the Lesters gave him last night.

  Sharkey had been a Mafia “made” man at twenty-six, by which time he had made his mark with several hits. The most notable was the one he did alone, leaving a former wiseguy turned police informer with five bullets in his face from Sharkey’s silenced pistol. It was a brazen murder performed in classic Hollywood-Mafia style, inside an Upper East Side Manhattan beauty salon while his stylish victim was having his hair washed.

  Sharkey, dressed in an immaculate black silk suit, white shirt, and black tie, took over the gentle massaging of his victim’s wet head, then just before shooting, whispered for him to open his eyes. As Shar
key was leaving, he turned to the terrorized hairdresser and politely said, “He’s all yours. Sorry about the mess.” Sharkey calmly exited, his white shirt splattered red, smoking gun in hand.

  The next day, the Daily News had a graphic picture of the scene in its centerfold showing the lifeless body with a bloody towel covering its head still in the salon chair, as though awaiting the final rinse. The New York Post dubbed the unidentified killer “the Clairol Gunman” and heralded the murder itself “a hair-raiser.” Sharkey reveled in the notoriety.

  Sharkey’s flair for the dramatic, with its resulting publicity, caused him to be shunned by many of his crime family’s leadership, leaving him mostly on his own for his income and survival. Although a blow to his ego, Sharkey had survived. Using his talent for local business shakedowns and his thriving prostitution houses, he prospered. And with the extortion of several of his high-profile prostitution customers whom Sharkey captured in living color on his hidden cameras, Sharkey created lifelong annuities.

  Christ, who the hell am I meeting with? Michael thought. I need a drink. Just as he ordered a martini, Joseph Sharkey appeared through the front door.

  Although now nearly seventy and slight—if not fragile—in stature, Michael could see why Sharkey was still feared. Michael took a deep breath. This guy looks like a psychopath.

  Seeing him approach, Michael remembered Fat Lester’s story about the poor soul who had unintentionally collided with Sharkey in a bar men’s room and was later found dead, his head in the toilet. “Just making people piss in their pants is all this guy needs to be happy,” Skinny Lester had said.

  Sharkey’s eyes were sunk far back in his head, his hair coiffed into a receding white pompadour that matched his thin moustache. Michael figured that Sharkey had to use hair spray to keep it that stiff. He wore a heavy diamond-studded gold watch and a diamond ring with a gold band that even a hip-hop star would have envied. He was deathly pale, seeming to have been already embalmed, giving him a corpse-like sheen, especially when contrasted with his all-black attire: black turtleneck, black pants, pointed black shoes, black silk sports coat, and black leather jacket.

  “Joseph, it’s good to finally meet you,” Michael said, trying to break the ice after what seemed to be an unusually long initial silence. He felt awkward, and he knew his words sounded stiff, too formal for this man.

  Sharkey looked around, scanning the restaurant. Michael wondered whether he was looking for undercover agents or if this was simply a habit that developed with the territory. Michael watched, intimidated yet fascinated. Finally, Sharkey spoke, slowly and deliberately, with a strong Brooklyn accent.

  “Michael, please accept my condolences regarding your brother. He was my friend. He was crazy, but he was someone I could trust. He could be difficult, but he was good for his word. God rest his soul.”

  “Thanks. He was a good brother,” Michael said, trying to stay grounded in the ridiculous situation he found himself in. It felt like a Hollywood scene, without the cameras and with only one actor. Michael could sense the disconnect he felt as though he was a viewer in the audience, not an actor in the scene.

  He hoped to first try to establish some sort of relationship, to size up Sharkey. The wild card was whether Sharkey was violent. His history certainly suggested it. Was this going to be a confrontation or a meeting with a business associate? If it were the latter, he would begin to feel more at ease. If there was a physical element to this, it would be a brave new world for Michael, one he knew he was not yet prepared for. Worse, he suspected that Sharkey also knew it.

  Michael remembered Skinny Lester’s suggestion that he try to talk about baseball. So, trying to lighten things up, Michael said, “How about those Yankees this year?” As soon as he said it, he knew it sounded contrived, off.

  Suddenly, as though on cue, Sharkey’s mood visibly changed. It was apparently time to get serious. Sharkey’s facial muscles tightened and a vein in his forehead magically appeared under his skin. At the same time, his smile disappeared, his forehead furrowed, and the lines around his mouth tightened as his eyes narrowed. It was a sudden and frightening transformation.

  “Michael, you seem like a good man. I know you want to do the right thing here. I’m worried though. I know this business is not in your blood. It doesn’t come naturally to you; you know what I’m saying? Your brother, God rest his soul, he understood that certain obligations have to be met. Whether you have the money or not, no one wants to know. You find it and take care of things; you see what I’m saying?”

  “I understand.” Michael did understand, but he doubted whether it was coming across at that moment. He felt like he couldn’t get his footing; he was slipping.

  Sharkey was tightening further, his face becoming almost grotesquely contorted. “Michael, don’t you fucking patronize me.” He leaned onto Michael’s side of the table, his face inches from Michael’s. Sharkey’s left hand gripped his wineglass so tightly it looked like the stem would shatter at any moment. Michael noticed that Sharkey’s right hand was missing from view.

  “Michael, I’ve been at this maybe fifty years longer than you. I know you picked this place because you wanted to be sure we were in a public place. It don’t matter to me.”

  Sharkey gave a slight smile as he continued. “I have a pistol under the table pointed at your balls. It has a silencer. If I put four or five bullets in your crotch right now, you won’t even be able to scream. You’ll want to, Michael, because the pain is excruciating, but you won’t be able to make a sound. After the last bullet, I’ll slowly get up and leave the restaurant. You’ll be in agony. Eventually the waiter will come, but it’ll be too late. You won’t even live long enough to pay the bill.”

  Michael was sure he felt the barrel of the gun brush lightly against his knee.

  “Michael, do you understand me? Have we bonded, as they say in your corporate world? I think so. We have to do this again. Maybe have your secretary call my secretary. You know? It’s a great life, Michael. Don’t fuck yourself now. Bring me my seven hundred thousand and the interest—I think another hundred thousand—by Wednesday next week. Otherwise, Michael, you better wear a cup next time.”

  Sharkey got up from the table and walked out of Pete’s Tavern.

  Chapter 22

  Westport, Connecticut

  November 20, 2009

  “So, how was your dinner with Mr. Sharkey last night?” Samantha said, just as they were seated in the rustic, Tuscan-style restaurant, Rustico, nearby their home in Westport. “After spending all this time with Sofia at Notre Dame, I feel like I’ve missed all the excitement.”

  “Brief. I had a drink and left. We never even ate.”

  “Well, it was a little early for dinner, don’t you think? I mean, who eats dinner at five thirty?”

  “Actually, meeting him was helpful. He clarified some confusion about how much Alex owed him. We didn’t stick around long. He had to go.” Michael knew he could not mention the gun to his groin. Instead, he said, “You look beautiful tonight,” which had the desired effect of changing the subject.

  “Michael, I wish you’d wear a sport coat when we’re out to dinner. You look so good in them.”

  He was dressed in his typical casual dinner winter attire: tan slacks, blue button-down shirt, and a black crewneck cashmere sweater. He knew that it was rare when he was able to escape the house with Samantha and his initial choice of attire intact.

  “You realize that not one guy in this restaurant has a sport coat on?” Michael said.

  “I realize that, but you’ll notice I didn’t marry any of those men,” Samantha answered, apparently unfazed.

  Michael and Samantha shared many traits, including a certain playfulness and an easy sense of humor, which characterized their dinners. When they were joined by others, dinner conversation resembled a husband-and-wife comedy routine.

  “How did Sofia react to the break-in?” Michael asked, turning serious.

  “She’s okay. I’m not
sure she’s connected everything yet. Neither have we, for that matter. You know, she’s kind of in her own world at school. As sensitive as she is, at that age we’re all a bit self-centered. I think she’s very upset over Alex’s murder though, and of course she doesn’t have any idea that you’re doing anything with his business affairs.”

  “Good, she doesn’t need to know,” Michael said.

  “Yes, I suppose so. It would be even better, however, if it was the truth.” She cast a suspicious look in Michael’s direction, just avoiding a direct stare. Michael got the message.

  Samantha finished her first cocktail. It was just enough for her to go where Michael hoped she wouldn’t.

  “Michael, why do I get the sense that you’re not telling me everything?”

  Michael bought time by lifting his martini up to his lips and taking a long sip. “Believe me, you don’t want to know everything.”

  “I don’t know whether I do or not. You may be right. But I also don’t want us to be in any more danger, and I don’t want to have to worry about you.”

  “There’s nothing to worry about.” As soon as the words left his lips, he wished they hadn’t. He knew better.

  “Michael, I don’t know how you can possibly say that as long as the people who are behind all these horrible things are still out there. You can’t be serious.”

  “No, you’re right. There is danger, obviously. But that’s one reason I have to stick with this. The police may never figure it all out. I get the feeling they’re overloaded already, and all this stuff is just too complicated. The answers are buried somewhere beneath the mysteries of Alex’s illegal business and the people he did business with. Samantha, I need to fulfill my obligation to Alex—to help Donna wind it down and to maybe, in the process, uncover who killed him. That may be the best way to be sure we are safe.”

  Michael took another sip. He believed everything he had just said, but he knew there was another voice deep inside him—the one that whispered that he had to keep going, but not just for the reasons he just gave to Samantha. Maybe it was an excitement he hadn’t experienced in years. Then there were the strange but so inviting characters—the Lesters, Maria, even his somewhat mysterious and sexy sister-in-law. People, he realized now, that he would miss.