Death Never Sleeps

by E. J. Simon

  “I understand that—but why didn’t you call and say you were going to come over?” Donna’s facial expression tightened; Michael could see a fire in her eyes.

  He was battling to keep his credibility and relationship with his sister-in-law. “I’m worried. Somehow, I’ve taken on this responsibility. This isn’t my world. You know that. What the hell do you expect me to do on Wednesday? The Lesters are trying, but they can only go so far. They’re role players here, not principals. I’m the one hanging out to dry. When I got here tonight, you were gone. I couldn’t wait. I was going to call you on your cell, but to be honest, I just got sidetracked once I got into Alex’s den, looking at all his stuff.”

  “Okay, Michael. Fine. I guess I understand. But you know, this is my house. You’re always welcome, but somehow I feel like you intruded by not at least calling. Just call next time.”

  “You’re right. I will. I didn’t mean this the way it looks.” Michael wanted to shift the conversation to the money and the laptop sitting almost in front of them. Pointing to the Apple, Michael asked, “Was this Alex’s?”

  Donna seemed defensive. “It must have been. I had never seen it before, but when I took Alex’s closet apart, we found it. Alex had obviously hidden it inside a compartment in the woodwork for some reason I can only imagine. The cops haven’t seen it. George offered to help with the carpentry work in Alex’s closet, and after we found it, he tried to figure out the password and user name. So far, no luck. I was hoping to find money, but this is really all we found.”

  “I didn’t know you and George got on all that well.” There had always been a lot of tension between Donna and Alex’s son from his marriage to Greta.

  “Well,” said Donna, “I guess everyone got shook up when Alex was shot. Evidently, after Russell was murdered, Greta told George to come over and offer his help. She figured I’d need to find out where Alex hid the money. I guess all of his wives knew Alex hid money all over the house. We just never knew exactly where. Only Alex and Russell knew—and neither one of them are talking now. Greta, whom I despise, obviously wanted to make sure she’d know about it when we find any money. But I’ll take any help I can get.”

  Michael needed to get the laptop out of the house. “Listen, Donna. Let me take the laptop. I’ve got some real pros back in my office. They can crack anything. Maybe this can tell us where Alex hid the money.”

  “Okay, Michael. I have to trust you. I have to trust someone. I’m not as tough as you think, and I feel lost. Go ahead and take it. I didn’t mean to give you a hard time. I just don’t know where to turn or who to turn to. I appreciate all you’ve done. I know this has turned your life upside down.” As she spoke, Donna’s face became flush and her eyes filled with tears—tears Michael had always assumed she was incapable of shedding. It caught him by surprise.

  Donna reached out to embrace him in what Michael hoped was a hug based on need and not lust. Donna’s breasts pressed hard against his chest. He wondered if it was intentional. She appeared distraught, yet the press of her breasts implied a different script. His thoughts returned to the delicate lingerie he had handled only minutes ago. Her scent was the same as he had inhaled when touching her lace bra. Michael pulled back ever so slightly, just enough to interrupt the warmth pressing through her fine cashmere sweater. Donna certainly was alluring, but this was not a path he had any intention of pursuing. Worse, Michael thought that he might, on some level, fear her.

  “Donna,” Michael said, “everything will be okay. I’m going to help you. I’ve been here so far for you. I’m in too deep now, even if I didn’t want to continue. I’ll get this thing cleaned up, get your money out for you, and get these people off our back so we can move on with our lives.”

  As she put her head on his shoulder, Michael was again unsure of the meaning of her gesture. She didn’t speak.

  “Donna, by the way, has this laptop been anywhere near Alex’s grave recently?”

  She pulled her head back, a look of confusion or surprise on her face. “At Saint Michael’s? What an odd question. No, it hasn’t left the house since we found it in Alex’s closet.”

  Chapter 28

  Westport, Connecticut

  November 24, 2009

  “Where am I?” Alex asked as he stared out, his voice sounding weaker, not as confident as Michael was accustomed to hearing from his brother. For once, Michael thought, Alex sounded tentative, unsure of himself.

  “I was going to ask you that question, but right now I’m—we’re—sitting in my library at home, in Westport,” Michael said, his voice subdued. “It’s three in the morning. I had to charge the computer; it took a while. Samantha’s upstairs asleep. I haven’t said anything to her about this yet.”

  It appeared as though Alex was actually looking around, trying to scan the surroundings from inside the computer screen. “You have a lot of fuckin’ books. Anyway, it’s probably a good idea not to let her know about this too quickly.” Alex seemed to be regaining his footing, Michael thought.

  “More important—did you meet with Sharkey yet?”

  “No, it’s tomorrow—actually, tonight at eight, at Luger’s, just like you said. I couldn’t wait though; I had to contact you again to be sure I didn’t just dream this whole thing.”

  “You mean like I said in that e-mail at my funeral: ‘Life is a dream, death is waking up’? You liked that shit? You didn’t think I could come up with this, did you?”

  “Listen, who would believe anyone could come up with this? But what is this? I mean, Alex, is this really you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What do I mean? What the hell do you think I mean? Are you just a bunch of computer software that was made up of who you were, or is this the same Alex who used to coach my baseball teams—the one who died? Are you two separate things, or are you the same person, or what?”

  “What do you think, Michael? Do I look and sound like I’m a piece of software?”

  “No, of course not. It’s just that, I don’t know. I guess my question is, are the two of you connected?”

  “Michael, everything is connected. You’ll learn that … someday. It’s complicated. Too complicated to explain to you now. You’ll see. I promise you—one day, you’ll see.”

  Michael noticed the red low-power warning light had reappeared and was blinking. “It looks like this laptop is running out of juice again. It took hours to charge it even enough to just turn it on. I couldn’t wait for it to get to a decent power level.”

  “Michael, as you know now, this is no ordinary laptop. It’s got so much stuff loaded into it that uses a lot of fuckin’ power. That’s also why it weighs so much. Since it was so drained, you’ll need to charge it for a full day.”

  “Don’t get me wrong, Alex. I’m really happy about all this. It just takes a while to understand what’s happened.”

  “You better shut it off now. Do exactly what I told you tomorrow night.”

  “Okay—” Michael said as reached for the “power-off” button. But he could see Alex begin to speak again.

  “I know this is hard to understand, especially for someone as smart as you are, Michael. But what you see is real. And, before you go, there’s one more thing I want you to know.”

  “What’s that?” Michael answered.

  Alex looked straight ahead, his face expressionless, yet Michael felt as though their eyes had locked together. “Your life will never be the same again.”

  Chapter 29

  Brooklyn, New York

  November 25, 2009

  At eight at night, Michael and Fat Lester pulled up in Michael’s new black BMW 740i to the front of the Peter Luger’s Steakhouse on Broadway in an old, dilapidated section of Brooklyn. Michael immediately caught the eye of John, the valet, an older man who had worked there forever. Although the valet charge was five dollars, Michael handed him a twenty, which ensured that his car would stay right in front of the restaurant.

  Michael had arranged a priva
te room, to which he and Fat Lester were immediately shown. He checked his watch. Sharkey was to arrive in half an hour. Michael surveyed the room and reviewed the plan in his mind. The dining room was designed to hold at least twenty people. Michael would be waiting there alone for Sharkey. Fat Lester would greet Sharkey when he arrived at the desk downstairs, escort him up, then request his gun and frisk him. He’d then open the door, usher Sharkey in, close the door behind him, and wait outside—but within earshot in case Michael should need help.

  The table was twenty feet long, but was set for only two people to dine. Michael would sit at the head of the table, Sharkey just a few feet off to his right. Michael had choreographed the scene just as he had done for major board or client meetings. He’d outlined in writing the plan for the evening and rehearsed the scenarios with an impatient Fat Lester at least three times. Yet, Michael knew his role had to appear totally unrehearsed and spontaneous. He had to look homicidal and violent. It was, as he used to tell his staff at Gibraltar, showtime.

  Michael had secured five thousand crisp one-hundred-dollar bills, packaged in neat stacks and secured in an aluminum steel suitcase. Fat and Skinny Lester had been successful in collecting nearly all the remaining debts owed to Alex. If Michael was successful in getting Sharkey to agree to $500,000 in full payment of his winnings with Alex, then Alex’s business issues were all but settled. Sharkey’s greed made Michael feel justified in turning the tables on him.

  Both Fat Lester and Donna had recommended that Michael bring Alex’s gun as additional insurance. Michael had never fired a gun. He also knew there were strict penalties in New York for carrying unlicensed firearms. He wasn’t ready for that step yet.

  He sat alone in the large, empty room thinking about his life, his brother, and how their relationship had been so distant over their adult years. But Michael forced his mind to focus on the present. He had come a long way in the past two weeks. He would now threaten and beat the shit out of Sharkey if he had to. Michael thought about Donna, still unsure whether he trusted her.

  Fat Lester knocked on the door, opened it slightly, and stuck his large head in. “Sharkey’s here, Boss. I’m going downstairs to get him.” This was the first time anyone other than Karen called him “Boss.”

  In a low but firm voice, Michael said, “Bring him right in. Make sure you get the gun. It’s showtime, Lester.” Fat Lester nodded, smiled, and securely closed the door.

  Alone, Michael stood up and adjusted his turtleneck and sport coat and sat back down in his chair at the head of the table. Moments later there was a sharp knock on the door. Fat Lester opened the door just enough for the diminutive Sharkey to walk through. “He’s clean, Boss,” Fat Lester said proudly. Michael knew he had heard that line in countless old gangster movies. Now, I’m starring in one, he thought.

  Fat Lester closed the door as soon as Sharkey entered Michael’s dining room. Sharkey looked around the large room and at the enormous dining table set up for only two diners. Michael had placed the aluminum suitcase with the crisp currency closed on top of the table. Sharkey stared at the suitcase and smiled.

  “Michael.” Sharkey smiled. “It’s so good to see you again. I can see this will be a much better meeting than our last one.” He was dressed exactly as he had been last week. Yet, Michael thought, Sharkey seemed much smaller now and more, as Alex had described him, just a fragile, pathetic old man.

  “Yes,” Michael said, “I’m sure it will be.” He thought about how Sharkey had humiliated him at that first meeting. Now, he felt an unsettling desire for revenge. It would make things easier.

  As Sharkey settled comfortably and confidently into his seat at the table, Michael stared at him, working himself into an irrational fit of aggressive anger. He pursed his lips and let a sudden unhappy frown almost distort his face. Sharkey watched, uncertain.

  Without warning, Michael leaped up from his seat, sending his chair flying backward. He catapulted over the table onto a stunned Sharkey. He placed both hands around Sharkey’s throat and pushed him backward onto the floor. He could feel the tendons in the old man’s neck, but Michael continued to press in with both hands, even tighter.

  Despite the violence of the moment, Michael could feel his mind detaching itself from his body, breaking away, watching over the scene. A familiar voice inside him said What are you doing, Michael? Doubt was creeping into his consciousness. Michael shut it off. He had no doubt about his superiority. As he tightened his grip around Sharkey’s neck, Michael knew he could easily kill Sharkey. Sharkey began choking. He spit up and wheezed. Michael was sure that it was the sound of a man beginning to die. How could this be so easy? he thought. This is how they do it, simply hold it like this just a little longer. Now I understand.

  Finally Michael’s hands eased up slightly, just enough so that Sharkey could get enough air not to die but not enough to speak or even think of fighting back.

  Michael’s eyes were bulging with fury as he held Sharkey’s slender neck in his hands and pinned his shoulders against the back of the chair with his knees. Sharkey appeared to be helpless. Michael knew he had taken him totally by surprise.

  “You’ll be able to last until you use up whatever air you have in you. And then you’ll choke because you’re not getting another breath,” Michael said, his face inches from Sharkey’s. Whatever Sharkey might have wanted to say could not come out; he was lucky to have enough air to stay alive. Michael looked into Sharkey’s eyes, and in a fit of rage recited the script Alex had recommended two days before. The words flowed naturally as Michael added his own.

  “You fucking son of a bitch. I’m going to kill you right here. Then Fat Lester’s going to take your fucking body downstairs to the butcher, and we’ll grind you into fucking Luger burgers. You’ll never walk out of here, and no one will fucking miss you. You want another hundred grand, you piece of worthless shit? You think you can intimidate me? Your days are over. You’re a fucking weak old man. I’m going to fucking kill you now.” He tightened his grip again.

  Michael no longer felt that he was acting. He knew he could kill Sharkey; he could have just choked him to death right there on the carpet. Yet, he knew that he wouldn’t. Was it just that he didn’t see himself as a killer? Stop thinking so much, he told himself. Nevertheless, Michael sensed that he had crossed some invisible line in his life. It was a fleeting but troubling thought.

  Then, as though he flicked a switch, Michael felt the tension leaving his body. With his eyes still locked onto Sharkey’s, he relaxed his hands. He could feel a wave of relief pass through Sharkey’s body, as though Sharkey sensed his life might not end there on Peter Luger’s carpet.

  “I’m going to let you live this time. Next time, you’ll die. There’s five hundred thousand in that suitcase. That’s what’s left of Alex’s estate, so to speak. That’s what I’m going to give you. Let’s say I’m charging you two hundred grand for being an asshole and trying to rob me. I’m giving you this—and your fucking life. As they say in those commercials, ‘That’s priceless.’ You’re a piece of shit. You misjudged me—Alex was the easygoing one. Five hundred. Just nod up and down if you agree.” His tone was now measured and unemotional.

  Sharkey could hardly move, but he managed to nod ever so slightly and moan.

  Michael smiled, releasing his death grip. “Looks like we have a deal.” He saw his fingerprints imprinted in red on Sharkey’s neck. Sharkey tried to catch his breath. He was still choking and coughing. Michael stood up straight and looked at Sharkey, who appeared to stare back in utter disbelief—or, Michael thought, was it gratitude?

  Michael lifted Sharkey and his chair up off the floor. He returned both to their original position at the table, just as before Michael’s attack. He smoothed out Sharkey’s jacket and, using Sharkey’s linen napkin, cleaned up the spit around his mouth. “There,” he said, very upbeat, “now I think we have a good understanding. How about lunch? The Luger burgers are great.”

  Chapter 30

 
Westport, Connecticut

  November 25, 2009

  Michael drove home immediately after his meeting with Sharkey. He was anxious to return to his library where he had placed Alex’s charging laptop. Samantha was asleep upstairs as he anxiously opened the computer and clicked on the icon.

  It was as though Alex, too, had been impatiently awaiting his brother’s return. “Where the fuck have you been?” he said to Michael. “How long does it take to charge a computer?”

  “Between the Lesters, your wives and mistresses, and one aging but scary gangster, I haven’t had a minute alone, or of peace, for that matter.”

  “Did you do what I told you with Sharkey?”

  “Yes,” Michael said, “and it went well—if you can call assault and battery going well. He took the five hundred grand and was happy to get out of there, just like you said he would.”

  “Good, but be careful now. He’s pissed. You cut his balls off. He’ll try to get back at you.”

  “Oh, that’s great,” Michael said, although he already suspected he had not heard the last of Sharkey. But Michael’s mind shifted back to the miracle before his eyes. He had to go deeper, much deeper.

  “Alex, what’s it like to be dead?” Michael was uneasy with his own question.

  “What the fuck kind of question is that?” Alex first appeared to be annoyed, but his composure quickly seemed to loosen as though he recognized the inevitability of the question. “Well, it’s not the end of the world—although, actually it is. It’s funny, all those nutcases who thought they knew when the world was going to end. They had it all wrong.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When you die, Michael—when you really die—the world ends. It ends for you. So all these apocalypse crazies that thought it would end for everyone at the same time, like they were just coincidentally going to see the end of the world happen on their watch—after all these fuckin’ millions of years. I mean, give me a break.”