Death Never Sleeps

by E. J. Simon

  Fat Lester finally had organized his thoughts. He said, “Other than my cousin here, Alex was my only family. No one else even talks to me. My own family thinks I’m no good. Alex always respected me, even through my booze and drug problems. I didn’t even like myself. I don’t know how he put up with me.” A tear glistened in his eye and threatened to roll down his cheek. Fat Lester stopped speaking.

  Michael continued, “There’s something else I want to talk about. I want to keep Alex’s business alive. I’m going to run it. Hopefully, I can do half the job that Alex did. I’m going to need your help, both of you,” he said, looking again at Fat and Skinny Lester.

  Michael then turned toward Donna. “Donna, we can discuss some of the numbers when we sit down together, but I’m offering you the opportunity to invest in the business a portion of the money Alex left you. This way, we can grow it further, and you’ll hopefully have a steady stream of income.”

  “Michael,” Donna said, “I’m shocked. What about your job? I never dreamed you’d want to do this. Other than being shocked, though, I think it’s a great idea. I’m definitely in, at least as long as I get to keep a good portion of what’s coming to me. I trust you, you’re brilliant, but I don’t want to totally roll the dice. You understand, don’t you?”

  “I do and don’t worry. There’s enough money to go around. Also, I’m going to invest some of my own money in this. As for my Gibraltar position, frankly, I’m bored and I expect to be fired any day now after the speech I gave in LA.”

  Michael then laid out his quick vision for the new enterprise. “We’re going to have basically three lines of business. First, sports betting, college and pro football and basketball, and major-league baseball. Second, loan-sharking. Citibank is charging me nearly 30 percent on my credit card. From what I’ve been hearing and looking at how Alex did it, we can charge anywhere from 50 to 250 percent interest, depending on the borrower and how risky the loan. Finally, we’ll do some limited horse racing—but if it involves big dollars and long shots, we’ll lay it off using OTB just like Alex did so we don’t incur the risk.”

  Both Lesters had their mouths open in shock. Skinny Lester was the first to speak up with, “I’m in.” Fat Lester added, “Good shit.”

  “By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask you, Michael, what else did you ever find on Alex’s laptop besides the location of the cash?”

  Michael had implied to Donna that he had hired experts to crack the user name and password mysteries and that the location of the money was simply in the files on the computer. He had never told her about Jennifer, let alone Catherine Saint-Laurent. He decided it would be better not to have anyone know that he and Alex spoke more now than they had before he was murdered.

  “I found a lot of interesting stuff, at least for me. I don’t think it would be too interesting to anyone else. The location of the money was the only big thing, of course.”

  “Michael,” Donna asked, “I just have one question. This is a big change for you. How does Samantha feel about it?”

  Michael, knowing full well he had some convincing to do, said simply, “She doesn’t know everything yet … exactly.”

  Rolling her eyes, Donna said, “You know, Michael, sometimes I think I see more of your brother in you every day.”

  Chapter 41

  New York City

  December 7, 2009

  Michael was enjoying his walk up Fifth Avenue. Although the New York weather was frigid, with a sharp wind blowing in his face, the noontime sun took the edge off the cold. The city looked surreally clear. Michael was on his way to meet Richard Perkins, the chairman of Gibraltar Financial’s parent company and Dick Applegarden’s boss. They had a twelve thirty lunch at the 21 Club.

  Although it was set up as an informal “let’s just touch base” meeting, Michael knew there was no such thing. Perkins was not a “let’s touch base” type of guy. He was sure that as soon as the order for drinks was taken, Perkins would announce that he had a “difficult mission to accomplish.” He would go on to say, Michael speculated, that he knew how difficult a situation Michael had walked into and how hard he had worked to turn the company around. Finally, he would get right to the point: “Michael, the board has decided to request your resignation.” He would then state how painful he knew this was for Michael and give him the option of leaving the restaurant or continuing with him through the meal.

  Michael knew the playbook well. He had followed it himself innumerable times. As his mind wandered with thoughts about his tumultuous time at Gibraltar, Michael was brought back to the moment by the ring of his cell phone. It was Karen. “Hi, Boss. Are you all set for your lunch? I can’t believe this is happening.”

  “Don’t worry, Karen. I’m totally prepared. I’ve spoken to Rothberg. He even wanted me to wear a wire to tape the conversation. Listen, I haven’t been happy. I knew when I made that speech that it would probably provoke them to fire me. I don’t want anything from them, just a reasonable severance, and I plan on making sure you’re keeping your job with a comparable position.”

  “Michael, please don’t worry about me. I feel terrible for you. I know the board was so upset over your speech, but it has certainly been well received by the press. Businessweek and the Financial Times had great things to say about you—and Gibraltar. Everyone just assumes the board approved the speech ahead of time. So, it’s made everyone look good. I just can’t believe they’re getting rid of you like this after all you’ve done for them.”

  Judging from her longer-than-usual pauses, Michael suspected that Karen must have been close to tears. “Just so you know, I’ll be reminding Richard that you warned me to show the speech to marketing for clearance and that I just refused. It happens to have the added benefit of being the truth. But listen, this isn’t about the speech. I did my best, and we did a lot of great things—the company is on a solid recovery and growth path. It’s time for me to move on and get out of their hair.”

  Michael felt as if a tremendous burden was being lifted off his shoulders.

  “What are you going to do next?” Karen asked.

  “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe set up a bookmaking operation in Queens.” Michael could hear Karen chuckling. “I’ll call you later, unless they disconnect my cell phone account while I’m in the restaurant.”

  Michael was walking west on Fifty-Second Street, approaching the black iron gated entrance with the politically incorrect jockey statue out front of the 21 Club. Just as he hung up with Karen, his phone rang again—Samantha.

  “Hi, darling, are you okay? I’ll love you even more if you’re unemployed for a while. I’ll have you home with me, you know.”

  Michael knew he could always count on Samantha. “Don’t worry, there’s nothing they can do that would surprise or throw me. I’m ready for this. But I’m just in front of 21—let me call you when I get out. I love you.” As he walked through the entrance vestibule, he thought of JFK, who dined at the restaurant on the eve of his inauguration, and of Alfred Hitchcock, a regular patron and a master of mystery and intrigue. They were two of Michael’s favorite characters. At the moment, he felt more attuned to Hitchcock.

  * * *

  Michael sat at his table as he watched Richard Perkins approaching. Richard was a former military officer, tall, always perfectly erect and proper. Today he was dressed in a conservative dark-gray suit and striped red-and-navy-blue tie. Despite the hard-driving Gibraltar culture, Michael had never heard Richard utter a profanity or even raise his voice. Nevertheless, Richard Perkins was positively frightening. Despite his extreme conservatism and overly straight-laced approach, Michael actually liked and respected him. At least he was predictable, consistent, and straightforward—rare traits in an ego-driven business world.

  They were both comfortably seated at a quiet table in the Bar Room, which Perkins had obviously requested when his secretary made the reservation. Michael looked around at the restaurant, with its simple red-and-white checked tablecloths that belied it
s pricey reputation. It was filled with businessmen. With martinis on half the tables, it could have been a scene out of the 1950s.

  It never ceased to amaze Michael how, despite the financial woes of so many businesses, senior executives thought nothing of treating themselves to exorbitantly priced drinks and meals. Having lunch at 21 while laying off hundreds of employees making middle-class wages seemed to reek of Marie Antoinette. Michael was glad he would soon be an entrepreneur.

  “Shall we order drinks?” Richard asked Michael as the black-suited waiter appeared. Everything was going according to plan, Michael thought. He ordered a straight-up gin martini. He figured he didn’t need to be at his sharpest today; he just needed to be able to listen and walk out with dignity when the meal was over. Perkins ordered bourbon on the rocks, a nod to his southern heritage.

  As though an “On the Air” sign had lit up, Perkins got down to business. “You know, Michael, I’ve had a difficult mission to accomplish. With Dick’s unfortunate death, I’ve had to lead the search for a successor. You walked into a very difficult situation. I know things were a lot worse than what was represented to you when you were hired. Frankly, we didn’t know ourselves how bad things were until the numbers started rolling in after Dick’s acquisitions had closed. The board, although we didn’t always show it, knows how hard you have worked to turn things around. We also know how delicate a dance it was for you having to fix what your boss, our beloved Dick, created before you came.”

  “Thanks, Richard. It has been quite a rocky road, but I feel we have navigated through this as well as anyone could. I’m glad to hear that you recognized some of the built-in tensions and awkwardness that existed, particularly between me and Dick.” Michael actually felt pretty good about Perkins’s buildup to the climax.

  “As you know,” Richard continued, “Dick and some of the board were pretty upset with your speech in LA. I’m still not happy that you never cleared it for our approval. It’s not the way we do things.”

  “I understand that, Richard, but you know it would never have been approved.”

  “That’s my point, Michael.” Richard was bearing down on Michael. “On the other hand, I’m big enough to understand that sometimes you need people who have the courage of their convictions. You have also become a sort of folk hero out there.”

  “I wasn’t trying to be any sort of hero. I just wanted to bring to light a poisonous culture and way of doing business that I think is destroying the fabric of American industry.” Michael knew that anytime he could frame an issue to Perkins in terms of preserving the American way of life, he would tap into Perkins’s innate patriotism. But Perkins wasn’t listening. He had a mission to accomplish before the appetizers arrived.

  Michael saw the waiter approaching with two Caesar salads. “Michael, I asked you to meet for lunch today …” Just then the two salads were placed on the table, breaking Perkins’s train of thought and conversation. Uncharacteristically, he had misjudged the timing of the presentation of the salads. Michael wondered whether the waiter realized he had delayed Michael’s “execution,” however briefly.

  The waiter took three steps away, but only to a nearby serving table to retrieve a large pepper mill. It was obvious that Perkins was getting impatient. “Michael, the board met formally yesterday, and after reviewing a number of difficult options, made a decision that, I believe, will not come as a total surprise to you.”

  “Don’t worry, Richard. I’ve been around enough situations. I’m well prepared for any decision the board has made.”

  Richard seemed relieved. “I know that, Michael, and I appreciate it. Let me get to the point. The board has decided to promote you to the role of chairman. In other words, we want you to replace Dick. Congratulations.”

  Chapter 42

  Queens Village, Queens, New York

  December 8, 2009

  Despite Michael’s dislike of his former sister-in-law, he had invited Greta Garbone for drinks. Although dinner might have been more appropriate for the discussion he needed to have with her, Michael wanted to limit the time involved and keep a quicker escape as an easy option.

  He asked Greta to meet him at a local bar in Queens Village at the intersection of Union Turnpike and Springfield Boulevard. The Black Rose was an old-fashioned neighborhood bar whose heyday had been forty years ago. Dim lighting, no food, just solid drinks. It had a dark charm, with its long wooden bar, red leather padding around the edges, and semicircular private red leather banquettes. It was just several blocks from where Michael and Alex had grown up and was a regular hangout for Alex in his younger days.

  Michael had not been inside the Black Rose since he joined his brother there for drinks during a break from college. He still had a picture of Alex taken in the bar almost thirty years ago, looking like Frank Sinatra with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth and a drink in hand. Although a big drinker and smoker, Alex looked handsome, slim, and healthy then.

  The Black Rose brought back memories of Alex and being young, when everyone he knew as a child, including his parents, was still alive and in their prime.

  When Michael saw Greta walk through the door, the uncomfortable memories from the time when she was part of his extended family came rushing back. He was glad he had not made this a dinner meeting.

  Greta had not aged well. “Greta, you look well,” he lied.

  “For God’s sake, Michael, is that the best you can do? I’m not even forty for God’s sake. I should hope I’m ‘well.’ Christ, that’s how you greet a seventy-year-old.” Arithmetic, Michael thought, was never Greta’s strong point. He couldn’t recall how old she really was, but he knew she’d passed forty several years ago.

  Michael realized that even with just drinks, this evening was going to seem like an eternity. He was thinking that maybe he should have arranged instead to meet Greta at McDonald’s for a quick burger or, even quicker, at Jiffy Lube while having an oil change.

  Michael began, “Anyway, Greta. I wanted to fill you in on some things that have occurred regarding Alex.”

  “Have they found out who was behind his murder?”

  “No, Donna hasn’t heard anything new from the police. We might have had a much better shot if the kid who did it wasn’t shot dead in the bar at the same time. You know sometimes these types of crimes don’t get solved quickly. Whoever was behind this may have been a professional or in some type of organized crime. If that’s the case, it could be years before someone talks or the cops get a good lead.”

  “Listen, Michael. Your brother was a terrible husband and treated me like shit in the divorce, but he wasn’t a bad guy. I’d like to see them find the son of a bitch who hired that kid to kill him. After all, Alex was the father of my son.”

  “That’s the reason I wanted to see you tonight, Greta. Alex was always concerned about George. It was his wish that George be taken care of as best as possible from whatever Alex could provide.” Michael was trying to measure his words carefully with Greta, knowing she would always look for an opening to redress whatever ills she felt needed to be fixed from either her marriage to—or divorce from—Alex.

  Michael knew that Greta was already aware of the cash found in Alex’s home and the safe deposit box since George had been at Alex’s house the day both were recovered. Greta also knew about Alex’s laptop and that there could be something of interest on the computer without, of course, knowing anything about Alex’s artificial intelligence program. Michael would have preferred that Donna not be quite so open to George’s involvement.

  “So, what did Alex leave for us?” Greta was intensely interested now.

  Michael didn’t have a lot of patience for Greta’s approach but knew he had to stay calm or he’d be eaten up alive.

  Keeping his voice low, Michael continued, “Greta, I’m going to be straight with you so we don’t misunderstand each other or waste a lot of time. My brother’s concern financially was for your son. He wanted me to be sure that George was provided for. Whatever
happened between you and Alex is not something I can fix or even address. But I can take care of George with funds that, as you know, we have now secured. The amount left in Alex’s estate was minimal, but George did get a share of that. This, however, is substantial.”

  “How much are we talking about?” It was clear that Greta needed a number.

  “I’m prepared to put a million dollars aside for George. I’ll give him one hundred thousand dollars immediately. I’ll then pay him out a hundred thousand each year for the next nine years.” Michael paused for Greta’s reaction.

  Greta’s face tightened. “Michael, first of all, you got three million dollars the other day from the box and the freaking dining room floor. I’d expect George to get at least half of that, not a third. Second, he’s got to get it all now. This is our—his—money.”

  “Greta, the money is being allocated the way I believe Alex would have wanted. Besides Donna, I believe that Alex would have wanted Fat and Skinny Lester to receive something. They’ve earned it, and they were as close to Alex as anyone, and for most of his life.”

  Greta started to interrupt, but Michael cut her off. “Now listen, Greta. Let me finish. We can’t show any of this money. I’m probably the only one out of all of you who can spend what I want because I’m making a good, legitimate income on which I pay out over 30 percent in taxes. No one else around here is showing any substantial income. So, whatever George gets, he’s going to have to be careful about what he spends. The last time I looked, he had no job. If I give him a lot of money—and I consider a hundred thousand a fortune for him—and he starts spending it, we’re all screwed.

  “By the way, not that I need to make an accounting to you, but I’m personally taking none of Alex’s cash. George will take what I give him when I give it to him, as long as he’s discreet in how he spends it. I’m not looking to be his father, but I’m also not going to let him be stupid. If he doesn’t work with me on how he spends it, I’ll cut him off.”