Death Never Sleeps

by E. J. Simon

  “He’s miserable at the office. Over the past few weeks, I could see how Michael enjoyed this strange new life—and he was home at night, although late. And now with Sofia away at college, I’m alone. This should be a time for Michael and me to be together more. We can still make a lot of money—even more than before—and travel a lot as Michael will have a lot more freedom. Last night shook me up obviously. But I think this is something that may have more to do with Alex than with the business itself. I guess what I’m saying, Angie, is that I’m open to this … I think.” Samantha exhaled.

  Michael’s attention shifted to the television hanging over the bar. It was a news story about one of the numerous scandals surrounding the Catholic Church. It showed a film clip of an aging and embattled pope. Michael watched, his attention split between the conversation at the table and the newscast. It was then that something—someone, actually—caught his eye. The scene was a reporter standing on the famous Via Del Corso in Rome. Michael knew the street well; he and Samantha had walked past that exact spot a hundred times. The reporter was speaking, referring to how the average Roman seemed to pay little attention to the scandalous issues that the American press focused on.

  Michael watched that one person who had caught his eye. He was moving slowly, as though in slow motion—one of the passersby behind the reporter who was clearly caught on camera. Although it was a fleeting glimpse, Michael recognized him. It was Sharkey.

  Michael started to speak, to announce that he had seen the man who had tried to have him killed, but quickly caught himself. No one else at the table had ever seen Sharkey, and it hardly seemed believable that he would show up in the background of an evening newscast from Rome, here in Mario’s. Maybe, Michael thought, he was imagining it. Yet, didn’t Alex mention Italy as one of the two likely hideouts for Sharkey? He noticed that Samantha was watching him, obviously curious about his evident distraction. He tuned back into the conversation.

  “Michael, dear, if you can break away from the news for a minute, I was telling Ang and Fletcher that I’m open to this change, if that’s what you really want,” Samantha said, her voice elevated.

  Michael was surprised, if not shocked. “I’m not sure that this is permanent—”

  “Michael, really? Are you just trying to fool me or are you fooling yourself too? I’m so tired of hearing that this is just ‘to settle your brother’s affairs.’ You are hooked. I can see it—and I hope that you can.”

  Michael looked at Samantha. “You’re right, as always.” He knew he was almost home free. Except, he thought, for the minor issue of Alex. But that, he knew, would have to wait.

  “What about this promotion now? Are you going to run both businesses at the same time?” Fletcher asked Michael.

  “I’ll do it as long as I can. Gibraltar does provide a good cover. But I don’t see it lasting for too long. I don’t kid myself; this board wanted to fire me right after the LA speech. It wasn’t just Applegarden—they were supporting him. The only reason they promoted me now was because of all the press. I mean, that speech was reported in the trades all over the world. They couldn’t afford to get rid of me after the press hailed them as so courageous by letting me give that speech. The public doesn’t know what really went on. The board will push me out when they can do it without taking a lot of heat. Plus, if I keep the Gibraltar job long-term, it doesn’t change my life—I’d just have two jobs. I’m doing this partly to change my lifestyle and have a life. But I’d like to just finish up some things.”

  “It’s ironic, isn’t it? First, you just wanted to finish up some things with Alex’s business. Now, you want to finish things up at Gibraltar,” Angie said. “Michael, aren’t you afraid?”

  Angie struck what Michael had always thought would be a nerve, yet as he thought about his answer, he surprised himself. “You know, if someone had showed me a film of what I just went through, I’d say it’s absolutely terrifying. And certainly, at times it was. But the truth is, I’m only scared at night. Fear doesn’t come around during the day. Even as a kid. It’s at night that you get scared, whether it’s the ghosts and monsters when you’re young, or mortality and other lesser problems when you get older. They come out at night, when you turn over in your sleep and it wakes you up.”

  Michael then turned to Fletcher. “So, what do you think?”

  “I think you’re crazy, but you know what, I think you’ll pull it off. And, you know, I have to be careful to steer clear of anything that may not be exactly kosher since I’m still a police chief here, but that shouldn’t be too hard. Most of all, I’ll feel better when they arrest this Sharkey and when we find out for sure who’s behind your brother’s murder. Until then, you’re still in danger.”

  “Until then,” Michael said, pointing to the two big guys hovering at Mario’s entrance, “I’ve got us some good private security.”

  Tiger rejoined the table. “I see some of your people at the door. Paul offered them a drink, but they wouldn’t take anything. What are they—in rehab or something?”

  Chapter 50

  New York City

  December 13, 2009

  Michael was pleasantly surprised when his cell phone rang and the caller’s name lit up: “Jennifer Walsh.” His mind raced back to the scene at the Gansevoort Hotel.

  “Hi, Jennifer, what’s going on?”

  “Well, Catherine and I would love to meet with you, as soon as possible. Catherine has a business proposition for you she’d like to discuss. Plus, we think you’re a great guy.”

  Michael was intrigued. “Listen, I don’t know what in the world I can do for you, but first of all, I certainly owe you a favor. Second, I can’t think of nicer people to spend some time with. How about dinner at La Grenouille tonight?”

  “That’s perfect, Michael. Catherine will be so happy.” Jennifer was upbeat.

  “Good, I’ll make a seven o’clock reservation.”

  “Michael,” Jennifer paused, “you know Catherine is French—and ah, you know, a film type. They don’t eat quite as early as we do—or, as you evidently do. Would nine thirty tonight be okay for you?”

  Michael paused, thinking he used to be getting ready for bed at that time. “Absolutely, I’ll make reservations for the three of us at nine thirty.”

  * * *

  Michael arrived fifteen minutes early at La Grenouille. He had dined there several times before, although he was not a regular or “known” to the restaurant. Nevertheless, as he passed under the playfully lettered white canopy and into the entry and adjacent bar area of the restaurant, he was reminded of its reputation for gorgeous bouquets of fresh floral arrangements. Stepping into La Grenouille was like stepping back in time to a refined French culture. Nearly fifty years old, La Grenouille was the last of Manhattan’s truly great classic French restaurants. It was a fitting choice for a dinner with the equally legendary Catherine Saint-Laurent.

  Michael was efficiently and politely seated at a table near the entrance. He ordered a bottle of Pol Roger Blanc de Blanc, had the waiter pour him a glass while putting the bottle on ice, and waited for his guests to arrive. As he sipped his champagne, he observed the restaurant. It was nearly full, with most diners well along in the meal sequence.

  He wondered whether the staff was concerned with his party’s late start. It was clear that, unless another party entered, Michael’s table would be there long after everyone else had left, especially since neither Jennifer nor Catherine had yet arrived. He remembered the cultural differences he had learned over the years. The French, Italians, Greeks, and Latinos never arrived on time. The Germans were efficiently if not brutally punctual.

  Michael was punctual but, more than that, enjoyed arriving at a restaurant in time to select his favorite seat, order his cocktail, and settle in before having to wait for the inevitable delay in ordering drinks once the dinner party reached more than one or two people. He enjoyed his moments alone, sipping his champagne and taking in the beautiful room as he gazed at New York’
s beautiful people and speculated on what sort of “business proposition” a woman like Catherine Saint-Laurent could possibly have in mind for him.

  After half an hour—and a half bottle of champagne—he heard a commotion coming from the bar and entry behind him. The heads at all the surrounding tables turned toward the sounds; raised voices behind him were all speaking fluent and rapid French. Michael gazed over his shoulder at the arrival of two glamorous blondes, surrounded by black tuxedo-clad waiters and the ma�tre d’, worshipping their way to his table.

  Catherine Saint-Laurent was dressed in a glamorous yet discreet black cocktail dress; Jennifer in an elegant indiscreet white side-slit dress. Michael thought he might be imagining it, but suddenly the restaurant staff was staring at him, clearly impressed with the company he kept. Certainly the level of attention, solicitation, and eye contact had risen in the thirty seconds it took Ms. Saint-Laurent to arrive at Michael’s table. Both beautiful women kissed Michael on each cheek in the traditional French style and sat down on either side of him.

  After more sideways stares, the other diners resumed their meals, but their hushed whispers betrayed their continuing fascination with the French movie star. It was like sitting with Michael Jordon at a Chicago sports bar, Michael thought, except Jennifer and Catherine were a lot prettier to look at.

  Michael quickly ordered another bottle of the Pol Roger, which arrived within ninety seconds. Three waiters surrounded the table, and in a whirl of crystal champagne glasses and white linen, bubbles were everywhere. Michael could not help admiring the view: a famous French and Hollywood star, and Jennifer, a younger, flashy, all-American beauty, somehow sitting at his table. It was a scene made in heaven.

  After the buzz subsided and the formalities were over, Catherine Saint-Laurent raised her glass to Michael. “A toast to you, Michael. We look forward to doing business together and, more importantly, to a long and great friendship.”

  After half an hour of conversation about Mick Jagger, French politics, the indiscretions of American politicians, the religious sanctimoniousness of the American voters, and speculation over the marriage of French President Nicolas Sarkozy and his wife, Carla Bruni, they ordered dinner. Michael chose the country pâté and grilled Dover sole with mustard sauce. Jennifer wanted red meat and selected the beef filet, while Catherine pleased the waiter with her selection of sautéed frog legs.

  Michael had determined that he would let Catherine and Jennifer dictate the pace of the meal and determine when the discussion of business, whatever it might be, would be initiated. After they finished their appetizers and before the arrival of the main courses, Catherine spoke up, her tone changing ever so slightly.

  “Michael,” she began, “you are probably wondering about my so-called ‘business proposition,’ which Jennifer mentioned to you over the phone today. I am sorry for this great mystery. It is really not so complicated.”

  “I must admit, Catherine,” Michael said, “I’m dying of curiosity.”

  Before beginning, she took a quick glance around the room to be sure no one was listening. Catherine’s voice changed to a whisper as she leaned closer to Michael, ensuring she would be heard no further than their own table.

  “I would never speak of this in public, but it has been true that my career has not been, as you say, so hot over the last ten years. The French idolize their aging female stars—but they do not necessarily create parts for them. My agent takes me to lunch in Paris simply to be seen with me. So, I have to create for myself the opportunity to revitalize my career. I have found a screenplay that, I believe, would be ideal for my ‘comeback.’ Unfortunately, I am not, as your Hollywood executives like to say, ‘bankable’ today. So I have had to raise much of the money myself to produce this film. My connections in Paris and Monaco have been very generous, but I still needed close to a million dollars. Your brother was kind enough to be my final investor.”

  “How much was he going to invest?” Michael asked.

  “Seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars. It was to be a loan for three years. Your brother was generous not to charge us what he would charge some other types of people. We had a special relationship with him. He was not an investor—but a very special friend.”

  Michael wished he had remembered to ask Alex more about Catherine when he was on the laptop last night. “Well, before we get into the financial terms, what’s the movie about?”

  Jennifer, who had been very quiet but listening intently, spoke up. “You’ll love it, Michael. It’s about a low-key but well-respected French executive who secretly gets involved in organized crime. It takes place in the streets of Paris and other beautiful places around the world. Catherine plays his wife, who struggles at first with her husband’s change—and then embraces it. It’s got a lot of murder, some discreet French sex, mystery, glitzy jet-setting, alongside some tough, down-to-earth terror.”

  “I’m not a movie critic, but this sounds terrific.” Michael’s mind was racing with excitement over the whole situation—and his own career transition—which was in progress in such a glamorous way right before his eyes in this restaurant with these two beautiful women across the table. But his thoughts quickly went to the incredible irony of the movie’s story line.

  Showing her famous subtle smile, Catherine Saint-Laurent leaned in closer. He immediately felt her presence in that space usually reserved for intimate conversation. “Michael,” she whispered, “perhaps this is something you can relate to, yes?”

  “You have no idea,” he said, and for the first time in weeks, laughed, flashing his own broad smile. As he leaned back in his chair, he felt a sense of relief, a loosening of the tension that had gripped him since his brother’s murder. There was clearly more to this life, he thought, more than he could ever have imagined.

  “So, we’re hoping that you will consider honoring Alex’s commitment. I understand here in America, all business is done with the pen and paper. In Europe, you know, things are different; although, I must confess, changing there too. There is no document from your brother. It was just his word. In that sense, perhaps only in that sense, Alex was a European. But I understand if this is something you are not comfortable to do …” As she concluded her lines, Catherine placed her slender, bejeweled hand over Michael’s.

  Michael, by his nature, usually had immediate instincts, which his experience had taught him to sometimes overrule until he had time to fully digest the information. But, as he had matured and gained experience, he learned that sometimes delaying a decision is fatal. He realized he needed to quickly get back in touch with Alex. Right now, he was in no mood to procrastinate. If he was about to make a mistake, so be it. He could always mitigate it somehow later. This felt too good.

  Michael looked right into Catherine’s stunning gray eyes. “They always say ‘the devil is in the details,’ but I believe we can figure them out very soon. I want you to know that I plan on supporting your venture and your comeback. I’ll provide the seven hundred and fifty thousand on, I’m sure, comparable or similar terms as my brother had committed to you.”

  As soon as he said it, Michael knew that he had violated everything his cautious instincts had taught him. He had no idea yet about the exact terms; he was counting on either Jennifer or Catherine to be honest in detailing the terms agreed to by Alex. Who knew if those terms were reasonable? He knew his brother didn’t give money away, to anyone. Nevertheless, he’d figure it out, soon. He needed to speak again with Alex. His brother would guide him.

  Catherine flashed her movie-star smile, picked up her wineglass, uttered something unintelligible to Michael in French, then looked to Jennifer as they clicked their glasses. They both then looked to Michael, who held his glass first to Catherine and then to Jennifer, clicking each loudly enough to again attract the glances from the other diners, all so curious and smiling, feeling that surely they were witnessing something very important.

  Chapter 51

  New York City

  December
16, 2009

  Michael was back in his Manhattan office at Gibraltar Financial headquarters. Dressed in his navy-blue pinstriped Brioni suit, crisply starched white shirt, and pale blue Hermes tie, he gazed out the large window behind his desk at the buildings farther down Madison Avenue. His office was on the fortieth floor of the iconic Gibraltar Financial Insurance Building occupying the square block at Fifty-Ninth Street and Madison Avenue. From his perch, he could also see the swank green rooftop gardens and crystal blue pools atop some of the buildings. It was a rich view.

  Seated around his desk were Karen and John Hightower, a “chief of staff” working for Richard Perkins, Michael’s new boss. Hightower, in his early thirties, was an accountant whom Perkins hired to do all the things—and have all the conversations—that he was uncomfortable doing. Hightower was perfectly designed to get under Michael’s skin; he was strictly a numbers guy, a little too young for his position, with no operating or real-world experience, and a Brit with more than a touch of undeserved arrogance. Michael knew beforehand why Hightower was here to see him.

  “John, you don’t mind if Karen sits in on our little meeting, do you? She can help us keep track of any follow-up issues or details.”

  Michael knew full well that Hightower, who was very status-conscious, did mind having a “secretary” sitting in on what he perceived as a confidential meeting. Michael never trusted Hightower and wanted a witness to any direct orders he received from him on behalf of Perkins.