Death Never Sleeps

by E. J. Simon

  “Greta, my love, I have left you plenty of money. Please stay calm. You will be all right.”

  “No, you don’t understand, Sharkey. Money isn’t going to help me with this. It’s not about the fuckin’ bills. It’s about the cops. Michael will lead them to me; he’s not stupid.”

  “Please, dear …” Sharkey was trying to calm her, but he could see Greta could not be assuaged.

  “No, Sharkey. I’m going to book a flight to Rome. I’m going to join you. I just have to find my fuckin’ passport and get a flight. You’ve got to protect me. I’m fuckin’ all alone here now.”

  Sharkey tried to control himself. He didn’t like being cornered. He could feel his temper flaring, like a sudden shot of electricity coursing through his veins. He had felt this before many times, and he knew it wasn’t a good thing. He wanted to raise his voice but couldn’t here in Al Moro.

  Getting himself in check, he whispered back to Greta, knowing that this would likely fan the flames even more. “Greta, this isn’t the time to run. I can’t get you out of the US; they will be watching the airports. You would need another name, another passport, or they’ll find you.”

  “Can’t your fuckin’ pope friends help?”

  “No. It was not easy for them to even help me, but to go beyond that is impossible. They won’t even be seen with me in public here. I’m eating alone.” Sharkey felt calmer, but his hands were starting to tremble.

  “Shit. Sharkey, you’re eating fuckin’ spaghetti? You’ve got to fuckin’ help me get out of here.”

  “No, Greta. Now is not the time to flee. Now is the time to fix our problem.”

  “What do you mean, fix our problem? What the fuck does that mean, Sharkey?”

  “It means to take care of Michael. Quickly. Find him and kill him.”

  “Are you fuckin’ nuts? I’ve never killed anyone. Your fuckin’ Morty and his fuckin’ friends took care of that. Now you think I can just go do it?” Sharkey could tell Greta was on the verge of hysteria.

  “Now stay calm, Greta. You’ve already killed—Alex; that guy Russell, the handyman, or whatever he was; your dear Merlin. Maybe you didn’t murder them with your own hands, but there is no difference. It’s not a sin; it’s part of life. The State does it, and the Church does it, dear.”

  “What the hell are you talking about? Yes, you did them for me, but we were in this thing together. You know I can’t do this myself. You know how to do this shit.”

  “Greta. I didn’t do it with my own hands, but it doesn’t make any difference. You have my gun. You just find out where Michael is and shoot him until he’s dead. Empty the gun into him and then walk away.”

  Without waiting for an answer, Sharkey clicked off the phone. Greta was beyond reason, he thought. She would have time to think about what he had suggested and would either come out even angrier at him—or be ready to kill Michael. It was time to calm himself down, enjoy the remainder of his meal, finish his Barolo, and then leave in time for his meeting at the hotel.

  It was thirty minutes past midnight when Sharkey paid his bill with newly minted euros and walked out of Al Moro. As he walked by the Trevi Fountain on his way back to his hotel, he gazed at the young crowd, tourists from all over the world, gathered around the fountain, partying and throwing their coins into the water. He laughed at the innocence of the young, thinking their wishes would come true in such a way. He relied, he thought to himself, on higher connections.

  Chapter 57

  Just before one in the morning, Sharkey walked up the Spanish Steps. The Hassler Hotel, one of the finest in Rome, was at the very top. He would be right on time for his meeting in the quiet and virtually hidden hotel bar. Out of breath from the 138-step climb, Sharkey walked slowly through the hotel’s lobby and turned to the right, where the simple but plush bar was located.

  As he approached, he saw only two people: Nicoli the bartender, and sipping a grappa at a small table to the right, Monsignor Dominick Petrucceli, a close aide to Cardinal Angelo Lovallo, the right hand of the pope.

  In typical Italian fashion, they embraced and kissed.

  “Joseph, it is so good to see you again.” The monsignor was unobtrusively dressed in civilian clothes, leaving behind even his priest’s collar. “The cardinal wishes he could join us, but as you can imagine, under the circumstances, that would not be advisable. He is too well known in Rome and would be too visible. We both remember your gracious assistance with our problem in New York years ago. You saved the Church tremendous embarrassment. We will always be in your debt.”

  “Thank you, Monsignor. I hope you will send my warmest regards and respect to the cardinal. I’m sure he is happy to be back in Rome with his reputation safely intact. Those young men were no friends of the Church—or of my own people. I was happy to take care of things. I certainly trusted Bishop McCarthy’s word over that of those troublemakers.”

  The troublemakers in question were two young men in their thirties who claimed to have been abused by Bishop Kevin McCarthy while he was a priest at a parish in the Bronx twenty years earlier. They were killed in a horrific car accident and explosion just before they were to appear for their formal deposition. The initial police investigator at the scene labeled the accident “suspicious.” He was immediately replaced before his report could even be completed.

  Nicoli, the bartender whom Sharkey had met over twenty years ago here in the same bar, brought him his favorite limoncello. Nicoli placed the small, frosted glass of limoncello on the table for Sharkey. “Signore Sharkey, so good to see you again.”

  “How are you, Nicoli?”

  Nicoli, a bartender and de facto late-night Italian philosopher, responded, “Life is good, Signore Sharkey. Expensive, but good.” As he said it, his eyebrows arched and his eyes seemed to look up to heaven, seeking either help or forgiveness.

  The monsignor and Sharkey turned back to each other.

  “Before I forget,” the monsignor said, handing Sharkey a thick envelope, “here are additional euros. This should hold you for quite a while. I suggest you place it in the hotel’s safe at the front desk before going up to your room.”

  “Thank you, Monsignor. You and the cardinal have been very generous.” Sharkey didn’t open the envelope, confident in its weight alone, but slipped it quickly in the inside hip pocket of his black leather sport coat.

  As Monsignor Petrucceli scanned the room, his face turned stern and his deep voice became a soft whisper. He leaned across the table, just inches from Sharkey’s face. “Joseph, the cardinal has thought heavily about your situation and the information you provided to him. It is not up to him, of course, to tell you your business, but he has taken the complete matter under his advisement. He has asked me to communicate his thoughts to you tonight.”

  “You know how much I respect the cardinal. I welcome his thoughts and suggestions.”

  “Very well.” The monsignor looked around again, and apparently seeing no one within earshot, he continued. “Joseph, just as the Church had a cancer that needed to be removed when you were so helpful, so now do you have such a disease that threatens your body and soul. This cancer must be eliminated.”

  “As you know, Monsignor, I have taken steps to do that. I have spoken this evening with a relative of the person involved. I expect that she will eliminate the threat. I will know for sure tomorrow. Otherwise, I will make different arrangements for him to be taken care of.” Sharkey felt relieved that the cardinal seemed to be in agreement with his move to eliminate Michael.

  But the monsignor continued, almost brushing aside Sharkey’s comments. “Joseph, when there is a cancer, you must eradicate not only the actual diseased tissue but also the surrounding tissue, which may contain a future threat or the seeds of reoccurrence. Ah, when you find a cockroach in your bowl of spaghetti, you do not simply remove the insect and resume eating. You throw out the entire serving. Do you understand what I’m saying, Joseph?”

  Sharkey took it in, trying to be sure he unde
rstood the exact message. He was getting confused with all the talk about disease, cancer, and spaghetti. “Monsignor, I believe the surrounding tissue is healthy.”

  The monsignor was clearly not used to resistance. “Get rid of the woman.”

  * * *

  Minutes later, as Sharkey rested his head in the soft pillows in his room at the Hassler, he contemplated his situation. His best-case scenario was that Greta had taken his advice and shot Michael. She would certainly have easy access to him. Sharkey would then have to make arrangements with his contacts in Queens to quickly eliminate Greta. That would be simple; Greta would be an easy mark for his boys. But he would need to do that before Greta could be arrested for Michael’s murder.

  There would still be the matter of Morty, Nicky Bats, and Lump—and the cassette tape—all in the hands of the NYPD. But Sharkey knew better than anyone that evidence and witnesses have a way of disappearing given the right connections. It would just take some time and money, and Sharkey had plenty of both.

  With fifty thousand euros in the hotel safe, the Vatican eternally indebted to him, and a strategy in place in his mind to begin resurrecting his future, Joseph Sharkey closed his eyes and slept like a baby.

  Chapter 58

  Flushing, Queens, New York

  December 18, 2009

  11:20 p.m.

  “I have a gun.” Greta’s voice sounded frighteningly calm.

  Michael pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed 9-1-1. He whispered into the phone, “Forty-three-oh-one Northern Boulevard, Flushing, second floor, help, quick. She has a gun.”

  Michael was literally and figuratively boxed in. He was only slightly relieved that the voice he heard was not Sharkey’s or one of his henchmen. On the other hand, Alex had just warned him that perhaps Greta was behind a few murders already, and there was certainly no love lost between them. He knew he couldn’t afford to have Greta hear him, or whatever savagery was on her mind might be expedited. He left the phone connection open. He heard the 9-1-1 operator talking, but instead of speaking directly to her, he let her hear his conversation with Greta, still behind the door.

  “Greta, what do you want?” Michael shouted.

  “I fuckin’ hate you. You and your fuckin’ brother ruined my life.”

  “What do you want from me, Greta?”

  Michael was buying time, looking at Alex’s gun, trying to figure out exactly how to fire it, while waiting for Greta’s response. He could hear muted conversations on his cell and hoped that the police would be on their way.

  “I’m going to kill you, Michael.”

  “Greta, listen, I know you hate me, but I’m not your problem, believe me. I’m just doing what Alex wanted me to do. Your son’s being well taken care of.”

  “That doesn’t do me any fuckin’ good, Michael, and you know it.”

  As he listened, Michael moved away from behind the desk, which was located in the center of the room, directly behind the door. “Greta, if it’s some cash you need, I’ll give you some. Don’t do anything stupid now.”

  “Oh great, Michael. Now you’ll give me cash. It’s too late for that. Besides, Sharkey wants you dead.”

  “I know he does, Greta, but what’s that got to do with you?”

  “You’re not as smart as you think, Michael. I’d have thought a smart guy like you would have figured it out by now.”

  Michael’s mind was racing as he quietly moved the desk to the right far corner and prepared to hide behind it. “Figured what out?” he said.

  “Sharkey and I are together. He’s taking care of me. We’re going to get married once all this shit blows over.”

  Michael just exhaled, flabbergasted. The thought of Sharkey and Greta as a couple—and working together—never crossed his mind as a possible combination. It certainly could explain everything. Alex had just told him that Greta would have needed a capable accomplice to pull off everything that had gone down over the past month.

  “So Sharkey hired that kid to kill Alex?” Michael asked.

  “Of course. He knew he wouldn’t be a suspect because Alex owed him all that money. We knew we’d collect either way, although you really pissed Sharkey off when you tried to screw him on what Alex owed him. Anyway, Sharkey got rid of Merlin for me too. Another loser.”

  “Why did he have Merlin put into my car? What was the point of that?”

  “Sharkey called it ‘poetic justice.’ Sharkey knows poetry and stuff. He said since Merlin owed your brother money, it would make sense that you got the body. Plus, we both wanted to scare the shit out of you. I wanted to get to Alex’s cash without you sticking your fuckin’ nose into places you don’t understand.”

  “Is that why you guys had someone break into my house?”

  “Yeah—and we figured we’d scare the shit out of that stuck-up bitch you’re married to—and that would be the end of you in this whole thing.”

  “Greta, you’ll wind up in a prison for the rest of your life if you do this. What about George?”

  “I’m in too deep already to stop now. And George is a big boy; he’s taking care of himself first too. He learned that from your fuckin’ brother. Now he’s only giving me five hundred a month. It costs me that much to get my fuckin’ hair done each month.”

  “But why do you have to kill me? There’s no more money in it for you now.”

  “Sharkey wants you dead. Anybody that could testify against him is going to disappear one way or another.”

  Michael was on the floor off to the right side where he had quietly moved the desk. He lay down flat on the floor behind the desk. He still had Alex’s gun in his hand but had decided it was too risky for him to begin firing since he didn’t have a good sense of exactly where Greta was standing. It sounded like she had been nervously pacing or moving around during their conversation. For Greta, Michael was trapped in a very small box—it was just a matter of firing enough bullets to spray the entire office until one found its target.

  Michael heard a series of earsplitting explosions and saw puffs of smoke, plaster, and debris coming through the wooden door and again on the wall behind where the desk had been. The gun was obviously an automatic since it appeared that Greta had already fired off at least fifteen shots in rapid succession.

  He stayed silent on the floor, raising his head just enough so he could see the damage. He raised his gun and pointed it at the door where the bullets had poured through.

  “Michael, how does it feel to be cornered? No fuckin’ options? How does it feel to die? You’re going to join your big brother.”

  Michael still felt the odds were not with him to begin firing. His gun had only five or six bullets. The odds of hitting Greta without a better fix on where she was were not good and not worth the danger of tipping her off to his precise location and the fact that he was alive and armed. He decided to stay silent and see if Greta continued to fire or tried to blast through the door. Then he figured he would empty his pistol into her.

  Another volley of bullets exploded through the door, passing directly above the area where Michael was lying down. Suddenly, Michael heard a commotion and a crash coming from outside his office walls.

  The police had broken down the main door. “Police! Drop the gun and raise your hands. Drop the gun. Drop the gun!”

  Then there was an explosion of simultaneous, earsplitting shots, too many to count—some of the bullets piercing through the wall into Michael’s office.

  Michael waited for a few moments, reassured by the voices of the NYPD in the next room. He was still in his darkened office, lying on the floor. Light was coming through the many holes in the plasterboard. He summoned the nerve to finally shout. “Help! I’m in here.”

  “NYPD. Are you hurt? Do you have a weapon?”

  Michael carefully replaced the gun back into the desk drawer. “I’m not hurt, and I don’t have a weapon.”

  “Then just open the door and walk out slowly,” a commanding voice shouted.

  Mic
hael stood up from behind the desk and took three steps to the bullet-riddled door. He opened it and gingerly walked out amid the debris. Red lights from the patrol cars outside were flashing through the second-story office blinds and covering the entire office with a surreal flickering red glow. In front of him, Michael saw seven NYPD uniformed police officers, some kneeling, others standing—and they all had their guns drawn and aimed squarely at him.

  Michael’s eyes were drawn down to the floor. Lying two feet in front of him, almost at his feet, was Greta Garbone, her face looking more at peace than he’d ever seen it. She did not appear to have been shot above her neck, although blood was slowly trickling out from her mouth onto the beige carpet. She was dressed in a navy blue jogging outfit that was punctured with bullet holes. Her blood moved in a steadily extending puddle around her head.

  Michael knew a dead body when he saw one.

  Chapter 59

  Westport, Connecticut

  Christmas Eve, 2009

  It was nearly midnight. Samantha and Sofia, who was on her holiday break from Notre Dame, were both asleep upstairs. Michael sat alone in his library, watching the snow fall outside his window and gazing at the reflections of the twinkling Christmas lights outside on the freshly fallen snow.

  It was time to wish Alex a Merry Christmas.

  As he booted up the computer, Michael thought of a long-past Christmas Eve. He was seven years old. Michael tried to sneak downstairs during the night to see if Santa Claus had brought him the bicycle he had hoped for. Just as he looked down to catch a glimpse of the tall Christmas tree in the living room from the top of the second-floor balcony, Alex appeared out of nowhere to whisk Michael back to his bed. In that brief moment just before Alex appeared, Michael was able to see the reflection of the bike’s wheel and spokes. As he rested his head back on his pillow, he went back to sleep with the sure knowledge that Santa had indeed already arrived. It was like a story from a children’s book.