by E. J. Simon
Michael found himself fascinated not only to be having a normal conversation with his brother—but also with Alex’s ability to grasp a rather complex situation.
“I’m not done,” Michael continued. “Remember the cassette tape with Sharkey’s ‘goodbye’ message to me, the one they played in the car just before they figured they’d be dumping me in Flushing Bay that night?”
“Yeah. Sharkey was known for having his hit men play a personal message that he had recorded for anyone he was having killed. He used to brag about it to me. He said it gave him some special satisfaction. He said, ‘What’s the point of having someone whacked if the guy didn’t know why he was being whacked?’ Kind of makes sense if you think about it. At least in his sick mind.”
Michael cringed as he recounted his own chilling encounter a year ago, “I’ll never forget it. I’m in crazy Morty’s car, wrapped in duct tape. My feet are encased in a cement block. I’m still drugged up from the chloroform they used to knock me out. Then, Morty puts the cassette player up to my ear and I hear Sharkey’s voice. His last words were, ‘You always lose the final game. Goodbye, Michael.’ Well, the cassette has disappeared from the precinct evidence room. With the three idiots dead, that tape was the last concrete, no pun intended, link to Sharkey for my kidnapping. Except for me, of course.”
“That’s right; they’ve taken care of everything else. Now if they can get rid of you, Sharkey can come back and the cops have nothing on him. And whoever owed Sharkey a favor for his help just made the first payment on it.”
“One more thing,” Michael added, “I just found out that the good bishop, of all people, has been placed on my Gibraltar board.”
Alex interrupted him, “McCarthy himself? No wonder there’s so much sex going on with some of those priests—they do have some balls.”
“Yes, Bishop Kevin McCarthy himself. But, don’t forget, no one except his superiors in the Vatican knows what he did to those kids years ago. Without them, the investigation had nowhere to go. So now the Vatican worked out a deal to put this creep on the board so Gibraltar supposedly gets the PR benefit of a holy guy and the company’s going to make a contribution to the church or school in the Bronx. It’s unbelievable.”
Alex laughed. “What a combination—a corrupt big corporation and a dirty bishop.” He became very serious. “But this is their way of telling you that they can get you whenever they want. This is a power play. They’ve put this priest right into your backyard, your life. Your straight life. They’ll know where you are and what you’re doing.”
“I know.” But Michael didn’t know yet how much information Alex could digest although it appeared that, as his computer consultants had predicted, he was getting smarter each time they spoke. The artificial intelligence program was designed to get smarter as more and more information was fed into it either through program uploads or the conversational interaction such as Michael and Alex were now having.
Alex stared hard at him, “Do you realize how deep you’re in here? I was no saint, but you’re into some heavy-duty business. Murder, the church, and at least one guy looking to kill you. Can you handle this?”
It was a good question. “I have a plan and I’m going to need your help to make it happen. I’ll tell you about it soon enough but first I’m going to need you to help me find out exactly whom I need to get to in the Vatican.”
“You mean the person pulling the strings? I already told you about Lovallo and Petrucceli.”
“No, someone higher than that.”“Like the Pope?”
“Preferably not the Pope. But you’re getting closer.”
“So, we’re going to show Sharkey that artificial intelligence is better than no intelligence.”
“Yes, if my plan works, Sharkey and his protectors will be in for a big surprise.”
“By the way, you should be loading your own personal stuff onto an artificial intelligence software program because, at this rate, I’m going to outlive you—and I’ll be talking to myself here.”
“That’s an interesting thought. I wonder, do you even exist if I disappear and no one else knows about you? It’s a scary thought, isn’t it?”
Alex laughed, then turned solemn. “You have no idea.”
Chapter 13
Westport, Connecticut
Samantha Nicholas was an enigma to all but her very closest friends, who numbered no more than three. Yet that in itself was a mystery to those who knew her. It was a mystery to her too.
She was smart, a graduate of NYU, fluent in French, and had a good head for business. Before her marriage, Samantha had been a legend in the cutthroat world of high-end Manhattan real estate, using her intelligence, calm manner and astute evaluation of people to navigate successfully through the eccentric and egomaniacal personalities.
She was in great shape and, although in her mid-forties, could easily pass for someone ten years younger. She had a solid marriage for over twenty years, a successful husband and a beautiful and sensitive daughter, Sofia, in her second year at Notre Dame.
Angie and Fletcher Fanelli, in their early forties, were Michael and Samantha’s closest friends, two tough and spirited characters with a young baby daughter.
Fletcher, the police chief of Westport, Connecticut, was one of the few people Michael could confide in as he moved from the strictly straight and narrow world of Gibraltar Financial to his brother’s revitalized illegal business, now known as Tartarus. Fletcher could be trusted to be there when Michael needed him—and keep things to himself, leaving even Angie in the dark.
Samantha and Angie sat at a table in the cozy back room of Mario’s. Samantha looked around; the restaurant, an institution in Westport, was filled with its usual combination of laid-back “townies” and the suit-and-tie commuter crowd returning from Manhattan.
“Michael loves this place. I swear I think sometimes he actually dreams about the meatballs. He says he’ll never forget the day Tiger took him into the kitchen one afternoon to show him the meatballs simmering in the tomato sauce. I think they had to carry him out.”
Angie laughed, “Well, Michael’s the only person I know who remembers every meal he’s ever had.”
Once Angie and Samantha had polished off their first bottle of champagne and dispensed with the chitchat, Samantha turned somber.
“Something’s happened to Michael.” she said. “It all started when his brother was murdered. Donna, Alex’s widow, pushed Michael to get involved, just to clean up Alex’s affairs and that sort of thing. Up until then, he’d always steered clear of anything having to do with his brother’s affairs. But I’m afraid once he got a taste of Alex’s life, he liked it. He liked it too much.”
“What exactly does that mean, Samantha?”
“I’m not sure exactly. We always talked about everything. We shared everything with each other. Not anymore. Michael’s running Gibraltar—how, I can’t imagine—but he’s still doing that and not only heading up his brother’s business but expanding it. With everything going on now, I hardly ever see him.”
“Oh, Samantha.” Angie said.
“Wait, there’s more. But, Angie, I’m not supposed to tell this to anyone.”
“Samantha, I know I can be a little ditzy at times but, you know, you can trust me.”
“Angie, this is more than a secret. It’s about what I said on the phone last night. This is about life and death—and maybe beyond that. I feel like I’m living in The Twilight Zone.”
“My God, what is it?”
“Before Alex died, he got into some crazy artificial intelligence thing. He paid a good friend of his, who was a computer whiz, to purchase some combination of sophisticated artificial intelligence and computer imaging software. Alex wanted to live forever—or some type of nonsense—he paid a small fortune for all of this. Then he had these technology gurus load all kinds of personal data onto a secret Apple laptop that he’d had hidden away somewhere. Michael found it after Alex died. I think one of Alex’s mistresses, some ho
t-shot hairdresser in the city, told Michael about it and then gave him Alex’s password so he could log in.”
“No wonder Alex didn’t go to a regular old barber. With what little hair he had, it certainly wasn’t for a blow-out. Maybe a blow—”
“Ang, seriously, it gets worse. I think this technology thing works, at least like some sophisticated computer game anyway. But for Michael—he thinks it’s more than that. And now he’s spent his own money on computer consultants and more hardware. He’s set up a huge screen and computers hidden in our wine cellar. He goes down there now and talks to the screen—and thinks he’s speaking with Alex.”
“Samantha, I can’t believe this. It’s not like Michael, he’s as down to earth as anyone I’ve ever known. I can’t believe he’d get involved with Alex’s stuff—let alone believe this voodoo artificial intelligence shit.”
“He brought me down to the wine cellar last night, just before I called you. It was spooky. He presses some buttons and all of a sudden the giant screen comes down and Alex comes to life and they start talking to each other!”
“Oh my God.” Angie said. “What did they say?”
“I had to leave. It was too much for me. It was Alex, big as life on the screen, big as life with all his expressions and quirky mannerisms. I must admit, they did a great job with that. But Michael actually believes he’s speaking with his brother. It’s crazy. Michael’s crazy.”
Tiger, Mario’s venerable owner, looking out from his usual perch near the kitchen and seeing two of his favorite woman, ventured over to their table. He was a short, bald and lovable man, who looked like a cross between a bulldog and a teddy bear.
“I knew the noise level had gone up all of a sudden, now I know why. How are my two princesses doing?”
“Oh, Tiger, don’t even ask. Men are just such freakin’ idiots,” Angie said. Samantha knew Angie considered Tiger to be a father figure.
Tiger, seventy-seven, divorced for over twenty years, with a wild streak and a stream of women he kept at a careful distance, thought for a moment before answering, “I can’t argue with you there.”
Chapter 14
Astoria, New York
The image reminded him of photographs he had admired from French Vogue. Michael glanced at Sindy Steel’s long, white legs peering out from the high slit in her black silk skirt as she drove her powerful black Corvette over the Triboro Bridge. They were leaving glitzy Manhattan and heading for the gritty borough of Queens and Astoria.
As his new head of security, Michael knew that Sindy would be expected to be close by his side at all times. As they drove down Twenty-Eighth Avenue past the old stores and apartments, he thought of the many relatives and friends, mostly recent Greek immigrants like his own parents, that he would visit as a child. He noticed the old brick apartment building where his godparents, Jimmy and Erasmia Pappas, had lived. How quickly life changes, he thought, and it just keeps moving on.
Sitting in the passenger seat and approaching the restaurant and its waiting valet, Michael wondered how he had come to have not only a bodyguard but a mistress, all bundled into one extraordinary package.
“How do you want to play this?” Sindy said. “Should I stay outside with the car?
“No. Give it to the valet. Come in with me and sit at the bar while I dine with this dirtbag.” Michael didn’t know what to expect from Bishop McCarthy but he knew he wouldn’t like him. “I can’t believe this pedophile is still a bishop.”
They walked under the red canopy through the front door of Piccola Venezia, entering into the large formal bar. The rich, wood-paneled walls framed the well-dressed, but tough, testosterone-fueled crowd around the bar, giving an old-world feel to the setting. It had that typical, solid middle-class, upper-end Queens restaurant aura—an appearance of dignified calm and alcoholic conviviality while, under the surface, percolated a macho-like volcano, waiting for the first show of disrespect for it to erupt in a free-for-all worthy of the alleys of Sicily or Baghdad. Nevertheless, the scene brought back many memories for Michael. He and Alex had eaten here many times over the years. Ezio—the paternal, dignified owner and maître d’—instantly recognized Michael and, eyeing Sindy by his side, greeted him with a broad smile and a firm handshake.
“Michael, it’s so good to see you. How are you?”
“I’m very good, Ezio. I’d like you to meet my associate, Sindy Steele.”
Gracious, but with a professional reserve, Sindy offered a firm handshake.
“I miss your brother, Michael. He was such a good man. Thank you for coming in, you are like family, you know. I have a great table for the two of you.”
“Actually, Sindy is going to stay here in the bar. I’m meeting a Bishop McCarthy for dinner. I don’t think he’s arrived yet.”
Ezio looked confused but he recovered quickly. Michael figured he had likely seen a lot of complicated situations involving men and their women, although perhaps not bishops. “Absolutely, Michael. We have a special seat here at the bar for the lady,” he said, motioning toward a tall stool at the end of the bar, closest to the dining room. “And we will have a quiet table for you and the bishop in the dining room whenever you’re ready.”
“That’s perfect, Ezio, thank you.”
At that moment, the front door swung open and a man entered, dressed in black with a priest’s white collar. He was of medium height and build, a red, ruddy Irish complexion and a large mane of curvy white hair.
“This must be your bishop, Michael.” Ezio said.
“I’ve never met him but he sure looks like one.”
Sindy Steele quietly slipped onto her barstool. Michael neither introduced nor acknowledged her in front of the bishop. He wasn’t sure why. He hadn’t planned or discussed that with her but they both seemed to simultaneously and silently agree that it was best that way. Ezio watched the scene unfold, curious yet with professional nonchalance.
Michael walked directly toward the bishop to greet him. Holding out his right hand, he said, “You must be Bishop McCarthy.”
In the corner of his eye, Michael could see Sindy Steele observing them. Ever so briefly, his eyes met hers as he and the bishop walked right past her on their way to the dining room.
___________
The bottle of Chianti was nearly empty. Michael had just finished his grilled calamari and was savoring his plate of fusi alla grappa, a homemade pasta with mushrooms, grappa and parmigiano. Despite the company, Michael was enjoying it. The bishop was eating a T-bone steak. Michael noticed the waiter wince when he ordered it “well done.”
“So, how did you come to be on our illustrious board, Bishop?”
The bishop finished chewing, looked up from his plate and responded, grinning slightly. “I guess we have a mutual friend, Michael. John Hightower seems to be a very close friend of a monsignor at the Vatican, Monsignor Petrucceli. The monsignor and I have collaborated on spiritual issues for many years.”
Michael tried to control his rising slow burn. He couldn’t wait to tell Sindy about the connection with Hightower. He knew he couldn’t afford to show the bishop any concern or displeasure on his part. So, instead, he played the congenial host, happy to have a member of the clergy on the board of the company he ran. But it was now clear that Bishop Kevin McCarthy was his mortal enemy.
“You know, Michael, I have no intention of interfering with your affairs at Gibraltar or challenging how you run the company. We just want you to know that we’re there.”
“That ‘we’re there?’” Michael challenged, his voice escalating, “Who’s ‘we’?”
“Michael, please. Relax. I am not here to threaten you. When I say ‘we,’ I refer to the Holy Trinity.”
Michael chose to let the Holy Trinity response go unanswered. He had already revealed more than he intended and was annoyed with himself for letting his emotions show.
“God is with you, Michael. At all times.” Bishop McCarthy smiled. Michael was sure that McCarthy had had his eyes done. A sure
sign of divine vanity, he thought.
___________
Later that evening, in the bar at the St. Regis, Sindy Steele sipped her Ketel One cocktail while Michael nursed his limoncello from a small, frosted glass. He filled her in on the ominous dinner conversation with Bishop McCarthy.
“The Vatican put him on the board to get to you. To play with your head. They want to show you who’s boss, that you can’t shield yourself from their influence,” Sindy said. “He’s as dangerous and as wicked as they come, Michael. Don’t forget, after those poor kids were going to expose him for the pervert that he is, he pulled every string he had to have them killed. He’s probably been put near you to do the same thing.”
“I know, my brother said the same…” Michael caught himself. “Alex was never big on priests; he thought most of them were just holier-than-thou hypocrites.”
“Your brother was right—and they don’t get any worse than this guy.”
“What did you do at the bar for almost two hours?” Michael asked, still thinking about McCarthy.
“Just watched the crowd. The bar was full most of the time. I saw a lot of characters.”
“Anyone interesting?” Michael asked.
“Not really, but there was one guy who came in right after you and the bishop went to your table. He stayed the whole time while you ate. He seemed to watch everything and then got up just as you and the bishop were leaving.”
“What did he look like?”
“He was in his mid-forties, trim and well-dressed in a too-shiny grey suit, blue shirt, gold cufflinks and a bright red tie. It’s funny, I watched that pretty Russian bartender serve him his Campari. She seemed drawn to him but somehow but as she drew closer, handing him his drink, she suddenly turned away and never made eye contact with him again. And then, I stared at him more closely, trying to size him up, you know? It was then that I noticed his eyes—they were strange, somehow unnerving.”