by E. J. Simon
“Several weeks later, the toxicology results showed some, and I quote, ‘disturbing yet inconclusive findings.’ The medical examiner believed—but could not prove—McGee had somehow ingested a deadly but impossible-to-detect poison. By the way, do you happen to know what Steele’s specialty was in med school?”
“No, what?”
“Try medicinal chemistry and pharmacology. I found out that records of the death, as well as an agreement leading up to her permanent departure from Stanford, were sealed as part of a settlement negotiated by her attorney.”
Michael heard the crisp click of the electronic key lock on the front door of the suite. He looked up and saw the handle turning. She was back.
Chapter 28
Rome, Italy
Monsignor Petrucceli checked his watch and looked out at the dining room, searching for a familiar face. It was eight o’clock and every table at the ancient Ristorante La Campagna was filled with Romans enjoying dinner. The scene was a controlled chaos, mostly traditional looking, well-dressed families—in some cases four generations — seated around long tables, enjoying a festive evening of cheeses, salamis, artichokes, pasta and, perhaps, a sizzling bistecca. Bottles of the house red anchored each table. The brusque waiters, all men, uniformly dressed in white shirts, black suits and bow ties, roamed the room without a smile and with an occasional expression of annoyance.
Monsignor Petrucceli was already on his second glass of the Morellino di Scansano 414. Beginning to feel the warmth of the robust red wine soothe his nerves, his anxiety returned as soon he saw Joseph Sharkey being led by the maitre’d to his table.
“Joseph, sit down,” he said, motioning Sharkey to the seat opposite him. As they shook hands, he remembered how odd it was that such a seemingly tough, fearless character could have such a weak, limp handshake.
“Good evening, Monsignor.” Sharkey said as he poured himself a glass of wine, looked around at the other diners, their plates, and settled his stare on a particularly shapely woman seated at the next table.
The monsignor, wanting to bring Sharkey’s eyes and attention back to the ground, said, “Joseph, it’s good to see you. We have a lot to talk about. There have been developments.”
Sharkey was attentive. “ ‘Developments’—what does that mean? I’m aware that my three little friends are no longer a problem.”
“Yes, Joseph, they have found, as we say, everlasting peace.”
“They were good men.”
The monsignor, marveling at Sharkey’s obtuseness, smiled, “Oh, I’m sure they were worthy of sainthood, Joseph. We will certainly miss them.”
Sharkey’s eyes narrowed as he looked across the table. The monsignor knew he had tweaked his companion’s temper but continued to steer the conversation. “Joseph, you should also be aware that our mutual friend, Bishop McCarthy, is also gone.”
This clearly caught Sharkey by surprise, his head jerked upward. “Gone? What do you mean ‘gone? Where the hell did he go?’”
“He had a terrible accident.”
“Monsignor, who do you think you’re talking to here? What do you mean, ‘He had a terrible accident?’ ”
“Calm down, Joseph. Everything is OK. The bishop was, after all, a liability. If you have been reading the papers, you will see that our Pope Leo is very distressed over all these pedophile priest problems. The church has, as he said, been humiliated. There will be no more tolerance for such behavior. I’m afraid Bishop McCarthy could no longer be protected.”
“It was no accident. Who ordered it?” Sharkey was inflamed, yet obviously struggling to control his temper.
“The police believe he took his own life. He was found hanging,” the monsignor said, trying to keep his voice low and calm, hoping his tone might help settle Sharkey down.
“Who are you kidding? I’m not some rookie, you know,” Sharkey persisted.
“That is all I know right now. You must understand, the Vatican is made up of many layers, many separate fiefdoms. I am not privy to all that goes on.”
But as he listened to Sharkey’s ranting, the monsignor knew that he himself was the most surprised at this most recent turn of events. He also questioned the “suicide”—in fact, he had come to doubt all suicides and deaths by ‘natural causes’ of anyone under ninety who had certain dealings with the Vatican. He knew too much.
He thought back to his conversation with Hightower, who expressed his own shock at finding the bishop dangling in his garage. And several days before, the bishop himself mentioned that Michael Nicholas had been highly antagonistic toward him.
Hightower had sounded nervous on the call. He said he didn’t think that Michael was capable of murdering the bishop—especially in such a sadistic manner—but he was afraid of this new female bodyguard.
He turned his attention back to Sharkey, who, having no clue that the monsignor’s attention had drifted, was continuing his rant.
“Jesus, I don’t like this. And what about Michael Nicholas? Everyone else is dropping like flies, but he’s still traveling all over the world. He’s still out there. He can screw me if he talks to the cops.”
“Yes, we know, Joseph. He is the final remainder of the problem. The only one left who can expose you and testify. He is your only remaining vulnerability. He will be taken care of. You have my word.”
“Monsignor, once Michael is dead, I can leave Rome and go back to the states. They can’t touch me then.” Sharkey suddenly smiled, “And, look at it this way, once he’s gone, I’m out of your hair.”
Monsignor Petrucceli sighed, shook his head and said, “Believe me, Joseph, every night I pray for such a miracle.”
Chapter 29
Astoria, New York
Skinny Lester couldn’t help but stare at the empty chair at the head of the long rectangular table it. He kept waiting for Alex to appear. Everyone did.
For the last twenty years, the fourteen men seated around the table in the private room of Piccola Venezia had celebrated Alex Nicholas’ birthdays. This year was no different, except that Alex would not be there.
Alex’s friends and his only son, George, had gathered—just as they did when Alex was alive. The event symbolized a loyalty that Alex had engendered at a time when friendships were fleeting and relationships transient.
Alex’s buddies included an assortment of characters with legitimate and illegitimate businesses that represented the commercial lifeblood of the colorful borough of Queens and the larger city beyond.
Among those present were Alex’s lifelong confidants, the boys who became men together; Fat and Skinny Lester, Lenny, “the Engineer,” Joe “Bodyworks” Di, Phillip “the Florist” Phillips, and Frankie “the Bookie” Feinstein. Others, like Pauly T and Vinnie G, had worked for Alex and, like the Lesters, were now employees of Tartarus, working for Michael.
The more legitimate business owners were talented and successful entrepreneurs. Phillip Phillips, a Greek immigrant who came penniless to America thirty years earlier was now the largest artificial flower wholesaler in the Northeast.
Joe Di, “the plastic surgeon,” had always been introduced by Alex as a doctor. A fit, good looking guy with an ever-present tan and black, slick-backed hair, a sharp dresser, always attired in custom-tailored slacks and sport coat, was not, in fact, a Manhattan plastic surgeon, but the owner of Flushing Bodyworks, one of the largest auto-body shops in the city.
The night rolled on. The banter about sex, age, sports, and ex-wives continued through endless platters of stuffed clams, fried calamari, fresh jumbo shrimp, grilled Italian sausages, blocks of parmesan cheese and several bottles of Chianti and Pinot Grigio. But now the main courses—the spaghettis, veals and steaks—were served, including a plate of sizzling veal parmigiana respectfully placed in front of Alex’s empty chair, and the talk turned to the absent guest of honor.
Skinny Lester pushed his chair back and stood tall, lifting his glass of Chianti up, as though to the heavens. “Here’s to Alex. Alex, you were fu
cking crazy. You were one of a kind.” His voice broke slightly as he struggled to keep his composure. “I miss you and I wish to hell you were here tonight.”
As Skinny Lester sat down, Frankie the Bookie rose. “Yeah, you son of a bitch. Even though you’re not here, we’ve still gotta pay for your fuckin’ dinner tonight.”
Looking at Skinny Lester, Joe Di spoke, “Lester, whatever happened to that computer thing Alex showed you one night? What was it? Some artificial intelligence game or app? Remember? Alex thought he could live forever.”
Before Lester could answer, Frankie spoke up again. “Yeah, Alex just wanted to be sure that anyone that owed him money would keep paying—even after he was dead.”
But Skinny Lester was quiet, lost in thought over Joe Di’s question. Finally, he began, “It was a few months before he was shot. We were sitting in his den and had a lot to drink. All of a sudden, Alex says, ‘I’ve got something to show you.’ He pulls out this laptop from a drawer. Not his usual computer. He was, like, hiding it. He opens it up, turns it on and—I couldn’t believe it—Alex appears on the screen. Just like real life. It was crazy, man. Then he starts talking to it. He’s talking to himself! And then, with God as my witness, it talks back to him. In his own voice.”
Frankie looked on, straight-faced, “How much did you guys have to drink that night? Must have been more than your usual half a glass, huh Lester?” The entire table, including Skinny Lester, broke out in laughter.
But Skinny Lester continued and, as he spoke, everyone else, in an uncharacteristic show of attention, listened in silence. “I don’t think he meant to show it to me because, after a minute or so, after the thing spoke back to him, he quickly turned it off and shut the lid. Then he made me swear I wouldn’t tell anyone about it.”
“What happened then?” Frankie asked, more seriously now.
“What happened? What do you mean, ‘what happened?’ He was fuckin’ shot and he died. That’s what happened.”
The table was silent.
“I didn’t tell anyone—not even Lester here,” Skinny Lester continued, “until after Alex died. Actually, the first person I told was Michael, one day at the cemetery when we went to visit Alex’s grave.”
“Did Michael check out the laptop?” Frankie persisted as the rest of the table listened. Skinny Lester noticed that almost everyone, at one point or another, stole a glance at Alex’s spot at the table. Almost, it seemed to him, as though Alex was there, devouring his plate of veal parmigiana while the conversation about him went on.
Skinny Lester continued, “Yeah, he did. Actually, Donna and George found it first but couldn’t figure out the passwords. I guess Michael did eventually.”
Frankie, looking frustrated, started waving his hands, “Yeah, then what? What did he find? What happened?”
Lester just shook his head, “I don’t think anything really happened. Michael said he opened up the program and it was kind of interesting but there just wasn’t that much to it. That was it.”
Frankie laughed hard as the rest of the table exploded in near hysterics. “You mean Alex wasn’t able to do what all the scientists and computer experts in the fucking world have been unable to do? Because if he’s alive in one of those freakin’ computers somewhere, it’d be a shame you didn’t bring the stupid thing and put it right there at Alex’s seat. Maybe he could even eat his veal. You know, we could feed it into the computer.”
George finally came to life, “Don’t worry. I’m going to take my father’s dish home. I’ll have it for lunch tomorrow.”
“Hey, I gotta tell you though, “ Frankie added, “if Alex can eat his veal, he’s also gonna get the check.” Again, everyone at the table broke out in laughter.
But now Fat Lester cleared his throat. Normally quiet, he commanded attention when he spoke. “It’s not funny, Frankie. You don’t talk like that behind his back. It’s not right.”
“Oh come on, relax. Loosen up. There’s no such thing as behind his back when he’s dead, it’s more like over his dead body, you know?”
Joe Di said, “I hear that Alex’s business hasn’t missed a beat. Sounds like Michael knows what he’s doing. I must’ve been wrong but he looked too straight for the business.”
Skinny Lester appeared to reflect for a moment, and then spoke. “Well, Lester and I both thought the same thing when Michael said he was going to keep the business open. We said, ‘How’s he going to do it?’ But, I have to say, it’s uncanny. He seems to know what the hell he’s doing and he’s been in some pretty tough situations with that crazy Sharkey and then Greta and all trying to kill him, for God’s sake.”
Fat Lester spoke again. “Yeah, it’s almost like Alex’s still around.”
Chapter 30
New York City
Michael had not seen his brother’s widow for nearly three months. When she called asking to meet, he guessed it was to let him know she was getting married. Donna wasn’t a woman, he thought, who would allow herself to be defined as a widow for very long.
As they exchanged friendly kisses, Michael took in Donna’s familiar scent, Alex’s favorite, Chanel No. 5. Oddly, the fragrance always reminded Michael more of his brother than of the particular woman wearing it since Alex purchased the perfume for each of his wives and any mistress he was involved with. It was a quick way of identifying any woman Alex had seduced and just like the smell of cigar smoke reminded Michael of his long-deceased father, Chanel No. 5 instantly conjured Alex.
Donna was still quite young, thirty-six, and attractive. Alex’s three wives were quite similar in appearance: each well-built and shapely. All three had great legs, which they invariably showed off with killer high heels. The older Alex became, the younger he married.
Donna had taken great care of herself, despite a healthy appetite for vodka. Her breasts, always prominently displayed, had been beautifully enhanced by Alex’s plastic surgeon of choice, Dr. Armand Simonetti. After a few drinks, Alex would refer to them as “HDTs”—high-definition tits. The uplifted, plunger-shaped breast on a woman was another trademark of Alex’s since, as with the perfume, each of his wives and his long-term mistresses all had been patients of Dr. Simonetti. Alex would pay Simonetti in cash—peeling off hundred-dollar bills—as the doctor left the operating room after each “boob job,” as he so delicately referred to them. Dr. Simonetti gave Alex what he called his “groupie plan rates.”
Cafe Cluny was one of Michael’s favorite downtown restaurants. It was a trendy bistro on a cobblestone corner of the West Village with a laid-back downtown vibe that was different than a lot of his other frequent dining haunts. Michael and Donna were on their second specialty house cocktail, “The Cluny,” an arresting concoction of Ketel One Citron, fresh lemon juice and ginger. Donna picked at her grilled shrimp salad. Michael admired his burger, very rare, sitting open-faced on the plate, oozing a creamy gruyere cheese and resting on a toasted bun. So far, the conversation had been routine reminisces peppered with saucy anecdotes about some of their mutual acquaintances.
Michael suspected that Donna had a specific reason for getting together, one that she had not yet disclosed. As soon as he wondered when she would press the “send” button, disclosing whatever it was that she really wanted to discuss, her face tightened up and she began to speak. It was coming.
“Michael, you seem to have adapted amazingly well to Alex’s business. I have to say, I’m flabbergasted. You always impressed me as being just so different from your brother. And now you’re still doing your regular corporate job—and you’re running Alex’s business and expanding it at that.”
“I can’t say I’m not surprised myself. After all, before Alex died, I never even thought about bookmaking and loan sharking, let alone running an operation.”
“More than that, Michael. Don’t forget, you kept your distance from Alex and looked down on his business.”
“Actually,” Michael objected, “I never looked down on it. I just never had any interest in it and gambling
never had any appeal to me.”
Donna’s attention span, like that of all of Alex’s wives was extremely short. “Whatever, Michael.”
“Anyway, what difference does it make now? We’re all making money. Aren’t you happy with your returns on your investment so far?”
“Of course, Michael, I’m delighted. It’s not that.”
She gave an uncharacteristic pause. Donna usually spoke her mind before the thoughts even entered. “It’s just that, you know, Alex was a funny guy. He was capable of anything. I mean, the man was fucking nuts. And, I got to tell you, people are starting to ask a lot of questions.”
“Who? What kind of questions?” Michael couldn’t imagine where she was going.
“People, old friends of his, are wondering how you’re doing it. You know, running his business, working with the two Lesters, handling the jerks who bet with him, dealing with the bad guys, paying off the cops—it’s like, how could you do that with just your background? I mean, I know you ran some big businesses and all that, but this, this is totally different. This isn’t some white-collar company. These guys are rough, some of them are criminals. But now, it’s almost as if you and your brother are the same. Yet, you were always totally opposites.”
“Well, I’ll give you that it’s very strange, on a number of levels. First, I have to admit, I’m really enjoying this. After all the years in a corporation working for someone else, this business is exhilarating. Maybe it’s just in my blood, but it’s like being a cowboy instead of a bureaucrat. Also, on another level, the businesses are, strangely, not that different. Third, I’ve got to tell you, the people in Alex’s world, may be on the edge of being criminals—or over the edge—but there’s a dignity and certainly a loyalty that doesn’t exist in my corporate life.”
Watching her eyes wander, Michael was sure he’d lost her. He realized how silly it was for him to give her an answer with three different points, and even worse, to actually number them as if he was in a meeting. All he needed now, he thought, was a PowerPoint presentation.