by E. J. Simon
“Michael, I don’t know about all that crap you’re talking about. This is where you always get too complicated for me. All I know is, it’s strange how you seem to have fit in so easily.”
He was perplexed. “So, what are you saying?”
“Here’s what I’m saying.” Donna hesitated, took a deep breath, and then looked right into Michael’s eyes. “Are you sure he’s dead?”
Chapter 31
Westport, Connecticut
Alone in his wine cellar, Michael poured a second glass of white Bordeaux. Although he was anxious to speak with Alex, tonight he needed a little extra buzz to loosen him up before the screen came down again. Though it seemed impossible, life was getting more complicated.
Michael logged on to the computer. Alex spoke first. “You missed my birthday.”
Michael recalled that, in fact, Alex’s birthday had just passed two days earlier. “So did you. But how in the hell did you know that?”
“I’m linked in to some type of online calendar. I wonder if my old friends still got together for it at Piccola Venezia like they did when I was still alive for my birthdays.”
“Actually, it’s funny that you mention it because they did. I had dinner last night with Donna and she told me about it. I only found out later.”
“Maybe they didn’t think to invite you because you rarely showed up when I was alive. It was the only time I’d get out of a restaurant without paying for everybody. Anyway, how’s Donna doing? Has she remarried yet? She shouldn’t have any problems finding a guy with all the money and the new tits I left her.”
“She’s doing OK. I think she misses you. Or, at least the part of you that got along with her. I was surprised myself; I don’t get the sense that she’s seeing anyone on any kind of a regular basis.”
“Kind of like Sinatra’s first wife when they asked her why she never remarried, she said something like, ‘After Frank, who?’ You know, who could possibly fill his shoes?”
The ease of the conversation and the second Bordeaux had loosened him up. “I don’t know if it’s exactly like that but there’s probably some similarity.” Michael laughed.
“So how’s the business going?”
“It’s going pretty well. Paris is off to a good start. It’s been very active and now we just got this new client, Bertrand Rosen, he’s one of the biggest money managers in France. He’s placed some huge action this week.”
Alex’s appeared to be puzzled as the image on the big screen zoomed in on him. “How’d you find this guy so quickly?”
“I first met him in Paris last year. He came up to me in a restaurant and introduced himself. I wasn’t sure how he even knew me. “
“Does Catherine like him? Did she vouch for him?”
Michael felt that sense of doubt that he had suppressed rising up to the surface. “Well, actually, she knew him but didn’t like him.”
“Michael, be careful. She’s a good judge of people. She’s a prima donna, you know, a big actress and all that. But, she’s been around. Don’t give this guy too much rope until you’re sure you trust him.”
His anxiety heightened, Michael wanted to get on the phone to the Paris office but he still had more to discuss with Alex. He thought again about his dinner with Rosen and that uneasy—or just uncertain—feeling he had about him.
Michael brought Alex up to date on the “suicide” of Bishop McCarthy and the somewhat unresolved question of whether Sindy had anything to do with it.
“What the hell are you doing? This can’t end well. She’s nuts, maybe worse. Are you still screwing her?”
“Yes, she’s also helping run the business in some areas. You know, things Fat Lester couldn’t do. She’s tougher.”
Alex’s face flashed in anger. “Of course Fat Lester couldn’t do it. Michael, we never did this stuff. You’re in a different league than the one I played in. The most we ever had to do was threaten; maybe Fat Lester scared the shit out of someone every once in a while. You’re talking murder, for Christ’s sake.”
“Alex, during my dinner with Donna, she mentioned something.”
Michael noticed that, unlike in real life, the artificial intelligence technology allowed Michael to shift topics and Alex would follow. If Alex had been alive, he wouldn’t have allowed such a volatile issue to end without resolution. Michael suspected, however, that the program was still “evolving” and that, at some point, this too would be corrected. For now, however, he was thankful for the ability to guide the conversation where he wanted it to go.
“She said that some of your friends think it’s surprising how your business is going so well. They know that I’m new to it. They’re surprised I’m able to keep it going, let alone expand it.”
Alex was listening intently, his face appearing motionless, which was how he appeared when he was listening and digesting complex new information.
Michael pressed on. “I’m not sure yet if it’s a problem but they suspect something. Donna asked me if I was sure you were dead.”
“What did you say?”
Michael threw his arms up, “What do you think I said? No, I speak with you at least once a week? Of course, I said you were dead. I kind of laughed it off.”
Alex stared straight ahead. “But I’m not dead. You know that, don’t you, Michael?”
Chapter 32
West Hollywood, California
Hollywood was not Frank Cortese’s type of town. The Chateau Marmont was not his type of hotel; too many people and paparazzi. Cortese didn’t care much for movie stars, at least not any under fifty. He felt disoriented, out of his element.
He entered the hotel through the garage in his rented white Buick, immediately distinguishing himself amongst the BMWs, Jaguars and Rolls Royces.
He took the elevator up to the main lobby which was too dark for mid-afternoon, the staff behind the reception desk a little too cool, too gay. He also sensed a condescending attitude that reminded him of his penniless upbringing in Calabria. To add to his insult, as he followed the young, sliver-thin bellman through the lobby back toward the elevator, he was jostled by two models, both several inches taller than he and in varying stages of undress, who were cavorting while a photographer with a heavy German accent was snapping away. To Cortese, it seemed that everyone he disliked was here in the lobby of the Chateau: the too-cool, too young, too tall, and too thin, mixed in with a bunch of gays, and Germans. “This is a fucking zoo,” he whispered. The quick-stepping attendant moved just a bit quicker when he heard it.
Besides, Cortese could not be photographed, and certainly not in Hollywood on the day he was to kill Michael Nicholas.
As he settled into his room, he looked around and was surprised at the old, almost worn look of the room and its furnishings. “What’s all the fuss about here?” he said to himself.
Although it was now time to acquaint himself with the hotel and its grounds—and to begin to orchestrate his assignment, he couldn’t stop thinking about the scene moments earlier in the lobby and the photographs in which he feared he would appear. He would have to find that photographer.
___________
Cortese knocked on the door of Room 48. He waited a few seconds and knocked even harder. He could hear some muffled cursing and then the lock turning. The door opened and Cortese looked up at the disheveled photographer, dressed in a navy blue robe, wearing traditional bedroom slippers, his long silver hair in disarray. Stein was an intimidating figure, clearly even more so when his sleep, despite the late afternoon hour, had been interrupted.
“Mr. Stein. I believe some of your photographs this morning may have included me in the background. I need to have them.”
Stein squinted, looked at his visitor as though he was crazy and said simply, “Go fuck yourself.”
Cortese’s face tightened. “Stein, I need those pictures.”
“You’re an idiot. That’s why you woke me up? You were in a public place. Leave me alone.” Stein then abruptly slammed the door shut. Cor
tese stepped back to avoid being hit by the door that stopped inches from his burning face. As he turned back toward the elevators, he knew that his plans for the evening would have to change. Before anything, he’d need to get those pictures.
Chapter 33
West Hollywood, California
The first thing Michael noticed as he and Sindy entered the lobby of the Chateau Marmont were the gorgeous models. He purposely inhaled their perfumes, all mixing together as the girls passed near him, seemingly unaware of his presence. Handing over his black Amex card to the all-black-attired Chateau Marmont front desk clerk, Michael knew he would never come closer to the fantasy of Hollywood than the stage he had just stepped onto.
“Welcome, Mr. and Mrs. Nicholas, I see this is your first time staying with us,” the clerk said, in an indiscreetly loud voice for the muted lobby. You’d think, in L.A. of all places, they’d know better, Michael thought. What happened to this being the most discreet hotel in Hollywood?
As he waited, he looked around the lobby, thinking of the endless parade of celluloid ghosts who had walked through there before him: Garbo, Gable, Harlow, Taylor, and of course, John Belushi, whom, he recalled, checked out early.
Unlike last year’s global business and press meeting, Michael had no formal role. He was simply an attendee and planned on relaxing while he was here.
For Michael, the Peninsula Hotel in nearby Beverly Hills was no longer the happy place where he and Samantha would go to luxuriate and escape. So he and Sindy Steele entered Room 29 together at the Chateau. Tonight he would take her to one of his favorite restaurants in L.A., one that Samantha never liked.
___________
Michael loved Frank Sinatra. Maybe it was the life; late nights, partying until dawn; the constant parade of admirers; the easy women, showgirls, mistresses and multiple wives; the ever-present Jack Daniels; Las Vegas casinos; punching out drunks and reporters. Actually, the more he seriously thought about it, since Michael didn’t care for most of those things, maybe it was just the concept of Frank Sinatra that appealed to him.
He left his car at the curb with the valet and, with Sindy in tow, entered La Dolce Vita, one of the late entertainer’s favorite Beverly Hills restaurants. Michael thought of Sinatra and how he must have felt, decades ago, walking under the same green canopy and through the restaurant’s dark, stone, cave-like entry. He could imagine Sinatra might have felt like he was entering a secluded refuge from the prying eyes of celebrity watchers and paparazzi.
Once inside, they were seated in one of the red leather banquettes near the tiny marble bar. Glittering glasses and bottles reflected in the surrounding mirrors. The gold-framed oil paintings, soft lighting, and the arched, red-brick, windowless walls, reinforced a feeling of being sheltered, secure in an Old World, and safe from the dangers outside.
But instead of the dining room being filled with Sinatra’s Rat Pack, it looked like a new Hollywood, mixed with those seeking to recapture the old one—one that would never return.
After a round of cocktails, he enjoyed his lobster fra diavolo as he watched Sindy twirl her spaghetti with salmon in vodka sauce. Suddenly, she seemed distracted, her head following something moving through the room. Michael tried to follow in the direction of her darting eyes. “What’s wrong? Is there something over there?” he asked nodding in the same direction.
“It’s probably nothing. I just thought I recognized someone. A man, he’s gone now. He went by earlier, to the bathrooms. He looked vaguely familiar, but I really hardly saw him.”
Michael could hear the low buzz of his vibrating BlackBerry. It was Skinny Lester calling.
“Michael, we just made a fortune this week. Your friend Rosen may be great at picking stocks but he stinks in this game. He’s lost or is losing every game he took and none of the horses he bet on even showed. You’d have to be pretty unlucky to miss as consistently as he’s doing right now. He’s going to be in to us for over a million.”
Michael took a few seconds before responding. “I guess this is good. I mean this is one of the biggest scores we’ve made but, I don’t know, it’s not the best way to start out with a new client. I’d prefer that the guy had some success. We don’t want to spook him or leave a bad taste in his mouth right out of the box. Frankly, he’s more valuable than a typical client who, over any period of time, is always going to lose. You know, giving us maybe a smaller but steady income. Not such a dramatic wipeout as this.”
“I know what you mean. Anyway, the rest of the reports coming in from both New York and Paris are pretty good. We’re going to have a great week. I’ll have the final numbers later tonight.”
“Sounds good, Lester.”
Like the legendary television detective Columbo, played by Peter Falk, Skinny Lester had a habit of adding on to a conversation just when it appeared to be over.
“What do you think Rosen is up to?”
It was as though he had read Michael’s mind.
Chapter 34
West Hollywood, California
The Paris Vogue shoot produced the images the magazine desired, a sexy, sultry collection of young women and high fashion. Despite his seventy-plus years, Herbert Stein felt like a young man tonight. An afternoon nap, a swim in the hotel pool and the warm yet invigorating California air made him feel twenty years younger.
The only blemish on the day was the man with the odd eyes who startled him out of a deep sleep earlier in the day. Stein wondered who he could have been—and what was he up to that made him want those pictures? Most likely he was having a liaison with someone other than his wife.
He took the down elevator to the garage. Stein lived at the Marmont for months at a time, so he always self-parked his car in the hotel’s garage, a small frugality.
Although German by birth, he loved America—and Cadillacs, especially the newly designed models with their sleek style and state-of-the-art electronics. He unlocked the doors with the press of a button, sat in the soft, black, glove leather seat and watched as the dashboard lit up when he turned the ignition. As he prepared to back the car out of his designated space, he noticed a shadowy figure passing by behind him, visible in the corner of his sight in the rearview mirror. Before he pressed the accelerator to back out, he heard the simultaneous clicking as each of the four doors locked electronically, a feature he hadn’t noticed before.
He maneuvered the car out of the garage and onto the short narrow driveway leading out of the hotel grounds. As he began the drive out, he was surprised to see the dashboard flash on and off, the electronic dials performing a glittering yet brief light show. He checked to his left and it was there that he saw the strange angry man who had confronted him earlier in the day. He was standing, alone, his cell phone in his hand. The man’s eyes—he remembered them—were strange.
He felt a surge of power as the car suddenly lurched forward. He took his foot off the accelerator, instinctively switching to the brake pedal. Then, as though a bomb had gone off inside the car, he was instantly blinded by an unworldly white flash of light obscuring everything, as some physical force violently slammed into his face and shoulders, pinning him back against his seat, knocking the air out of his lungs. At the same time, he felt his seat belt lock further securing him, paralyzed, in place.
It took a few seconds for him to realize that the Cadillac’s air bags had deployed. Momentarily relieved, the air bag quickly deflated, his brain recovering and his vision restored, he knew something in the car had gone wrong. After all, the car had lurched forward—the air bags must have deployed to keep him safe. The car slowed nearly to a stop. He was badly bruised but alive. Thank God.
He looked around him, outside his driver’s side window. He saw some young men and women walking up the driveway. Momentarily frozen, they stared back at him, like himself, probably trying to digest what had occurred. They began shouting and appeared to be coming to his aid. He felt a sharp pain in his right arm; it was likely broken.
With his left hand, he grippe
d the door handle to open it. The door remained locked. He tried pressing the button on the door panel to release the locks but nothing happened.
The dashboard again lit up, its LED lights flashing wildly. He looked outside around him and once again saw the man who’d confronted him. They exchanged glances. Herbert Stein knew he needed help. He mouthed the words, “Help me, please.” But the man smiled and appeared to turn back to his cell phone. Stein mouthed the words he hoped the man could read, “Son of a bitch.”
He was relieved to see the young people from down the driveway finally approaching his door. The first young man was about to reach for to the outside handle when Stein felt the engine suddenly begin to race and, once again, the car thrust forward. He looked ahead—he was catapulting down the embankment in front of the hotel’s driveway, heading toward Sunset Boulevard. As the car jumped the curb, he felt his head hit the roof. His foot pressed down hard on the brakes, but nothing happened. He saw the look on the faces of pedestrians who watched open-mouthed as he sped by, encased in his sealed Cadillac. The steering wheel was locked.
Directly across the street he saw the concrete wall. The car accelerated even more, beyond what he thought possible, the new thrust driving his head back into the seat and then knocked hard again into the roof as the Cadillac powerfully jumped up and over a curb. As the car bounced back onto the street, he glanced at the already deployed air bags lying limp around him. Herbert Stein knew he was going to die.
Chapter 35
West Hollywood, California
Sindy was still asleep. Michael, in his white terry cloth bathrobe, stretched out on the couch and looked out the large picture window to the city where dreams were made. His eyes caught the front page of the morning’s edition of the L.A. Times on the table directly before him. The headline read, “Famous Fashion Photographer Dies in Car Crash.” Stunned, he picked up the paper and read further: