by E. J. Simon
As his eyes began to close, he saw movement, someone walked into his room. He saw the shadow from the corner of his eye, the door…shut. It was a man, but not Fletcher. He struggled, fighting with his eyes to keep them open. The man approached him. He knew the face.
“Danny,” Tiger said, unsure if he could even be heard. Danny Delorenzo, a local kid, middle-aged now and a small-time but lifelong criminal he’d once helped out. “What are you—”
“I’m sorry,” Danny said, whispering into his ear. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?” Tiger could hardly pronounce the words, he was falling off, falling away, darkness was taking over the light. “Sorry…about…what?”
He struggled to open his eyes one more time. He saw a cloud, a white cloud…but he was inside…No, now he recognized it as it came closer, about to envelop him. A pillow, pressing hard against his mouth. He could feel Danny’s hand through the pillow, a fist barely cushioned as it pressed into his mouth and down his throat. His eyes opened easily now, wide open. He saw his face, above the top of the pillow, Danny’s eyes flared, staring back at him like a wild man.
Tiger wanted to say just one more thing, but he knew it was too late. He was never going to speak again. It was over.
He tried to speak the words with his eyes before they closed.
You son of a bitch.
Chapter 45
Bridgeport, Connecticut
As the elevator doors opened, Michael was momentarily surprised by a man, a male nurse in pale green hospital garb rushing to get on before he and Samantha had even exited. He had seen him before but, out of context, he couldn’t place the face.
They walked down the halls, searching for Tiger’s room. As they approached, they saw a commotion outside of one of the rooms.
“That’s got to be his room,” Michael said, checking the numbers on the doors.
“Oh my God,” Samantha said. “Something’s happened.”
They froze outside the partly opened door.
“Don’t go in there,” a nurse called out to them.
They stood nearby, anxiously watching the rush of aides, nurses, and then doctors in and out. Michael had already called Fletcher, saying only, “Something’s happened,” and the sheriff was hurrying back to the hospital.
And then, as though synchronized, an orchestra whose concert was finished, the room emptied. The tone changed, the bustle of activity slowing to a sudden stop.
There appeared to be only one nurse left in the room. She gently shut the door.
Just a few minutes later, the doctor reappeared from down the hall. He spoke to Michael and Samantha, telling them news they already expected.
He left, leaving them outside Tiger’s door, alone. They held each other’s hand.
As they stood there, the door opened and the nurse came out.
“If you’d like, you can…see him now.”
“Why don’t you wait out here?” Michael whispered to Samantha.
Relieved, she turned away.
Michael walked in, and there, dominating the room, was Tiger, looking calm, very still. And dead.
Days later, as Michael and Samantha walked up the steps to the church, Michael thought of his own father’s funeral. As at that ceremony, the church today was standing room only, mourners from all walks of life, janitors to CEOs, filling the pews. Tiger had been a friend to them all, treating them with equal respect regardless of how much money they had or how big a house, if any, they lived in.
“He was murdered,” Fletcher said, approaching Michael as he entered. “Suffocated with a pillow.”
“Do you have any idea who did it?”
“We found a surveillance photo from the cameras in the lobby so we got a picture, a male nurse seen in the hospital lobby going in and out within fifteen minutes. None of the staff recognized him as an employee at the hospital.” Fletcher pulled out his cell phone. “Do you recognize this guy?”
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure it’s the guy we saw pushing his way on the elevator when we got to Tiger’s floor at the hospital. I even remember thinking he looked familiar, but I couldn’t place him. I still can’t.”
“Well, we’ve got him. He’s known as Danny D, pretty much a lifelong criminal. His real name is Danny Delorenzo. We’ve arrested him several times in town over the years. He’s a local, grew up in Westport, in and out prison, started small but then major felonies, child porn, drugs, larceny, theft. He’s been known to attach himself to legitimate people with money, ingratiate himself with them, and then take whatever he can steal. He’s clever and was broke.
“Murder sounds like a big step up,” Michael said, wondering now if this was a crime of convenience, coincidental to the bombing.
“Yeah, but he’s had steady progression upward already. And he’s a druggie, they get desperate.”
Michael nodded.
“Someone clearly offered him money—which he needed—to kill Tiger. It’s ironic.”
Michael raised his eyebrows, skeptical; on the other hand, there was no reason he could think of for Schlegelberger to go after Tiger.
“Tiger helped Danny many years back, got him his first job.” Fletcher chuckled sadly. “A job he quickly lost for stealing cash out of the register. You’ve probably seen him around town.”
“I guess that’s why he looked familiar. Do we know who hired him?”
“No, and he’s not talking, yet. I get the impression he’s scared of them and, if it’s who we think it is, he should be. Danny wasn’t exactly the type to screen his employers.”
Chapter 46
Astoria, Queens, New York
As Michael walked into Joe’s Garage Bar, he couldn’t help thinking, Is this the night the mystery of Alex’s life or death will be solved?
Located on an industrial-strength Astoria side street right next to Joe’s Auto Body Shop, Joe’s Garage Bar was a cross between the gritty blue-collar industrial and quickly gentrifying parts of Astoria. Joe Sal, the owner and a close friend of Alex’s, was a sturdy, tough, motorcycle-riding Robert De Niro-type mythic figure, another tough guy but with a heart of gold, similar in many ways to what Alex had been. Michael, too, had known him, through his brother, for years and had always liked him.
Michael was glad, however, that Joe Sal wasn’t around tonight. He didn’t want to have to explain to the hard-nosed auto-body king of Queens that Alex might be coming back from the dead in his bar tonight.
The bar had a classic neighborhood-bar look and had already been used in a number of film sets: Pool table illuminated by a low red hanging lamp on the right as you walk in, an old subway sign, Main Street, Flushing, above the entrance to the bathrooms, a dimly lit Guinness display, a dartboard, an old Pac-Man machine, a real motorcycle, and a long steel bar stretching maybe fifty feet long across the back wall, complete with a fit young female bartender with wild don’t-mess-with-me black hair.
Michael sat where he could see the door, waiting for Donna. A Blue Sapphire gin martini accelerated his already heightened sense of drama, if not dread. Simply meeting Donna for dinner was enough to send his blood pressure soaring. The incalculable possibility that Alex might join them was, despite Michael’s regular conversations with him, like an overdose of adrenaline. He watched the young couple at the next table as they devoured a pizza. He was dying to order one, it looked so good, but the idea of chowing on a sausage and meatball pizza while waiting for Donna—not to mention Alex—didn’t sit right.
As usual, Donna was late. She would surely blame it on the thunderstorm or the traffic even though she lived twenty blocks away.
Only two other tables were occupied, and the bar was almost empty. It was a quiet night. The storm outside had kept many people indoors and it was early yet for Astoria’s nightlife. In the background, coming from the television hanging above the bar, Michael heard the Yankees game, interrupted
periodically by flashes of lightning and claps of thunder. He’d focused so intently on the front door that he neglected to even glance back at the television, despite being a die-hard Yankees fan, something he’d learned in childhood from his brother. He remembered the many times he’d had dinner with Alex and how Alex’s eyes would inevitably drift away from the table and up to the game.
“Who’re you meeting tonight, Michael?” the bartender called out from halfway across the bar. Teresa had known Alex well. In fact, Michael recalled, she had attended his funeral at the Greek Orthodox church, three blocks from here. “I’m meeting Donna, Alex’s…wife.”
“Oh, sorry about that. How’s she doing?”
Great question. “Pretty good, I think.”
“It’s gotta be tough, you know, losing your husband that way. I feel for her. Your brother was a great guy, always nice, took care of people, you know? He was a good tipper, too. I miss him.”
“So do I. Thanks.”
Michael looked up at the television. Severino was on the mound for the Yankees and they were already up, 1-0.
If Alex does show, he’ll be loving it.
Michael resumed his watch of the front door. It was about thirty feet away, right in his line of sight. He checked his watch, the one Alex had given him years ago. Back when they used to get together, Alex always checked to see if he was wearing it. This wasn’t the night he wanted to let him down.
He finished his first martini and could feel the buzz. It was odd no one had walked in the door for at least twenty minutes. The Orioles tied the game. A server walked by with a pizza from the kitchen. It looked even better than before; Alex would want one.
Who’ll walk in first? Donna or Alex?
Neither of them was ever on time.
He got his answer almost immediately as the door swung open.
Chapter 47
Astoria, Queens, New York
As the front door opened, Michael could feel his chest tighten. The possibility—however remote—that Alex might be alive and walk through the door in front of him froze him in place. But his hopes—or fears—were quickly dashed as Donna came storming in, her enhanced breasts encased in a tight faux leopard skin blouse, her long legs and high heels seemingly arriving an hour before she did.
“I would have been on time but this freakin’ lightning screwed up the traffic lights. It took forever to get through the streets,” she said, throwing her Hermès Birkin bag on the table. “Jesus, I know you and your brother like this place but this is like something out of Archie Bunker, you know.”
“Hey, Donna, it’s good to see you.”
Michael was lying. Michael had never enjoyed being around any of Alex’s wives. It was odd, he had always liked the women Alex didn’t marry. But, actually, Donna wasn’t the worst of the lot. That honor went to Alex’s second wife, Greta, who put several bullets into a wall trying to kill Michael because she thought Alex had screwed her in his will. The NYPD had arrived just in time to save his life before a bullet hit its mark. When the cops ordered Greta to drop her gun, she whirled around at them instead, never the sharpest crayon in the box. They shot her dead as they were trained to do when a crazed person points a gun at them.
Alex’s life—and now Michael’s—would have made a great novel. Tonight, he’d find out whether it would be a crime thriller or science fiction. Or…nonfiction.
Donna was finally seated right across the table from him. Michael tried not to notice her enhanced breasts and the scent of her Chanel No. 9, the crazy but surefire way to identify one of Alex’s wives.
Teresa quickly brought Donna a drink, a straight vodka on the rocks.
“I thought you were a wine drinker,” Michael said.
“I am, but I’ve already had my fill of wine for the night. I need a quick hit right now. Alex could walk in any minute.”
Michael said nothing. He had nothing to say.
“He’s coming, isn’t he?”
“I have no idea. Either way, this whole thing with Alex is incredible. The truth is, if he doesn’t show and it turns out he’s a product of artificial intelligence, then it’s actually even more amazing.”
Donna clearly didn’t get it or didn’t care. Probably both. “All I care about is if he’s alive and if he’s been faking all this time, hiding out and doing whatever the hell he wants to do and, you know, ultimately screwing me out of a lot of money. That’s what I think will be the most freakin’ amazing.”
“When did you stop cursing?” Michael said, noticing the lack of profanities that usually littered Donna’s every sentence.
She ignored the jibe. “He’s your brother and you’ve been supposedly speaking with him. What did he say to you? Is he showing up or not?”
“You know Alex, he can be stubborn. He wouldn’t tell me. If anything, he’s gotten even more cagey with…all this. He said I’d know when the time came. I think it was his way of making sure you didn’t go and invite a whole bunch of people to be here. As long as you couldn’t be sure one way or another, you wouldn’t risk being embarrassed.”
“He hasn’t changed; he’s always thinking, plotting, such a pain in the ass. He was probably afraid he’d have to pick up the fucking—freakin’—tab if they all came to see him.”
Since Michael had never fully leveled with Donna as to the extent of his interactions with Alex, it wasn’t surprising that she failed to grasp the significance of the virtual Alex, if indeed, that’s what his brother was.
Michael checked his watch, it was almost 8:30. Another boom of thunder and a flash of light caused the bar’s lights to flicker. The television went off. Moments later, Michael glanced at the screen, hoping to catch the score, but it simply said, No Signal.
“Storm must have knocked out the cable,” Teresa called out. “This hasn’t happened in years.”
“Hm,” said Donna. “It reminds me of when I got the intruder message on my computer the other night when I got hacked.” She looked a little nervous now.
As another bolt of lightning lit the windows, Michael saw a tall dark figure go by, approaching the bar’s entrance. Whoever or whatever it was, it swept by, strangely illuminated by the lightning. Then the door swung open.
The figure who walked through the door was draped in a long flowing black robe with a hood covering his head, obscuring the face. Teresa, who was closest to the door, froze; the wine glass she’d been holding fell to the floor, shattering.
The figure lifted the hood from its head, revealing a familiar face.
As he advanced toward their table, Michael heard Donna breathe, “Oh my God.”
The man’s eyes immediately locked onto Michael’s.
Chapter 48
Astoria, Queens, New York
Maybe it was the long black robes, the beards, the inevitable heavy gold cross, the ever-present European accent, but Greek priests always seemed to have a presence, an aura that hinted of something beyond this world. Father John Papageorge was no exception. The old man slowly stepped inside, somehow seeming dry despite the driving rain he’d just left outside. He walked directly to their table. Michael and Donna both rose to greet him. Father Papageorge first took Donna’s hand in his, but Michael could see that she lacked the innate reverence that came from growing up in the ancient church.
The priest turned to Michael, gripping his arm, “I have come with news and perhaps the answers you have both been seeking.”
“I thought Alex was coming,” Donna said as the priest sat.
Father Papageorge, sighed, his eyes unblinking, his manner calm yet self-assured, in the way of a man who is sure of things the rest of us would love to believe. “My dear, Alex is here tonight.”
Michael watched the exchange, feeling more like an observer than a participant.
Teresa interrupted the drama as she approached the table, “Can I get you something to drink, F
ather?”
He looked at Michael’s and Donna’s glasses. “Yes, I think we may all need drinks. Would you happen to have ouzo?”
Teresa smiled. “Actually, we do. I’ll have it right up for you.”
As she left for the bar, Father Papageorge whispered, “Perhaps it would be wise for me to wait until she returns so we are not interrupted.”
They sat through a strained silence until Teresa returned with a large jigger glass filled to the top with the clear but potent liquid. She placed it on the table in front of the priest who, without a moment’s delay, drank it down in one practiced motion, gently placing the glass back on the table.
“Can I get you another one?” Teresa asked.
“No, one will suffice, thank you.”
“Would you all like to see menus?”
Impatient now, Michael said, “No, I think we’re good for now. Thanks.”
Teresa scooted away.
“Father, you said Alex is here tonight?”
“Yeah, what do you mean?” Donna asked. “Are you saying he’s coming?”
“No, my dear, he is here. Here, now. He is with us.”
“Oh Jesus.” Donna said, looking like she was about to lose it. “You’re not going to give me this spiritual stuff now, are you? I mean, come on, what do we need here, a rabbi to keep things real?”
Michael leaned over, gently touching her arm. “Let’s just listen.”
“Jesus, Michael, I am listening. Do you hear what he’s saying?” she said, pointing her glass at Papageorge. “This is ridiculous. I’m looking around and I don’t see Alex Nicholas. I don’t see him anywhere. Unless you’ve got the bastard in your pocket.”
Father Papageorge reached down to his side, below the table. It was then that Michael noticed the Bloomingdale’s shopping bag that must have been hidden in the priest’s robes. Papageorge reached into the bag and pulled out a brown cardboard container the size of a shoebox. It appeared to be heavy for its size and was sealed with typical-looking packing tape. With great deliberation, he placed the box on the table. He looked straight at Donna.