Donna had placed the wallet in the drawer after collecting it back from the police detective and then removing the substantial amount of cash Alex always kept in it
Since his brother’s death, Michael had made no grand decisions about the direction of his own life. Yet he knew that each small daily choice would eventually move his life in a certain path. As he replaced his own wallet with that of his brother’s, he knew that he was also burning the bridges behind him.
Accompanied by Fat Lester, Michael left Donna’s house with Alex’s wallet and his large navy-blue gym bag that had a New York Yankees logo emblazoned on its side.
Main Street in Flushing, New York, looked like a lot of small cities across the United States until the 1990s, when an influx of Korean and other Asian immigrants settled there. Now it looked like a typical street in Seoul. The Citibank branch on Main Street, with its modern blue sign, looked out of place amongst all the Asian symbols. The branch was not one of the more attractive storefronts, with a sterile exterior and inhospitable interior, made more so by the presence of thick, bulletproof glass partitions separating the bank’s employees from potential bank robbers and its customers alike. Today, as Michael entered the bank, he was thankful for the lack of intimacy.
Fat Lester double-parked outside and waited anxiously for Michael. Once inside the bank, Michael approached a young lady sitting at a desk near the entrance.
“I need to get into my safe deposit box, please.”
Michael realized that he was again breaking the law by misrepresenting himself and showing false identification to gain access to the box in order to obtain the cash his brother had earned illegally and, perhaps worse, not reported as income to the Internal Revenue Service.
He thought of Al Capone, who had died in prison for less than what Michael was doing today. What if the branch had somehow been notified of Alex’s death and had impounded the box? Although highly unlikely in just a few days, Michael would be caught red-handed. He was relying on the guidance and wisdom of his brother, or some version of his brother, and taking risks he would have thought unimaginable just weeks ago.
The middle-aged bank clerk looked at Michael, and rising from her desk said, “Just follow me. I’ll need two forms of identification, one with a picture.” With his empty gym bag folded under his right arm, Michael followed her to the rear of the bank and through a door leading to a small room, behind which was a huge vault with its thick steel door wide open. Inside he could see a series of safe deposit box doors, each with an engraved number and two keyholes. Michael handed over Alex’s driver’s license and a gold American Express credit card.
“Here, I also have my Peter Luger’s credit card if that helps.” As soon as he said it, he knew it was a silly attempt at humor since few bank clerks in Flushing had likely heard of Peter Luger’s. The woman just looked at Michael with a quizzical expression. She checked the driver’s license, looked at Alex’s picture, and then looked up at Michael. She nodded; he had passed the first test.
“Please sign your name on the card.”
Michael looked at the signature card, which already had Alex’s signature on it from three previous visits to the box. Michael saw that he could easily replicate his brother’s signature. He signed Alex’s name below the other three signatures and handed it back to the clerk. She glanced at it quickly and said, “Follow me.”
Before she could lead Michael into the vault, however, the phone on her desk rang. As she picked it up and listened, Michael began to perspire. Had someone recognized him as Alex, knowing that Alex had been murdered weeks before? Had the bank been notified of Alex’s death? He tried to gauge the situation by watching the expression on the clerk’s face. She was listening intently and did not make eye contact with him.
Finally, she spoke into the receiver, “Okay, I’ll do my best.” She hung up, looked at Michael, and said, “Please excuse me for just one minute; my manager needs me in the front. I’ll be right back. I apologize.”
Michael’s mind and heart began racing. This wasn’t good. His only backup plan was to try to leave the bank quickly, but that wasn’t a very promising strategy. Even if he made it outside, he would be easy to identify and track down. He sat down on the chair at the desk. He envisioned the worst, that the police were on their way or already in the bank discussing the best way to apprehend him. He continued to wait for what seemed like an eternity.
Four minutes later, he heard footsteps approaching the door. The door opened and inside stepped the bank clerk. “I’m very sorry,” she said. “Let me show you to your box.” Michael was relieved but still suspicious.
They entered the inner vault. The clerk glanced up and, locating the number, walked swiftly to the box. She inserted her key into one of the locks, took Michael’s key and inserted it into the adjoining lock, then opened the steel door and pulled out a large gray steel box. She handed the box to Michael and led him to a tiny room adjacent to the vault. “Just let me know when you’re finished. I’ll be at the desk right outside.”
Michael closed the door behind her, turned around, and for a moment stared at the box sitting on the Formica desk in the small, bare room. He undid the small latch at the top of the box and opened the lid. A copy of an old
New York Daily News
stared back from the box. It was the back page from several years ago, with the headline announcing the Yankees as the World Series winner. For a split second, Michael feared he had been lured into either a hoax or, worse, a trap. He fingered the newspaper and lifted it up out of the box, where it had been snugly secured. As he did, he saw what he had hoped to find.
The box was tightly packed with one-hundred-dollar bills in bundles of one hundred, each one containing $10,000. There were too many packets to count. Michael unzipped the gym bag and dumped the contents of the box into the bag. He then placed the copy of the
Daily News
on top of the money and closed the bag. He didn’t know yet if he was home free, but the presence of the cash was certainly a good sign. Now he still had to leave the bank and get safely into Lester’s car waiting outside.
He opened the door. Everything looked normal. When he saw the clerk in the adjacent office, he said, “I’m all set.”
She looked up at Michael. “Good, let’s put the box back.” She walked back into the vault with Michael following close behind, holding the bulging gym bag and the closed but now empty box. Michael carefully slid the steel case into the slot. The clerk closed the door, turned the locks, and returned one key back to Michael. She took the second key and proceeded back out of the vault and into the area where Michael had initially signed in. “I just need for you to sign out.”
As Michael signed alongside his own signature from fifteen minutes earlier, the clerk seemed to have something more on her mind. Michael was waiting for another ball to drop. “I noticed,” she said, “that your yearly payment is due at the end of the month. Would you like to pay it now?”
Michael wanted to leave the bank as quickly and unobtrusively as possible. Although he had two million dollars in his gym bag and had placed a few hundred dollars of his own cash in Alex’s wallet, he didn’t want to prolong his visit any longer than absolutely necessary.
“No, thanks. I’m in a bit of a hurry now. I think the bill is sitting at home, so I’ll just send it in this week, if that’s okay.”
He proceeded out the door, gym bag firmly in hand, toward the bank’s lobby. As he entered the lobby, Michael saw two New York City policemen speaking with the bank’s private security guard, none of whom he had seen when he entered the bank. They seemed absorbed in conversation, although one of the police officers turned his way as Michael entered the lobby. Michael continued to walk swiftly through the lobby, past the barricaded tellers, the cops, and the security guard. He tried to be aware of movement around him while making eye contact with no one. The glass doors to the sidewalk were now in front of him. He didn’t hesitate, although he expected someone to call out or take him by the arm at any moment.
He opened the glass doors and walked outside. Fat Lester’s black Cadillac was still double-parked in front of him. He heard the locks open from inside. He looked both ways but saw no one approaching, so he grasped the silver door handle, opened the door, and sat in the front passenger seat, putting the multimillion-dollar gym bag on the floor in front of him. Lester put the car in drive, the doors locked, and they took off for Alex’s house, where Donna was anxiously awaiting them.
As he pulled out onto Main Street, Fat Lester checked his rearview mirror. “Looks like we may have company. I’ll lose him.”
Michael turned around and saw a black Lincoln Town Car. The driver was wearing sunglasses. “Do you recognize the car or the driver?” he asked.
“I don’t think so, but my fuckin’ eyes aren’t that good,” Lester said as he put his foot on the gas and made a sudden left turn across two lanes of traffic and then completed a full U-turn so that they were now watching the stunned Town Car driver as they passed each other going in opposite directions.
Sometimes being nearly blind helps,
Michael thought. Lester then made a series of turns through a back alley and several Flushing side streets. Michael checked the rearview mirror again. There was no sign of the Town Car. They headed again for Alex’s home.
Michael and Fat Lester walked through the front door. Donna saw the bulging Yankees gym bag and hugged Michael warmly. Skinny Lester and George were right behind her.
“Michael, I’m so glad to see you walk in that door. Did you guys have any trouble?” Donna asked.
“No, the bank went fine. I was just nervous. Every time someone blinked, I thought it was all over. The only suspicious thing is that it looked like someone was following us as we left the bank. Lester almost killed us, but he lost whoever it was.”
“Was all the money there?” Donna and Skinny Lester asked, nearly simultaneously. George seemed curious but characteristically quiet.
Michael opened the bag and the tightly wrapped bills spilled out. “I haven’t had a chance to count it, but my guess is that there’s two million dollars here.”
Donna was finally smiling, obviously relieved. “Now what do we do?”
“Well,” Michael continued, “we need to get this money someplace safe. I’m going to arrange for our own new safety deposit box, but before that, we need to rip up your dining room floor.”
Chapter 36
Beverly Hills, California
December 1, 2009
M
ichael and Samantha arrived at LAX and whisked past the paparazzi looking for celebrities. Spotting their waiting driver, they got in the limousine and went directly to their favorite Los Angeles hotel, the Peninsula in Beverly Hills.
As they drove up to the entrance to the hotel, Michael felt a rare sense of calm. Finally locating his brother’s hidden cash would allow him to take care of Donna and George and perhaps have a good amount of money left over. It was better, he thought, than winning the lottery. Also, tomorrow’s speech would allow him to publicly take a position regarding destructive practices that he believed were destroying American business. And having Samantha at his side made the future seem that much brighter.
The driveway of the Peninsula was lined with exotic cars. As their limousine stopped in front of the main entrance, the bellman stepped out and opened the car door. “Welcome back, Mr. and Mrs. Nicholas. We missed you.”
As they approached the reception desk, Samantha whispered into Michael’s ear, “How do they know who we are? I know we’ve stayed here a number of times, but it’s been over a year since we were here.”
“Each morning they probably have a meeting with the whole staff and review each incoming reservation. Sometimes they even have pictures of their repeat guests,” Michael said.
“Seriously, Michael. Did you have to take the mystery away? I thought they were just good.”
“Don’t worry; I have the feeling there’ll be plenty of mysteries to solve.”
Michael knew he needed to reengage with his staff at Gibraltar before the whispers about the absent or detached CEO began circulating amongst the never-ending line of corporate busybodies or those hoping to fill his shoes. His speech before the international business press was tomorrow afternoon at the UCLA Business School auditorium. It would be an appropriate way to demonstrate his return to the tortured situation at his company.
Michael always liked to arrive early for his major, high-visibility meetings or events, get there before the other participants, and dine either alone or with Samantha if she was accompanying him. It allowed him to organize his thoughts, prepare for “battle,” and put the situation in his own organized perspective. Dinner at the Grill on the Alley in Beverly Hills, one of Michael’s favorites, was a routine when he was in Los Angeles.
“You know I hate this restaurant, but I know how much you like it here,” Samantha said as they sat down to an early dinner. They had a coveted booth near the entrance, an accommodation the ma�tre d’ was happy to make in view of Samantha’s stylish attire and good looks. After cocktails, Michael ordered his favorite dish, chicken potpie, while Samantha ordered her usual salmon, grilled very rare.
Michael watched as Samantha eyed the waiter suspiciously. “See, this is what I don’t like about this place. The waiters are all these old, gruff guys who look right through the women as though we don’t exist. They ignore women, unless, of course, they’re filled with silicone. He’s made no eye contact with me; he’s just ignored me. They fawn over all the men. If I was here alone, he’d never come to the table.”
“Samantha. This is your imagination—you’re too sensitive. He loves you. It’s just that this is Hollywood, and guys run things out here.”
“Well, that may have been true years ago, but now some of the major studios are run by women.”
Michael decided not to agitate his wife any further. The last time they had eaten at the Grill, Samantha refused to eat her meal, stating it was overcooked, but she had watched while Michael devoured his cherished potpie. He was surprised she had even agreed to return, and now he needed to prepare her for the possible fallout from tomorrow’s speech.