“How much are we talking about?” It was clear that Greta needed a number.
“I’m prepared to put a million dollars aside for George. I’ll give him one hundred thousand dollars immediately. I’ll then pay him out a hundred thousand each year for the next nine years.” Michael paused for Greta’s reaction.
Greta’s face tightened. “Michael, first of all, you got three million dollars the other day from the box and the freaking dining room floor. I’d expect George to get at least half of that, not a third. Second, he’s got to get it all now. This is our—his—money.”
“Greta, the money is being allocated the way I believe Alex would have wanted. Besides Donna, I believe that Alex would have wanted Fat and Skinny Lester to receive something. They’ve earned it, and they were as close to Alex as anyone, and for most of his life.”
Greta started to interrupt, but Michael cut her off. “Now listen, Greta. Let me finish. We can’t show any of this money. I’m probably the only one out of all of you who can spend what I want because I’m making a good, legitimate income on which I pay out over 30 percent in taxes. No one else around here is showing any substantial income. So, whatever George gets, he’s going to have to be careful about what he spends. The last time I looked, he had no job. If I give him a lot of money—and I consider a hundred thousand a fortune for him—and he starts spending it, we’re all screwed.
“By the way, not that I need to make an accounting to you, but I’m personally taking none of Alex’s cash. George will take what I give him when I give it to him, as long as he’s discreet in how he spends it. I’m not looking to be his father, but I’m also not going to let him be stupid. If he doesn’t work with me on how he spends it, I’ll cut him off.”
“Michael, I don’t want to fight with you. But honestly, I need money myself—I’m desperate. I owe people money. Things didn’t go the way I thought they would.” Greta was quickly changing her approach.
“What happened to that high-flying guy you were living with? What was his name, ‘Merlin the Magician’?”
When it was apparent to her that Alex was not going to be her ticket to stardom, Greta had actually run off with a magician who, for a short time, was modestly successful in Las Vegas and traveling shows. But Alex had later told Michael that Greta’s new lover had gotten into financial trouble and had borrowed from loan sharks. Alex knew because “Merlin” had secretly contacted him for a loan.
“I kicked him out a few weeks ago. He was a leech,” Greta said.
Michael had no desire to hear any more details. “Greta, I’m here to simply carry out what my brother would have wanted, and he wanted Donna and George to be taken care of. I’m going to do that. But with George, I need to make sure that he is cautious about how the money is spent, for all the reasons you already know. He is too young and immature to be trusted with a large sum of money. But I can’t help you with your own money issues.”
“You always looked down on my family, Michael.”
“I never really looked down on anyone. I’m just picky about whom I spend my holidays with. Some of your family were nice people, but I wasn’t happy about being around drug addicts and ex-cons. My parents did a lot coming over as poor immigrants to make successes of themselves here.”
“Your brother wasn’t exactly a saint.”
“My brother used his brains and his wits to beat the system—not to be a victim. But, you know, I’m not here to relive old times. George will get his money—on my terms. He’s going to have to then take care of you, if that’s what he wants to do.”
Michael turned as his eye caught the attention of the barmaid. “Check, please.”
Chapter 43
Westport, Connecticut
December 8, 2009
I
t was nearly midnight, but Michael was still agitated from his meeting with Greta. He needed to vent to someone, and who could be more appropriate to unload on than Alex? So Michael sat down in his library, plugged in the laptop to conserve its power, and after keying in the user name and password, saw his brother appear on the brightly lit screen.
“Alex, sometimes when Samantha gives me a hard time over something, I say to myself, ‘Next time around, I’m going to marry a bimbo.’ You know, someone who just looks pretty but is stupid. Well, my meeting with Greta cured me of that fantasy.”
“She’s not so stupid.” Alex appeared a bit defensive.
“Let me ask you, seriously, now that I have you like this, what in the world could have ever possessed you to marry her?”
“What do you mean, now that you have me ‘like this’?” Alex became suddenly more serious.
“Well, I guess I mean you’re not
physically
present, at least,” Michael said.
“I wouldn’t take anything for fuckin’ granted. Your life, the one you consider to be the ‘real’ one, may be all in your head. Mine is on a computer, yours is in your brain. They’re more similar than you think, except we know the limits of your brain. We don’t know the limits of my computer yet, so don’t get too cocky. I put a lot of money into this; I planned to get myself smarter in the process.”
“I never thought about it that way,” Michael said, feeling chastised, again.
“But anyway, you wanted to know how I could have married Greta? Actually, I thought I was marrying
Rosemary
Garbone. That’s who she was when I first met her. I had already split with Pam. Greta used to come into Grimaldi’s when I still owned it. Nice girl, on the make, looked pretty good then. We got along, you know what I mean? Then, as soon as we got married, she started in about moving to LA; she wanted to be some kind of actress and thought I was going to bankroll her and move out there.”
“Did you ever say you would?”
“Not that I can fuckin’ remember. What am I, nuts? I mean, maybe one night when we were both smashed. Who can remember every word you say to someone? I took her on a few trips out to LA before we were married. She’d say, you know, ‘Wouldn’t it be great to live out here?’ I didn’t even listen half the time. I probably said, ‘Oh yeah, sure.’ Who knows what I might have said. But there was no way. Everyone wears fucking sunglasses out there—it’s crazy.
“So, we get married and she changes her name to
Greta
Garbone because she thinks she’s going to be an actress. No education, no experience, no acting school, but we’re supposed to pick up and go. She was nuts.”
“What happened then?”
“What happened? Nothing happened. I told her she was crazy. I said that when you look like Angelina Jolie, then we’ll move to Hollywood. I had her tits done for her, but I wasn’t going to do everything. I said I’d pay for her to be a porn star, that was all. She got pissed off at that. I was only kidding, I think. In the meantime, I’m thinking, I’ve got to get out of this whole marriage thing with her. She was really crazy. I even told her something like that … maybe not as politely.”
“You two were married several years though.”
“Yeah, well, shortly after I started thinking divorce, she got pregnant with George. So that was that for a while.”
“Did you leave her for Donna?”
“No, I was just
dating
Donna—nothing serious, we’d just screw around—but I never left Greta. Later on, she left
me
for that Merlin the fucking magician. I didn’t give a shit at that point. When Greta realized we weren’t going to Hollywood, things got bad, even after George was born. I took her to Vegas for several days, and she goes to one of those magic shows or something. It was like a little act he had in the cocktail lounge of one of the casinos. She must have hooked up with him there.”
“With the magician?”
“Yeah. I thought it was almost funny months later when she told me about it. She said it was ‘magical.’ I don’t even think she realized what she was saying. ‘Magical,’ I told her, ‘I bet it was, he’s a fucking magician, after all.’ He promised her all kinds of shit. He thought he was going to be big time too. He thought he was going to be on the big stage there. He wound up finally doing magic shows at kids’ birthday parties in Queens. But that was later. So, she tells me she’s leaving to go marry this guy. I told her to be my guest.”
“What about Donna? You were seeing her while you were married to Greta?” Michael marveled at Alex’s fluid concepts of marriage and dating.
“Yeah, but as I said, just on the side. It worked out; Greta took off with the magician, and then Donna and I got married. But Greta basically blackmailed me in the divorce settlement. I had to give her a lot, even though she’s the one who wanted out. She was threatening to cause problems, said she’d go the cops or the
New York Post
about my business. So, we finally settled. I was giving her extra money every month. I didn’t have to but—”
“So she was still dependent on you even after the divorce.”
“More or less. More, really,” Alex said.
“You kind of like it that way, don’t you?” Michael watched Alex for a reaction.
“What do you mean?” Alex’s eyebrows arched up.
“Well, to have people dependent on you?”
Alex paused, seemingly weighing the thought. “Maybe—I never thought about it. Anyway, it got worse for her. Next thing I know, Merlin’s broke and borrowing money from me. He was into me for twenty grand before I finally had to cut him off. He told me that Greta was getting vicious, she was hitting him. He thinks she’s seeing someone else too.
“Wouldn’t surprise me. Even when she was with me, she was always looking around. I remember fuckin’ Sharkey had his eyes on her. She was coming on to him. We had some big fights over that. When she doesn’t have enough money—and she never does—she becomes a desperate woman. I felt bad for Merlin. He wasn’t a bad guy. Let me tell you, you don’t want to be broke and married to Greta.”
“Did Greta have any idea that her new husband was borrowing money from her last one?” Michael asked.
Alex laughed. “I never told her; she’d have killed him.”
Chapter 44
New York City
December 11, 2009
6:00 p.m.
M
ichael had planned what he hoped would be a festive and relaxed evening with Samantha.
Etheleen Staley was an old and trusted good friend. Michael had purchased much of his extensive photography collection from her gallery, Staley-Wise, over the past twenty years.
Tonight was an exhibit of the former model-turned-photographer Ellen von Unwerth’s sexy photographs. Von Unwerth had been a successful runway model and now had moved to the other side of the camera. Michael had his eye on one of her newest prints, “Follow Me, Paris.”
Deacon Dan picked up Michael and Samantha in his silver Lincoln Town Car at their Westport home for the trip down to Soho to see the exhibit and then have dinner nearby at DaSilvano on Sixth Avenue in Greenwich Village. As they arrived at the corner of Broadway and Spring Street, Michael turned to Samantha. “It’s like a different city down here—the young people, the look, the dress, and even the sounds are different from uptown. There’s that edge here.”
Samantha laughed. “I like the edgy feeling too, Michael. It’s better than being
on edge
.”
“I hope that’s all behind us now,” Michael said.
Michael was looking forward to settling down to some sort of routine again. He began to finally feel a sense of calm, perhaps accomplishment. He wanted to celebrate by purchasing a print and then heading off to dinner nearby.
Dan stopped the car and came around and opened Samantha’s door. “Here you are, guys. Michael, I know this is your all-time favorite place.”
“This—and Yankee Stadium.” Dan and Michael had spent a good part of the last hour in the car talking about the New York Yankees. “Dan, we’ll be about an hour, and then we’ll go to DaSilvano. I’ve got a table for the three of us. I’ll call you on your cell as we’re getting ready to leave the gallery.”
Michael and Samantha walked past Dean and DeLuca, an upscale grocery shop, entered the gallery building’s small lobby, and took the elevator to the third floor. The elevator doors opened to the glass entrance of the gallery.
An opening at Staley-Wise Gallery was an event. The gallery was electrified with collectors and art aficionados, champagne, wine, sparkling water, smoked salmon, and fresh shrimp hors d’oeuvres. The noise level was high; the crowd numbered just over a hundred people, with a much greater proportion of women—most very tall, willowy, and blonde. The scene was black and white, from the photographs to the wall-to-wall elegant young ladies in their little black dresses and shiny stockings, each holding a glass of crisp, white chardonnay. It was apparent that Ellen von Unwerth had attracted a lot of her model acquaintances to the event.
Michael watched as von Unwerth worked the small crowd or, more precisely, the crowd worked her. Ellen von Unwerth was herself tall, probably six feet with her heels on, with a remarkable figure and a long mane of carefully disheveled silver-blonde hair. One would never guess that she was in her fifties.
As soon as Etheleen Staley saw Michael and Samantha, she approached them, giving them both a kiss on each cheek.
“Etheleen, I previewed the exhibit online. I know which print I want already,” said Michael.
Michael and Samantha trusted Etheleen’s professional judgment and advice implicitly. Michael knew she had a keen eye for the aesthetics and for art as an investment.
“You two are so funny,” Etheleen said as Michael led them to the photograph he had selected. “Samantha loves to look and keep changing her mind, which I love. And you, Michael, seem to know what you want before you even get here.”
The image he had selected was a sexy print showing, from the rear, a woman’s black-stockinged legs approaching a table at a Paris bistro.
Etheleen nodded, signaling her approval. “Michael, I love this print. I knew you’d like it too. Ellen is a fabulous photographer.”
“Just put it on my Amex and have it delivered to Elizabeth Goldfeder at GK Framing over on Hudson Street.”