Fat Lester was five foot six and weighed nearly three hundred pounds. Unlike his cousin, he appeared to be bursting out of his unfashionably wide-lapelled sport coat. The sleeves were two inches too short, and the coat had not been buttoned in the last decade. But Fat Lester’s girth had provided Alex with at least the appearance of a physical enforcement threat for those clients who might be delayed in paying their debts.
“I can’t believe he’s in that box,” said Fat Lester. He eyed the casket with his typical sense of suspicion and doubt about anything beyond the daily observable and routine activities of his unconventional life, including eating, drinking, occasional cocaine, and collecting the betting slips from drops across New York City. “I’m just waiting for him to put his fuckin’ leg through the fuckin’ lid and then get up and look at us like we’re nuts sitting here.”
“Les, if we don’t figure something out pretty quick, we’re goin’ to be in the same box,” Skinny Lester whispered to his cousin.
“What do you mean, the same box? How we goin’ to be in the same fuckin’ box? We couldn’t fit even if we wanted to, and I don’t.”
“Asshole, I don’t mean literally. I’m saying that we got some clients that are looking to get paid. The big one being Mr. Sharkey. We’ve got no money to pay anyone. Alex had all the receipts, and I don’t know where all the fuckin’ cash is now. The ones that owe Alex money don’t give a shit. But Alex owes Sharkey seven hundred grand. He’s going to be looking at us.”
“Holy shit,” groaned Fat Lester, gazing toward the cross above the altar, as though the Crucifixion had finally become real to him and the heavens suddenly seemed within reach.
“We have to talk to someone. I don’t know if it’s Donna. I mean, she’s a widow now, for Christ’s sake. Maybe Michael,” Skinny Lester said. “We’ve known Michael since he was a kid, but he’s never had anything to do with the business. I don’t know how much Donna knows.”
“Alex always said that Donna didn’t know shit.”
“Well, someone’s got to know something because there’s got to be at least a few million that Alex has stashed somewhere. Some of that was for Alex. Some of it’s to pay off in case anyone hit big,” Skinny Lester said.
“Jesus, I’m going to get an ulcer from this shit,” Fat Lester said, breathing heavily now. “I got that pain in my stomach again, and I got a bad taste in my mouth, like that acid coming back up.”
Skinny Lester thought about Michael. The last time he’d seen him was ten years ago at a birthday party for Alex when Michael made one of his rare appearances. All he knew about him now was that he was very successful, traveled a lot, and had a nice family. Despite the awkward timing, he knew that he would have to at least let Michael or Donna know today that they needed to talk about Alex’s affairs.
Skinny Lester could hear the growing stress in his cousin’s voice; he knew he needed to reassure him, despite his own nervousness. “Relax, Les. I’ll take care of it.”
“Take care of it. How the fuck are you going to take care of it?” Fat Lester said, a bit too loud. Several heads turned their way.
“I have a plan.” Despite his reassuring words, Skinny Lester knew he had no plan, except that they had to locate Alex’s cash so they could settle the accounts. “I just wish I could talk to Alex one last time.” But as he sat back in the pew, he thought about that night several months ago, drinking with Alex in his den, and the strange thing that Alex had showed him. It was a scene he hadn’t been able to get out of his head since then.
Chapter 6
A
lex’s immediate family filled the first two rows of pews. On the left side, facing the altar, Michael sat with his wife, Samantha, and their nineteen-year-old daughter, Sofia, who had just flown in from college at Notre Dame.
Directly across in the front right row were three women, all of whom had been married to Alex. On another occasion when all three of his wives were together, Alex referred to them as “Murderers’ Row,” a reference to the hard-hitting New York Yankees lineups of the twenties.
Seated first, on the end, was Alex’s current wife, Donna, who was thirty-five with long, straight black hair. She was a well-built woman with firm, prominent, and expertly stylized silicone breasts that were spilling out of the top of her short black dress. A shapely yet slim pair of legs showed underneath dark black stockings. Donna was followed by Alex’s two former wives, both of whom would fit the exact same description as Donna’s with the exception of their ages. Greta was forty-six, and Pam was fifty-four. All three were scented with the same fragrance—Alex’s favorite, Chanel No. 5—and all three were devoted clients of Dr. Armando Simonetti, a prominent Park Avenue plastic surgeon. And all three loved—and hated—Alex. Somehow, these were not mutually exclusive passions where Alex was intimately involved.
Next to Alex’s second wife, Greta, sat his only son, George. At twenty-three, he was a large, hulking presence, underdressed as always in a black-and-silver heavy-metal-themed sweatshirt barely concealed by his dark green, ill-fitting sport jacket. His black wavy hair and a ponytail gave him a Christ-on-steroids appearance. Next to George was his own son, Alex’s only grandchild, Pete, a five-year-old seemingly oblivious to his immediate surroundings and circumstances, if not the entire planet, while glued to his electronic game.
Suddenly feeling his BlackBerry vibrating, Michael reluctantly reached into his pocket for it, catching Samantha’s attention.
“Jesus, Michael, put that thing away. It’s a funeral, for God’s sake,” she whispered.
Michael looked pained. “I know, but this is crazy. Someone just sent me Alex’s picture.”
“Alex’s? Well, that’s nice,” she said.
“I’m not sure. This is more strange than nice.”
“What do you mean? What’s wrong?” Samantha now turned toward Michael.
“Well, the picture is okay. It’s just Alex behind his desk, in his den.”
“So, what’s wrong?”
“There’s a quote or some saying, underneath the picture.” Michael was straining to read the small print without attracting the attention of the others in the pews.
“What does it say?” Samantha asked.
“It says, ‘Life is a dream, and death is waking up.’”
Samantha turned back, an expression of confusion on her face. “That is so odd. Who would send something like that?”
“I have no idea. I don’t recognize the sender’s e-mail address.” But as Michael continued to stare at the small screen, the e-mail began to dissolve until it disappeared. The screen went blank. He clicked onto “Recently Deleted” mail, but there was no sign of it there either. “That’s strange. It’s gone now. It just disintegrated right on the screen.”
“Michael, are you sure it was there in the first place?”
“Yes, of course. But I can’t imagine who would have sent it.”
Just before turning her attention back to the altar, Samantha smiled and said, “Maybe Alex did.” Michael nodded and, perplexed, stared ahead at his brother’s coffin.
The pews behind him were packed with a broad assortment of cousins, nieces, nephews, Alex’s devoted employees, and a colorful spectacle of his “business associates,” most of whom appeared to be genuinely saddened by Alex’s death. Michael could hear the low murmurs of grief and an occasional sob coming from a group of women sitting behind him; an unknown hand had given him a sympathetic pat on the back as he’d entered the church.
As Michael watched and listened, his mind sped back to the years when he and his brother were home and very young. He wondered if Alex had been happy or at least content with the life he had lived. He tried to imagine how things might have been different if Alex had married a different woman—or different
women.
Or, Michael thought, was he simply projecting his own preferences and prejudices onto his brother, who was clearly different than he was?
Nevertheless, he was intent on
not doing
what he believed most people did at funerals: flashing back through one’s memory of the person inside the casket. For, despite the day-to-day distance he had kept from his brother, the memories would be too painful to relive now. But, as he always did at funerals, even as a child, he couldn’t help asking himself as he looked at the casket,
Where is this person now?
Michael always believed, from too early an age, that one’s whole life was almost irrelevant without the answer to that question. Too much of life, he thought, was simply a race to a finish line with no clue as to where that line was or what was on the other side of the tape.
All this uncertainty was likely the source of that persistent feeling of angst that he had; that shadowy fear of something he couldn’t put his finger on. But he knew what it was. It was his inability to juxtapose this beautiful life with eternal extinction. What was the point of a great dinner in Paris with people you loved, when you were all going to wind up in a box? How strange that all the buildings and houses would still be standing, yet everyone who ever breathed would be gone.
Michael was awakened from his nightmare by Samantha’s gentle tap on his arm; it was time to file by the casket and leave the church. The Greek custom was for the casket to remain open during the funeral service at the church and then, in full view of all the mourners, for it to be shut—forever—at the conclusion of the service. Michael always felt this was undue torture for those left behind, but perhaps it allowed the deceased a final view of everyone in attendance. Fortunately, Michael thought, his brother’s casket was closed. Alex never cared much about traditions or customs.
As they began their exit, Michael took his sister-in-law’s arm. “Michael, I need your help,” Donna whispered. “I need to speak with you alone. Please. You have no idea how important it is.”
“Okay, don’t worry, Donna. Let’s talk while we’re at the wake after the burial. We’ll just find a quiet table at Grimaldi’s away from everyone for a few minutes.”
As Michael approached the church’s door, Greta Garbone, Alex’s second wife, caught his arm. He turned around and looked closely at her. Her hair was disheveled and her blue eyes appeared to be bloodshot. She seemed unsteady. Michael was unsure whether she was gripping his arm to catch his attention or to keep her balance. Despite moving to within inches of his face, she was nearly screaming.
“You got my name wrong in the obituary.” Her words were slightly slurred.
Michael could feel Samantha pulling on his other arm, trying to keep him moving toward the doors, but Greta’s grip only tightened. He turned to face her. “Whatever happened to ‘I’m sorry for your loss’?” he said softly.
“
Your
loss? Where the hell were you all those years? And I read the fucking obituary, Michael; you know my name’s Greta, not Rosemary. You did it intentionally.” Greta’s face was red, twisted. In fact, Rosemary Garbone had changed her name to Greta just before marrying Alex, figuring it was a better stage name and assuming that Alex would bankroll her into a career as an actress.
“Greta, I didn’t write the obituary. I never even saw it. I don’t care about obituaries, they’re all too late, if you know what I mean.” He knew she didn’t.
Greta’s face came even closer. “I’m only sorry his fucking casket was closed. I wanted to see him dead. I wanted to see the last look on his face, the one when he knew he was going to die.”
Samantha, watching the exchange, pulled Michael more firmly now. “Ignore her, Michael; she’s crazy and drunk. Come on, please.”
Michael moved away, hoping that Greta would release her hand from his arm. But as he moved in the opposite direction, she tightened her grip again, forcing him back toward her and now catching the attention of the surrounding mourners.
“Your brother used me. He wouldn’t go to LA; he wouldn’t leave fucking Queens—and then he dumped me for Donna.”
Michael knew the story differently. As he watched his nephew, George, pushing through the crowd around them to rescue his mother from her tirade, Michael thought about Alex’s distress when Greta left him for the lure of a Las Vegas magician whom she believed had Hollywood connections.
A teary-eyed George Nicholas finally reached his mother, pulling her away from Michael and off to the side of the church. “Mom, what are you doing? Let’s go.”
But Greta Garbone wasn’t quite finished. “You’re no better than your brother,” she called out in Michael’s direction, her words echoing off the marble floors and stone walls, as all eyes inside the church now followed her. “And if you’d spent any time with him at all you’d know he didn’t want to be in any goddamned church—”
Sounds of
shh
and assorted protestations swept through the crowd.
Her son pulled harder, almost lifting her off her feet. “Let’s go. Please, Mom, stop.”
But as George led her toward a side exit, Michael thought he heard Greta say to George, “I want you to go to Donna and find—” But he couldn’t hear the rest and wasn’t even sure that what he thought he heard was what she said. Nevertheless, as he exited the church and squinted at the afternoon sunlight, he wondered what it was that was so important for Greta to find that she had asked her son to talk to Donna after years of acrimony and resentment.
Michael turned around to accompany Samantha and Sofia for the walk out of the church, and to observe the somber scene of the hearse and the black limousines waiting to take them to the cemetery.
But Donna, who had been separated from him in the progression, suddenly appeared by his side. She gently touched his shoulder, and pulling closer, whispered in his ear, “Michael, just be careful.”
As he proceeded down the church steps outside, thinking about Donna’s words, he noticed the license plate of the hearse carrying Alex’s body. It read, “Rest in Peace.” And, knowing his brother, he found that highly doubtful.
Chapter 7
“I
’m not sure which is worse, a funeral or a wake,” Samantha whispered to Michael as he clutched her hand.
“I guess that depends on whether you’re the one who was just buried,” Michael answered wryly, “in which case, you only get to go to the funeral.”