But Michael knew his life was about to change.
“The Lesters can hold on for a few days—but, please, I need you as soon as possible. This is for your brother, Michael.”
Michael sighed, knowing he was about to make a mistake but unable to stop himself.
“Michael, it’s for your brother, God rest his soul.” Her words pierced the same opening in his chest through which her earlier carefully crafted approaches had already blazed a path.
Later that evening, Michael and Samantha finally left the restaurant arm in arm. Michael was checking his BlackBerry as they approached their car. Suddenly, he stopped in his tracks.
“What’s wrong?” Samantha said, looking concerned.
“Oh, it’s …” Michael stared blankly into space. “Someone sent me another celebrity obituary.”
“Who sent it?”
Michael looked puzzled as he tried to reconcile what he was looking at on his BlackBerry screen. “How the hell should I know?”
“Well, what e-mail address is it from?”
“Jesus, it’s from Alex’s. I know that’s not possible. Someone must have hacked his e-mail account.”
Samantha moved closer to Michael. “Yes, but that’s still very unusual, to say the least, that they would then be sending you an obituary for some famous person. I mean, hackers usually just send requests for money or offers for Canadian Viagra. They don’t pick up where a dead account holder left off.”
“I know; this makes no sense,” Michael said. “It’s like that message, the picture of Alex that I received on my phone during the funeral.”
“Michael, I was thinking … since Alex was sending all those obituaries, do you think there was something your brother wasn’t telling you? I mean, could he have been ill?”
“I don’t know. Just before it happened, he was acting a bit strange, like he was at the end of his life instead of in the prime of it. And I told you how the last few times we had dinner, he would keep mentioning our parents, and particularly their final days. It’s like he’d become fixated on his own mortality.”
“He’d never taken good care of himself. I know he quit smoking ten years ago, but he was a heavy smoker for so long. That, and all the liquor …” Michael’s voice trailed off, as though he didn’t want to complete his thought.
But Samantha filled the void. “Maybe it was just the type of life he lived—out all night, not sleeping much, not to mention the unsavory characters he associated with. My God, his work alone had to fill him with stress.”
It all rang true. Michael had been troubled by the increasingly somber, if not morbid tone of his brother’s most recent communications. It was odd and disturbing, he thought. Yet Michael, at times, had the same troubling thoughts about mortality or, as he thought of it, the preciousness of time. But he generally kept them to himself. And he was sure that he could trace his issues to an event in his childhood, one that changed his perception of life.
Once inside their car, Michael started the engine, but before pulling out, he glanced again at his cell phone and then looked up with a puzzled expression.
“Is something else wrong?” Samantha asked.
“I don’t know. When I was sitting with Donna, early in our conversation she said she had to make a call and that her phone was out of juice. It didn’t seem spontaneous; it was as though she planned it purposely. She borrowed my cell and said she was going to the ladies’ room to make an important call. But I just checked the call history, and it doesn’t show that any calls were made.”
“Maybe she changed her mind,” Samantha said.
“I guess that’s possible. She was gone quite a while though. She wanted my phone for a reason, and it obviously wasn’t to make a phone call.” Michael sat motionless in the driver’s seat, staring out ahead at the darkness through the windshield.
“Well, what are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking that now I realize I never trusted her.”
Chapter 8
Whitestone, Queens, New York
November 12, 2009
M
ichael felt a chill as he and Russell Munson entered his brother’s den.
“This is like entering Cooperstown,” Michael said to no one in particular as he examined Mickey Mantle’s pin-striped Yankees uniform, framed in glass, hanging on the wall. Alex had taught young Michael to admire Mantle. In Michael’s mind, it was his brother who had worn it instead of the legendary Mantle himself.
Now they’re both gone,
he thought.
The large room was a shrine to American sports. Its custom cherry walls and shelves were filled from floor to ceiling with hundreds of glass-encased baseballs, autographed by virtually every modern-day New York Yankees baseball player. Framed photos of famous athletes lined the walls. Muhammad Ali’s bright red boxing gloves, protected under glass, added an unexpected, violent splash of color in a room otherwise devoted to bygone events captured mostly in black and white.
“I can’t believe Alex is gone.” Russell was visibly upset as he gazed around the room in the den where he had spent many hours with Alex. He took a generous swig from the glass of scotch Donna had just brought him. “Remember when he coached our team, the Flushing Royals? He was a pisser.”
“I know,” said Michael. “You were a great friend to him. Alex was one of a kind. We all go way back. Those were good times, so innocent.”
“On the phone, Donna asked about all the work I did in the house for Alex. I wasn’t sure whether you guys knew what it was all about or not. I was going to wait a few days and ask whether you wanted to know about what Alex had me do for him.”
“Thanks, Russell,” Michael said. “The truth is we don’t know very much. You can help us.”
“Listen, I don’t know what’s in those secret places I built for Alex—but I know where they all are.” Russell continued, “I did some interesting things for him. I know Alex would want you two to know now. I’ll fill you in on everything.”
Michael wondered what
everything
might be but decided not to ask any questions until tonight when he hoped to speak with him in private at some point.
“Thanks, Russell.” Donna kissed Russell on the cheek. “You were always there for Alex when he needed you.”
“We suspect Alex hid cash in the special places you built. We don’t have any idea how much. Hopefully, it’s a lot. If there’s anything Donna or I can do for you or your family, we’d be happy …” Michael was searching for the right words to show his appreciation; then Russell interrupted the awkward moment.
“I don’t want anything. You know I wouldn’t take anything for this. It’s just the right thing. You guys know I don’t give a shit about money. Uh, maybe a case of Bud. That would be great.”
Michael remembered what a great friend Russell had been to him so many years ago. Russell was always a different breed; he never cared what people thought, was tough as nails, and had a big heart.
“Okay, when can we start?” asked Donna.
“I need to get to a job I’m committed to finishing this afternoon a few blocks from here. How about if I come back here with my tools after dinner, around eight thirty tonight? I can show you where all the compartments are and open them enough so it’ll be easy for you guys to open them all the way and get whatever’s inside. I don’t want to see what’s in them.”
“Russell,” said Michael, “that’s terrific. We’ll see you at eight thirty. I’ll have the case of Bud for you.”
Michael had never seen Alex’s business office. Above the Mediterranean Delicatessen on Northern Boulevard in Flushing, Queens, it looked like any other small-time accountant or insurance office from the outside.
Inside were two rooms. The larger room was set up with three identical large flat-screen televisions hanging from the ceiling; ten desks, each with multiline black phone consoles; and several chairs scattered around the desks and randomly placed throughout the room.
Alex’s private office was in the second room, behind a simple hollow wooden door. Inside, Alex had Russell custom build an ornate wet bar, which, at the touch of a button located within easy reach from Alex’s seat, would miraculously rise out of a wooden cabinet, showcasing a very respectable selection of scotch, whiskey, vodka, gin, and rum brands along with the usual necessary bar glasses and accessories. Alex’s desk had a twenty-button phone console; a computer; a framed photograph of his son, George, and grandson, Pete, in their season seats at Yankee Stadium; and a sheath of neatly stacked papers.
Alex was always neat and meticulous, Michael thought, and would have left his desk exactly this way even if he knew he would never return to it.
The blinds were drawn, the phones were silent, the television screens dark. Michael sat in his brother’s chair behind the desk. Fat and Skinny Lester sat in what appeared to Michael to be their usual seats on the other side of the desk. Everything was as it used to be—except Alex was gone and Michael was in his seat.
The discussion had already lasted two hours. The first hour was spent with Skinny and Fat Lester telling old stories about Michael as a little kid, and newer recollections of Alex and his more colorful escapades.
As Michael listened, he realized that, for both Lesters, their daily lives revolved around working with and for Alex. Fat Lester played the role of tough “enforcer” while Skinny Lester was the “brains.” Although Fat Lester had an unpolished exterior, he was, like his tall, slim, smarter cousin, truly a gentle soul underneath it all who would prefer never to harm anyone unless provoked.
Now Lester and Lester began to fill Michael in on the details of Alex’s business.
“Michael,” Skinny Lester began, “most of the money that’s owed us seems to be coming in. I met with Ralph yesterday. He’ll pay his twenty-three thousand this week. Steady Eddie is meeting me tonight. He’s good for almost thirty grand. It’s a little tough because they didn’t figure on the game ending. You know, usually these guys roll over some of the bets and assume they’ll make some of it back on next week’s games, so they don’t figure on paying everything off all at once with no chance to win it back. But most of them are okay. They liked Alex.”
“Yeah, they know Alex couldn’t help getting shot. I mean, like, it wasn’t his idea. You know what I mean?” Fat Lester was obviously confident in his logic.
“But,” interjected Skinny Lester, “a few big ones aren’t paying.”
“Who and how much?” Michael shot back. As he did, Michael felt a strange sensation, almost a sense of familiarity with the discussion, if not the approach and subject matter. It was a bit disconcerting.
How can this feel comfortable?
he asked himself. It was not that different, he reasoned, from a discussion he could have with his finance head or collections group back at Gibraltar.
“Johnny Rizzo—we call him ‘the Nose’—owes about eighty grand. He’s an asshole. He and Alex tangled a few times. Alex and I threatened him once when he claimed he hadn’t put as much on a Giants game as we had him down for. He finally paid.”
“How’d you threaten him?” Michael was waiting for this as he began to feel like he was now at least scratching the surface of his brother’s business. Not much different, he thought, than when he stepped into a new, troubled company and had to quickly grasp the essence of the business, determine which executives he could trust, and then put a plan together to turn the situation around.
Fat Lester chuckled. “Your brother told him that I was going to waterboard him. Alex was funny. You know, he had just read about it or saw it in the news with those fuckin’ terrorists. You know how we torture those creeps. I wasn’t even sure what the hell he was talking about. But he tells Rizzo that if he doesn’t pay that I’m going to put him under the sink or something. He tells him that I did it when I was in the service.
“I’m thinking, holy shit. I don’t know about this shit; I don’t know how to do it. But your brother stares this guy down. You know how when Alex got mad he looked fuckin’ dangerous? Well, he scared the shit out of Rizzo. He did this in the fuckin’ men’s room of the Palm in the city. I said to him when we left, I said, ‘Alex, you gotta tell me about this shit before you tell some guy I’m going to do it to him, because I don’t really know this shit.’”
“What did Alex say?” Michael was glued to his seat.
“He said he didn’t plan on saying it. It just came to his mind on the spot. He said don’t worry, we’d figure it out if we had to. You know, just bang his head around a bit and then put his mouth under the sink for a while. Just scare the shit out of him if we had to.”
“Did you ever really have to do any of this stuff to anyone?” Michael was worried about the answer.
The question appeared to take Fat Lester by surprise. His head twitched slightly like a dog does when it doesn’t understand something. “You know, we never really did anything. Alex just scared people. We never had to do anything like that.”
“Well, that’s good, I guess.” Michael was clearly relieved, actually feeling that tightness in his stomach loosen somewhat. But he could see the stress on Skinny Lester’s face as he was about to speak.
“First of all, Michael, this guy—Mr. Sharkey—is waiting for me to tell him when he’s going to get his seven hundred grand that he’s up.” That sense of relief that Michael felt began to quickly dissipate. “Also, whoever had Alex shot is still out there.”
“Do you guys have any idea who it could have been?” asked Michael. “What about Rizzo or this Sharkey guy?”
“Rizzo’s a former cop—crooked, but not a murderer. Plus, just a few weeks ago, he was up fifty grand himself,” Skinny Lester said.
“And what about Sharkey?”
“No way,” said Skinny Lester. “He knew Alex was good for the money. He’d be the last one to do it. Now he’s gotta worry about how he gets paid.”
“By the way,” Fat Lester said, smiling, “open that top right drawer.” He pointed to the desk drawer on Michael’s right. “It may come in handy.”
Michael feared he knew what he’d find as he slowly opened Alex’s desk drawer. Nevertheless, seeing the .38-caliber pistol sent a shudder through his entire body.
“Jesus, Lester. What am I supposed to do with this?” Michael carefully closed the drawer.