Authors: E.J. Simon
“I can only imagine what it could allow you to do. It might mean that you can now reach out and actually call me. If that’s true, then you won’t have to wait for me to turn on the computer and log onto you. I think so anyway.”
“I’ve been trying to figure out anything I can about this guy Frank who’s been sent to kill you, but I can’t find anything. I’ve tried all the taps and emails I can get to—but nothing. Nothing. But, you know, I’m not sure what I’m capable of either.”
“Well, there’ve been some new developments. Remember I mentioned that Sharkey’s guys were out on bail?”
“Yeah, and I told you that once the Vatican got behind him, things would get dicey. They can’t afford to be exposed and they need to be sure things get fixed quietly. These guys are worse than any organized crime. It’s a joke. They’ve got the best racket. I should have incorporated as a religion. I could have run my betting business and been fully protected. I wouldn’t have even had to worry about paying taxes. They make the Swiss bankers look like saints. You know, I’m not big on guys who wear robes outside.”
“Well,” Michael said, “It gets even more interesting. Sharkey’s men were murdered the day after they were released. Supposedly some priest at a church in the Bronx fed them a big dinner the other night in the church basement. The priest claims he put them in a taxi after dinner to take them back to the home of some parishioner where they were to stay. The cab never showed up. Their bodies were found wrapped in plastic in the trunk of an abandoned car near the Bruckner Expressway. All three had been shot in the head, execution style.
Alex looked straight ahead. “Big surprise.”
“And guess who the priest was?” Michael said.
“No … don’t tell me … that Irish guy?”
“Yes, Bishop Kevin McCarthy, the original altar boy molester, the one whose problem Sharkey took care of.”
Michael found himself fascinated not only to be having a normal conversation with his brother—but also with Alex’s ability to grasp a rather complex situation.
“I’m not done,” Michael continued. “Remember the cassette tape with Sharkey’s ‘goodbye’ message to me, the one they played in the car just before they figured they’d be dumping me in Flushing Bay that night?”
“Yeah. Sharkey was known for having his hit men play a personal message that he had recorded for anyone he was having killed. He used to brag about it to me. He said it gave him some special satisfaction. He said, ‘What’s the point of having someone whacked if the guy didn’t know
why
he was being whacked?’ Kind of makes sense if you think about it. At least in his sick mind.”
Michael cringed as he recounted his own chilling encounter a year ago, “I’ll never forget it. I’m in crazy Morty’s car, wrapped in duct tape. My feet are encased in a cement block. I’m still drugged up from the chloroform they used to knock me out. Then, Morty puts the cassette player up to my ear and I hear Sharkey’s voice. His last words were, ‘You always lose the final game. Goodbye, Michael.’ Well, the cassette has disappeared from the precinct evidence room. With the three idiots dead, that tape was the last concrete, no pun intended, link to Sharkey for my kidnapping. Except for me, of course.”
“That’s right; they’ve taken care of everything else. Now if they can get rid of you, Sharkey can come back and the cops have nothing on him. And whoever owed Sharkey a favor for his help just made the first payment on it.”
“One more thing,” Michael added, “I just found out that the good bishop, of all people, has been placed on my Gibraltar board.”
Alex interrupted him, “McCarthy himself? No wonder there’s so much sex going on with some of those priests—they do have some balls.”
“Yes, Bishop Kevin McCarthy himself. But, don’t forget, no one except his superiors in the Vatican knows what he did to those kids years ago. Without them, the investigation had nowhere to go. So now the Vatican worked out a deal to put this creep on the board so Gibraltar supposedly gets the PR benefit of a holy guy and the company’s going to make a contribution to the church or school in the Bronx. It’s unbelievable.”
Alex laughed. “What a combination—a corrupt big corporation and a dirty bishop.” He became very serious. “But this is their way of telling you that they can get you whenever they want. This is a power play. They’ve put this priest right into your backyard, your life. Your straight life. They’ll know where you are and what you’re doing.”
“I know.” But Michael didn’t know yet how much information Alex could digest although it appeared that, as his computer consultants had predicted, he was getting smarter each time they spoke. The artificial intelligence program was designed to get smarter as more and more information was fed into it either through program uploads or the conversational interaction such as Michael and Alex were now having.
Alex stared hard at him, “Do you realize how deep you’re in here? I was no saint, but you’re into some heavy-duty business. Murder, the church, and at least one guy looking to kill you. Can you handle this?”
It was a good question. “I have a plan and I’m going to need your help to make it happen. I’ll tell you about it soon enough but first I’m going to need you to help me find out exactly whom I need to get to in the Vatican.”
“You mean the person pulling the strings? I already told you about Lovallo and Petrucceli.”
“No, someone higher than that.”“Like the Pope?”
“Preferably not the Pope. But you’re getting closer.”
“So, we’re going to show Sharkey that artificial intelligence is better than no intelligence.”
“Yes, if my plan works, Sharkey and his protectors will be in for a big surprise.”
“By the way, you should be loading your own personal stuff onto an artificial intelligence software program because, at this rate, I’m going to outlive you—and I’ll be talking to myself here.”
“That’s an interesting thought. I wonder, do you even exist if I disappear and no one else knows about you? It’s a scary thought, isn’t it?”
Alex laughed, then turned solemn. “You have no idea.”
Chapter 13
Westport, Connecticut
S
amantha Nicholas was an enigma to all but her very closest friends, who numbered no more than three. Yet that in itself was a mystery to those who knew her. It was a mystery to her too.
She was smart, a graduate of NYU, fluent in French, and had a good head for business. Before her marriage, Samantha had been a legend in the cutthroat world of high-end Manhattan real estate, using her intelligence, calm manner and astute evaluation of people to navigate successfully through the eccentric and egomaniacal personalities.
She was in great shape and, although in her mid-forties, could easily pass for someone ten years younger. She had a solid marriage for over twenty years, a successful husband and a beautiful and sensitive daughter, Sofia, in her second year at Notre Dame.
Angie and Fletcher Fanelli, in their early forties, were Michael and Samantha’s closest friends, two tough and spirited characters with a young baby daughter.
Fletcher, the police chief of
W
estport, Connecticut, was one of the few people Michael could confide in as he moved from the strictly straight and narrow world of Gibraltar Financial to his brother’s revitalized illegal business, now known as Tartarus. Fletcher could be trusted to be there when Michael needed him—and keep things to himself, leaving even Angie in the dark.
Samantha and Angie sat at a table in the cozy back room of Mario’s. Samantha looked around; the restaurant, an institution in Westport, was filled with its usual combination of laid-back “townies” and the suit-and-tie commuter crowd returning from Manhattan.
“Michael loves this place. I swear I think sometimes he actually dreams about the meatballs. He says he’ll never forget the day Tiger took him into the kitchen one afternoon to show him the meatballs simmering in the tomato sauce. I think they had to carry him out.”
Angie laughed, “Well, Michael’s the only person I know who remembers every meal he’s ever had.”
Once Angie and Samantha had polished off their first bottle of champagne and dispensed with the chitchat, Samantha turned somber.
“Something’s happened to Michael.” she said. “It all started when his brother was murdered. Donna, Alex’s widow, pushed Michael to get involved, just to clean up Alex’s affairs and that sort of thing. Up until then, he’d always steered clear of anything having to do with his brother’s affairs. But I’m afraid once he got a taste of Alex’s life, he liked it. He liked it too much.”
“What exactly does that mean, Samantha?”
“I’m not sure exactly. We always talked about everything. We shared everything with each other. Not anymore. Michael’s running Gibraltar—how, I can’t imagine—but he’s still doing that and not only heading up his brother’s business but expanding it. With everything going on now, I hardly ever see him.”
“Oh, Samantha.” Angie said.
“Wait, there’s more. But, Angie, I’m not supposed to tell this to anyone.”
“Samantha, I know I can be a little ditzy at times but, you know, you can trust me.”
“Angie, this is more than a secret. It’s about what I said on the phone last night. This is about life and death—and maybe beyond that. I feel like I’m living in The Twilight Zone.”
“My God, what is it?”
“Before Alex died, he got into some crazy artificial intelligence thing. He paid a good friend of his, who was a computer whiz, to purchase some combination of sophisticated artificial intelligence and computer imaging software. Alex wanted to live forever—or some type of nonsense—he paid a small fortune for all of this. Then he had these technology gurus load all kinds of personal data onto a secret Apple laptop that he’d had hidden away somewhere. Michael found it after Alex died. I think one of Alex’s mistresses, some hot-shot hairdresser in the city, told Michael about it and then gave him Alex’s password so he could log in.”
“No wonder Alex didn’t go to a regular old barber. With what little hair he had, it certainly wasn’t for a blow-out. Maybe a blow—”
“Ang, seriously, it gets worse. I think this technology thing works, at least like some sophisticated computer game anyway. But for Michael—he thinks it’s more than that. And now he’s spent his own money on computer consultants and more hardware. He’s set up a huge screen and computers hidden in our wine cellar. He goes down there now and talks to the screen—and thinks he’s speaking with Alex.”
“Samantha, I can’t believe this. It’s not like Michael, he’s as down to earth as anyone I’ve ever known. I can’t believe he’d get involved with Alex’s stuff—let alone believe this voodoo artificial intelligence shit.”
“He brought me down to the wine cellar last night, just before I called you. It was spooky. He presses some buttons and all of a sudden the giant screen comes down and Alex comes to life and they start talking to each other!”
“Oh my God.” Angie said. “What did they say?”
“I had to leave. It was too much for me. It was Alex, big as life on the screen, big as life with all his expressions and quirky mannerisms. I must admit, they did a great job with that. But Michael actually believes he’s speaking with his brother. It’s crazy. Michael’s crazy.”
Tiger, Mario’s venerable owner, looking out from his usual perch near the kitchen and seeing two of his favorite woman, ventured over to their table. He was a short, bald and lovable man, who looked like a cross between a bulldog and a teddy bear.
“I knew the noise level had gone up all of a sudden, now I know why. How are my two princesses doing?”
“Oh, Tiger, don’t even ask. Men are just such freakin’ idiots,” Angie said. Samantha knew Angie considered Tiger to be a father figure.
Tiger, seventy-seven, divorced for over twenty years, with a wild streak and a stream of women he kept at a careful distance, thought for a moment before answering, “I can’t argue with you there.”
Chapter 14
Astoria, New York
T
he image reminded him of photographs he had admired from French
Vogue
. Michael glanced at Sindy Steel’s long, white legs peering out from the high slit in her black silk skirt as she drove her powerful black Corvette over the Triboro Bridge. They were leaving glitzy Manhattan and heading for the gritty borough of Queens and Astoria.
As his new head of security, Michael knew that Sindy would be expected to be close by his side at all times. As they drove down Twenty-Eighth Avenue past the old stores and apartments, he thought of the many relatives and friends, mostly recent Greek immigrants like his own parents, that he would visit as a child. He noticed the old brick apartment building where his godparents, Jimmy and Erasmia Pappas, had lived. How quickly life changes, he thought, and it just keeps moving on.
Sitting in the passenger seat and approaching the restaurant and its waiting valet, Michael wondered how he had come to have not only a bodyguard but a mistress, all bundled into one extraordinary package.
“How do you want to play this?” Sindy said. “Should I stay outside with the car?
“No. Give it to the valet. Come in with me and sit at the bar while I dine with this dirtbag.” Michael didn’t know what to expect from Bishop McCarthy but he knew he wouldn’t like him. “I can’t believe this pedophile is still a bishop.”
They walked under the red canopy through the front door of Piccola Venezia, entering into the large formal bar. The rich, wood-paneled walls framed the well-dressed, but tough, testosterone-fueled crowd around the bar, giving an old-world feel to the setting. It had that typical, solid middle-class, upper-end Queens restaurant aura—an appearance of dignified calm and alcoholic conviviality while, under the surface, percolated a macho-like volcano, waiting for the first show of disrespect for it to erupt in a free-for-all worthy of the alleys of Sicily or Baghdad. Nevertheless, the scene brought back many memories for Michael. He and Alex had eaten here many times over the years. Ezio—the paternal, dignified owner and maître d’—instantly recognized Michael and, eyeing Sindy by his side, greeted him with a broad smile and a firm handshake.