Death Never Sleeps (17 page)

Michael had arranged a private room, to which he and Fat Lester were immediately shown. He checked his watch. Sharkey was to arrive in half an hour. Michael surveyed the room and reviewed the plan in his mind. The dining room was designed to hold at least twenty people. Michael would be waiting there alone for Sharkey. Fat Lester would greet Sharkey when he arrived at the desk downstairs, escort him up, then request his gun and frisk him. He’d then open the door, usher Sharkey in, close the door behind him, and wait outside—but within earshot in case Michael should need help.

The table was twenty feet long, but was set for only two people to dine. Michael would sit at the head of the table, Sharkey just a few feet off to his right. Michael had choreographed the scene just as he had done for major board or client meetings. He’d outlined in writing the plan for the evening and rehearsed the scenarios with an impatient Fat Lester at least three times. Yet, Michael knew his role had to appear totally unrehearsed and spontaneous. He had to look homicidal and violent. It was, as he used to tell his staff at Gibraltar,
showtime.

Michael had secured five thousand crisp one-hundred-dollar bills, packaged in neat stacks and secured in an aluminum steel suitcase. Fat and Skinny Lester had been successful in collecting nearly all the remaining debts owed to Alex. If Michael was successful in getting Sharkey to agree to $500,000 in full payment of his winnings with Alex, then Alex’s business issues were all but settled. Sharkey’s greed made Michael feel justified in turning the tables on him.

Both Fat Lester and Donna had recommended that Michael bring Alex’s gun as additional insurance. Michael had never fired a gun. He also knew there were strict penalties in New York for carrying unlicensed firearms. He wasn’t ready for that step yet.

He sat alone in the large, empty room thinking about his life, his brother, and how their relationship had been so distant over their adult years. But Michael forced his mind to focus on the present. He had come a long way in the past two weeks. He would now threaten and beat the shit out of Sharkey if he had to. Michael thought about Donna, still unsure whether he trusted her.

Fat Lester knocked on the door, opened it slightly, and stuck his large head in. “Sharkey’s here, Boss. I’m going downstairs to get him.” This was the first time anyone other than Karen called him “Boss.”

In a low but firm voice, Michael said, “Bring him right in. Make sure you get the gun. It’s showtime, Lester.” Fat Lester nodded, smiled, and securely closed the door.

Alone, Michael stood up and adjusted his turtleneck and sport coat and sat back down in his chair at the head of the table. Moments later there was a sharp knock on the door. Fat Lester opened the door just enough for the diminutive Sharkey to walk through. “He’s clean, Boss,” Fat Lester said proudly. Michael knew he had heard that line in countless old gangster movies.
Now, I’m starring in one,
he thought.

Fat Lester closed the door as soon as Sharkey entered Michael’s dining room. Sharkey looked around the large room and at the enormous dining table set up for only two diners. Michael had placed the aluminum suitcase with the crisp currency closed on top of the table. Sharkey stared at the suitcase and smiled.

“Michael.” Sharkey smiled. “It’s so good to see you again. I can see this will be a much better meeting than our last one.” He was dressed exactly as he had been last week. Yet, Michael thought, Sharkey seemed much smaller now and more, as Alex had described him, just a fragile, pathetic old man.

“Yes,” Michael said, “I’m sure it will be.” He thought about how Sharkey had humiliated him at that first meeting. Now, he felt an unsettling desire for revenge. It would make things easier.

As Sharkey settled comfortably and confidently into his seat at the table, Michael stared at him, working himself into an irrational fit of aggressive anger. He pursed his lips and let a sudden unhappy frown almost distort his face. Sharkey watched, uncertain.

Without warning, Michael leaped up from his seat, sending his chair flying backward. He catapulted over the table onto a stunned Sharkey. He placed both hands around Sharkey’s throat and pushed him backward onto the floor. He could feel the tendons in the old man’s neck, but Michael continued to press in with both hands, even tighter.

Despite the violence of the moment, Michael could feel his mind detaching itself from his body, breaking away, watching over the scene. A familiar voice inside him said
What are you doing, Michael?
Doubt was creeping into his consciousness. Michael shut it off. He had no doubt about his superiority. As he tightened his grip around Sharkey’s neck, Michael knew he could easily kill Sharkey. Sharkey began choking. He spit up and wheezed. Michael was sure that it was the sound of a man beginning to die.
How could this be so easy?
he thought.
This is how they do it, simply hold it like this just a little longer. Now I understand.

Finally Michael’s hands eased up slightly, just enough so that Sharkey could get enough air not to die but not enough to speak or even think of fighting back.

Michael’s eyes were bulging with fury as he held Sharkey’s slender neck in his hands and pinned his shoulders against the back of the chair with his knees. Sharkey appeared to be helpless. Michael knew he had taken him totally by surprise.

“You’ll be able to last until you use up whatever air you have in you. And then you’ll choke because you’re not getting another breath,” Michael said, his face inches from Sharkey’s. Whatever Sharkey might have wanted to say could not come out; he was lucky to have enough air to stay alive. Michael looked into Sharkey’s eyes, and in a fit of rage recited the script Alex had recommended two days before. The words flowed naturally as Michael added his own.

“You fucking son of a bitch. I’m going to kill you right here. Then Fat Lester’s going to take your fucking body downstairs to the butcher, and we’ll grind you into fucking Luger burgers. You’ll never walk out of here, and no one will fucking miss you. You want another hundred grand, you piece of worthless shit? You think you can intimidate me? Your days are over. You’re a fucking weak old man. I’m going to fucking kill you now.” He tightened his grip again.

Michael no longer felt that he was acting. He knew he could kill Sharkey; he could have just choked him to death right there on the carpet. Yet, he knew that he wouldn’t. Was it just that he didn’t see himself as a killer?
Stop thinking so much,
he told himself. Nevertheless, Michael sensed that he had crossed some invisible line in his life. It was a fleeting but troubling thought.

Then, as though he flicked a switch, Michael felt the tension leaving his body. With his eyes still locked onto Sharkey’s, he relaxed his hands. He could feel a wave of relief pass through Sharkey’s body, as though Sharkey sensed his life might not end there on Peter Luger’s carpet.

“I’m going to let you live this time. Next time, you’ll die. There’s five hundred thousand in that suitcase. That’s what’s left of Alex’s estate, so to speak. That’s what I’m going to give you. Let’s say I’m charging you two hundred grand for being an asshole and trying to rob me. I’m giving you this—and your fucking life. As they say in those commercials, ‘That’s priceless.’ You’re a piece of shit. You misjudged me—Alex was the easygoing one. Five hundred. Just nod up and down if you agree.” His tone was now measured and unemotional.

Sharkey could hardly move, but he managed to nod ever so slightly and moan.

Michael smiled, releasing his death grip. “Looks like we have a deal.” He saw his fingerprints imprinted in red on Sharkey’s neck. Sharkey tried to catch his breath. He was still choking and coughing. Michael stood up straight and looked at Sharkey, who appeared to stare back in utter disbelief—or, Michael thought, was it gratitude?

Michael lifted Sharkey and his chair up off the floor. He returned both to their original position at the table, just as before Michael’s attack. He smoothed out Sharkey’s jacket and, using Sharkey’s linen napkin, cleaned up the spit around his mouth. “There,” he said, very upbeat, “now I think we have a good understanding. How about lunch? The Luger burgers are great.”

Chapter 30

Westport, Connecticut

November 25, 2009

M
ichael drove home immediately after his meeting with Sharkey. He was anxious to return to his library where he had placed Alex’s charging laptop. Samantha was asleep upstairs as he anxiously opened the computer and clicked on the icon.

It was as though Alex, too, had been impatiently awaiting his brother’s return. “Where the fuck have you been?” he said to Michael. “How long does it take to charge a computer?”

“Between the Lesters, your wives and mistresses, and one aging but scary gangster, I haven’t had a minute alone, or of peace, for that matter.”

“Did you do what I told you with Sharkey?”

“Yes,” Michael said, “and it went well—if you can call assault and battery going well. He took the five hundred grand and was happy to get out of there, just like you said he would.”

“Good, but be careful now. He’s pissed. You cut his balls off. He’ll try to get back at you.”

“Oh, that’s great,” Michael said, although he already suspected he had not heard the last of Sharkey. But Michael’s mind shifted back to the miracle before his eyes. He had to go deeper, much deeper.

“Alex, what’s it like to be dead?” Michael was uneasy with his own question.

“What the fuck kind of question is that?” Alex first appeared to be annoyed, but his composure quickly seemed to loosen as though he recognized the inevitability of the question. “Well, it’s not the end of the world—although, actually it is. It’s funny, all those nutcases who thought they knew when the world was going to end. They had it all wrong.”

“What do you mean?”

“When you die, Michael—when you
really
die—the world ends. It ends for
you
. So all these apocalypse crazies that thought it would end for everyone at the same time, like
they
were just coincidentally going to see the end of the world happen on their watch—after all these fuckin’ millions of years. I mean, give me a break.”

Michael wondered what exactly Alex meant when he said, “really die.” Was he implying that now he wasn’t really dead? There were so many questions he needed to ask.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Which one?” Alex asked.

“What’s it like to be dead?”

Alex looked straight ahead and into Michael’s eyes. “I can’t answer that. Nothing that’s been programmed into this system is relevant to that question, Michael. But each time we speak, I gain more knowledge, so it’s possible that I’ll be able to give you more information as time goes on. This software is designed to learn faster than we do when we’re alive—especially me, since I didn’t learn too quickly in the first place.”

Michael was skeptical that any further conversations would open the doors to the ultimate mystery of what happens when you die. Computer software couldn’t possibly unravel the afterlife, he thought. But he would keep those thoughts to himself.

“What happens between our conversations, when I’ve got your laptop shut down?”

“Probably the same thing that happens when you go to sleep. As far as I know, nothing. I guess it’s when I rest.”

“Do you dream? Do you feel or sense anything during that time?” Michael asked.

“Yeah, I have nightmares that I’m getting married again.”

“No, seriously, what’s this all like? I mean, can you see or speak with other people who are dead?”

Alex’s face was blank. He appeared to be processing the question.

“No, not yet anyway. But things will change.”

Chapter 31

Chicago, Illinois

November 26, 2009, Thanksgiving Day

S
ofia Nicholas had her father wrapped around her little finger, and Michael Nicholas liked it just that way.

“I still don’t really understand why we’re having Thanksgiving dinner here in Chicago instead of Connecticut. I was looking forward to being home. Not to mention, Dad, they’re not even serving a traditional turkey here tonight.”

She looked like the classic American coed. Preppy but with a sophisticated sense of style, wearing a simple black Ralph Lauren dress and black high heels, she was inches taller than either of her parents. Her hair was a longer and brighter version of her mother’s medium blonde with even lighter highlights. Sofia’s athletic build fit the image of the new captain of the freshman women’s tennis team at Notre Dame. She had particularly light skin, rosy cheeks, and like her father, a vivacious smile. Sofia inherited both a sharp sense of humor and a slight but noticeable edge to her personality from both Michael and Samantha. She was normally even-tempered and easygoing, but with a little provocation, she could direct a single retort or a machine-gun-like stream of subtle mockery—sharp projectiles striking her antagonist.

“Chicago was so close to your school, and I admit, we wanted to get away for the holidays, so I thought this would be a good solution,” Michael said, twirling his fork around Spiaggia’s al dente spaghetti, delicately covered with a simple tomato and basil sauce. Just before placing the fork in his mouth and with a mischievous look, he added, “And, to your point on the turkey, this is what we’d eat in Italy when we would happen to visit there on Thanksgiving, which as you know we did a number of times.”

But Michael knew better. Thanksgiving in Chicago was all about shielding Sofia and Samantha from the surreal world he was embroiled in back east.

“Very good, Dad, an Italian Thanksgiving. Also, I wasn’t born yesterday. I know what’s been going on—after all, you’ve told me some of the news already. Plus, I get our local papers online. I mean, our house break-in—or whatever it was—was in the
Westport News
.” Sofia showed off a self-satisfied smile as she sipped her dirty vodka martini—another inherited custom, if not craving.