Death Never Sleeps (12 page)

Although now nearly seventy and slight—if not fragile—in stature, Michael could see why Sharkey was still feared. Michael took a deep breath.
This guy looks like a psychopath
.

Seeing him approach, Michael remembered Fat Lester’s story about the poor soul who had unintentionally collided with Sharkey in a bar men’s room and was later found dead, his head in the toilet. “Just making people piss in their pants is all this guy needs to be happy,” Skinny Lester had said.

Sharkey’s eyes were sunk far back in his head, his hair coiffed into a receding white pompadour that matched his thin moustache. Michael figured that Sharkey had to use hair spray to keep it that stiff. He wore a heavy diamond-studded gold watch and a diamond ring with a gold band that even a hip-hop star would have envied. He was deathly pale, seeming to have been already embalmed, giving him a corpse-like sheen, especially when contrasted with his all-black attire: black turtleneck, black pants, pointed black shoes, black silk sports coat, and black leather jacket.

“Joseph, it’s good to finally meet you,” Michael said, trying to break the ice after what seemed to be an unusually long initial silence. He felt awkward, and he knew his words sounded stiff, too formal for this man.

Sharkey looked around, scanning the restaurant. Michael wondered whether he was looking for undercover agents or if this was simply a habit that developed with the territory. Michael watched, intimidated yet fascinated. Finally, Sharkey spoke, slowly and deliberately, with a strong Brooklyn accent.

“Michael, please accept my condolences regarding your brother. He was my friend. He was crazy, but he was someone I could trust. He could be difficult, but he was good for his word. God rest his soul.”

“Thanks. He was a good brother,” Michael said, trying to stay grounded in the ridiculous situation he found himself in. It felt like a Hollywood scene, without the cameras and with only one actor. Michael could sense the disconnect he felt as though he was a viewer in the audience, not an actor in the scene.

He hoped to first try to establish some sort of relationship, to size up Sharkey. The wild card was whether Sharkey was violent. His history certainly suggested it. Was this going to be a confrontation or a meeting with a business associate? If it were the latter, he would begin to feel more at ease. If there was a physical element to this, it would be a brave new world for Michael, one he knew he was not yet prepared for. Worse, he suspected that Sharkey also knew it.

Michael remembered Skinny Lester’s suggestion that he try to talk about baseball. So, trying to lighten things up, Michael said, “How about those Yankees this year?” As soon as he said it, he knew it sounded contrived, off.

Suddenly, as though on cue, Sharkey’s mood visibly changed. It was apparently time to get serious. Sharkey’s facial muscles tightened and a vein in his forehead magically appeared under his skin. At the same time, his smile disappeared, his forehead furrowed, and the lines around his mouth tightened as his eyes narrowed. It was a sudden and frightening transformation.

“Michael, you seem like a good man. I know you want to do the right thing here. I’m worried though. I know this business is not in your blood. It doesn’t come naturally to you; you know what I’m saying? Your brother, God rest his soul, he understood that certain obligations have to be met. Whether you have the money or not, no one wants to know. You find it and take care of things; you see what I’m saying?”

“I understand.” Michael did understand, but he doubted whether it was coming across at that moment. He felt like he couldn’t get his footing; he was slipping.

Sharkey was tightening further, his face becoming almost grotesquely contorted. “Michael, don’t you fucking patronize me.” He leaned onto Michael’s side of the table, his face inches from Michael’s. Sharkey’s left hand gripped his wineglass so tightly it looked like the stem would shatter at any moment. Michael noticed that Sharkey’s right hand was missing from view.

“Michael, I’ve been at this maybe fifty years longer than you. I know you picked this place because you wanted to be sure we were in a public place. It don’t matter to me.”

Sharkey gave a slight smile as he continued. “I have a pistol under the table pointed at your balls. It has a silencer. If I put four or five bullets in your crotch right now, you won’t even be able to scream. You’ll want to, Michael, because the pain is excruciating, but you won’t be able to make a sound. After the last bullet, I’ll slowly get up and leave the restaurant. You’ll be in agony. Eventually the waiter will come, but it’ll be too late. You won’t even live long enough to pay the bill.”

Michael was sure he felt the barrel of the gun brush lightly against his knee.

“Michael, do you understand me? Have we bonded, as they say in your corporate world? I think so. We have to do this again. Maybe have your secretary call my secretary. You know? It’s a great life, Michael. Don’t fuck yourself now. Bring me my seven hundred thousand and the interest—I think another hundred thousand—by Wednesday next week. Otherwise, Michael, you better wear a cup next time.”

Sharkey got up from the table and walked out of Pete’s Tavern.

Chapter 22

Westport, Connecticut

November 20, 2009

“S
o, how was your dinner with Mr. Sharkey last night?” Samantha said, just as they were seated in the rustic, Tuscan-style restaurant, Rustico, nearby their home in Westport. “After spending all this time with Sofia at Notre Dame, I feel like I’ve missed all the excitement.”

“Brief. I had a drink and left. We never even ate.”

“Well, it was a little early for dinner, don’t you think? I mean, who eats dinner at five thirty?”

“Actually, meeting him was helpful. He clarified some confusion about how much Alex owed him. We didn’t stick around long. He had to go.” Michael knew he could not mention the gun to his groin. Instead, he said, “You look beautiful tonight,” which had the desired effect of changing the subject.

“Michael, I wish you’d wear a sport coat when we’re out to dinner. You look so good in them.”

He was dressed in his typical casual dinner winter attire: tan slacks, blue button-down shirt, and a black crewneck cashmere sweater. He knew that it was rare when he was able to escape the house with Samantha and his initial choice of attire intact.

“You realize that not one guy in this restaurant has a sport coat on?” Michael said.

“I realize that, but you’ll notice I didn’t marry any of those men,” Samantha answered, apparently unfazed.

Michael and Samantha shared many traits, including a certain playfulness and an easy sense of humor, which characterized their dinners. When they were joined by others, dinner conversation resembled a husband-and-wife comedy routine.

“How did Sofia react to the break-in?” Michael asked, turning serious.

“She’s okay. I’m not sure she’s connected everything yet. Neither have we, for that matter. You know, she’s kind of in her own world at school. As sensitive as she is, at that age we’re all a bit self-centered. I think she’s very upset over Alex’s murder though, and of course she doesn’t have any idea that you’re doing anything with his business affairs.”

“Good, she doesn’t need to know,” Michael said.

“Yes, I suppose so. It would be even better, however, if it was the truth.” She cast a suspicious look in Michael’s direction, just avoiding a direct stare. Michael got the message.

Samantha finished her first cocktail. It was just enough for her to go where Michael hoped she wouldn’t.

“Michael, why do I get the sense that you’re not telling me everything?”

Michael bought time by lifting his martini up to his lips and taking a long sip. “Believe me, you don’t want to know everything.”

“I don’t know whether I do or not. You may be right. But I also don’t want us to be in any more danger, and I don’t want to have to worry about you.”

“There’s nothing to worry about.” As soon as the words left his lips, he wished they hadn’t. He knew better.

“Michael, I don’t know how you can possibly say that as long as the people who are behind all these horrible things are still out there. You can’t be serious.”

“No, you’re right. There is danger, obviously. But that’s one reason I have to stick with this. The police may never figure it all out. I get the feeling they’re overloaded already, and all this stuff is just too complicated. The answers are buried somewhere beneath the mysteries of Alex’s illegal business and the people he did business with. Samantha, I need to fulfill my obligation to Alex—to help Donna wind it down and to maybe, in the process, uncover who killed him. That may be the best way to be sure we are safe.”

Michael took another sip. He believed everything he had just said, but he knew there was another voice deep inside him—the one that whispered that he had to keep going, but not just for the reasons he just gave to Samantha. Maybe it was an excitement he hadn’t experienced in years. Then there were the strange but so inviting characters—the Lesters, Maria, even his somewhat mysterious and sexy sister-in-law. People, he realized now, that he would miss.

Or was this an impulse, a need, driven by something deeper, something in his makeup, his genes? Those were the same genes as his brother, and that was a worrisome thought. Either way, Michael couldn’t explain exactly why, even to himself, but he needed to do whatever was necessary to continue down the path of his brother’s old life, wherever it might lead. At least for now.

“Michael, you’re so engaged and engaging, yet at the same time, so removed. I still sense there’s more going on in your head.”

Michael knew she was right again, which is why he was particularly relieved to see Rustico’s head chef and owner, Miguel, come bounding out of the kitchen to their table, his arms spread open.

“Ah, Michael, Samantha, my friends. I love to see you.”

Michael enjoyed Miguel and his energetic, warm-blooded Brazilian personality, but tonight, as he hugged Miguel, Michael’s mind wandered. He tried to quickly sort through his brain to make sense of what it was that drew him to Alex’s treacherous life. For as long as he could remember, Michael saw himself as living two different lives: the obvious one that everyone saw, and then another life. A life that was strictly his, that no one else inhabited. It was his private life, the one he lived inside his own mind, like that unsettling dream he often returned to yet couldn’t always remember. At certain times, those two existences didn’t seem to connect—or worse, were fighting each other. This was one of those times.

Michael knew that the steps he was taking to enter his brother’s life were in conflict with the external world that he inhabited. He wondered how he could possibly reconcile those conflicting realities to Samantha.

“Michael, I love you. You and Sofia are everything to me. You’re my world, and I’m behind you, no matter what. I know that you’ve become disenchanted with your business life. But you’ve worked so hard to get where you are. Be careful that you don’t throw it away. You’re not your brother, you know.”

“I do know, Samantha. We were very different.” But of that, Michael was less sure than he had ever been. It was an unsettling thought.

“And don’t let yourself be persuaded to do things you don’t want to do—or you know you shouldn’t do—out of guilt. I understand obligation, but you have nothing to feel guilty about.”

“I know you’re right. I’ve just got to go with this a little longer. I’ve got to see it through, and …” Michael hesitated.

“What is it?” Samantha asked.

“I can’t help wondering what it was that Alex was so anxious to show me. It was so out of character for him to hold back some surprise, or whatever it was.”

“Michael, I know how you feel, but sometimes you just have to let things go. You’ll probably never find out.”

“It’s funny, but I feel I will,” Michael said, unable to stop thinking about his conversation with Skinny Lester and Karen’s briefing on artificial intelligence. He wanted to mention both to Samantha—along with the message he had received under Alex’s name at the cemetery. But this wasn’t the time. He had to find out more; it was probably just a hacker. Yet the message, though incomplete, seemed to hold out another puzzle, not the usual work of hackers. To mention all of it now would only further frighten Samantha and perhaps even invite her skepticism over his sanity.

Their plates had arrived. Michael looked at his plate of fresh fettuccine with lamb meatballs in a rich tomato sauce, topped with goat cheese, and said, “Some needs are easy to satisfy. I do love dinner.”

As she picked up her fork, Samantha looked around at the busy dining room. “God, I don’t remember the last time we had a quiet dinner at home.” Samantha had calmed down and seemed reflective; it was very unusual for her, Michael thought.

“Neither do I. But let’s face it, we’ve always enjoyed eating out.”

A smile electrified Samantha’s face. “Remember when the Realtor was showing us homes in Westport and she took us to the one where the kitchen was being redone so there was only a telephone on the wall—no appliances, counters, or anything?”

“Yes.” Michael smiled, his body finally relaxing.

“And you walked in and pronounced, ‘This is the perfect kitchen! All we need is the phone for reservations.’ That was so funny.”

Michael’s cell phone buzzed. It was Jack Benoit, the head of technology at Gibraltar Financial. Suddenly Michael’s muscles tensed again. “I’m sorry. I’d better take this call. It’s a guy from Gibraltar. He wouldn’t call at dinner unless it was important,” he said to Samantha as he pressed the phone to his ear.

“Hi, Jack, what are you doing at this late hour?”

“Mr. Nicholas, I’m sorry to bother you, but there are some strange things going on with your e-mail account.”

“Strange things? What do you mean, Jack?”

“There have been some highly unusual—and sophisticated—attempts to break into your e-mail account. It’s not the usual spam attacks or viruses. I hate to admit it, but I’ve never come across anything like this before. Neither has anyone on our IT staff.”