Death Logs In (7 page)

“Michael, it’s so good to see you. How are you?”

“I’m very good, Ezio. I’d like you to meet my associate, Sindy Steele.”

Gracious, but with a professional reserve, Sindy offered a firm handshake.

“I miss your brother, Michael. He was such a good man. Thank you for coming in, you are like family, you know. I have a great table for the two of you.”

“Actually, Sindy is going to stay here in the bar. I’m meeting a Bishop McCarthy for dinner. I don’t think he’s arrived yet.”

Ezio looked confused but he recovered quickly. Michael figured he had likely seen a lot of complicated situations involving men and their women, although perhaps not bishops. “Absolutely, Michael. We have a special seat here at the bar for the lady,” he said, motioning toward a tall stool at the end of the bar, closest to the dining room. “And we will have a quiet table for you and the bishop in the dining room whenever you’re ready.”

“That’s perfect, Ezio, thank you.”

At that moment, the front door swung open and a man entered, dressed in black with a priest’s white collar. He was of medium height and build, a red, ruddy Irish complexion and a large mane of curvy white hair.

“This must be your bishop, Michael.” Ezio said.

“I’ve never met him but he sure looks like one.”

Sindy Steele quietly slipped onto her barstool. Michael neither introduced nor acknowledged her in front of the bishop. He wasn’t sure why. He hadn’t planned or discussed that with her but they both seemed to simultaneously and silently agree that it was best that way. Ezio watched the scene unfold, curious yet with professional nonchalance.

Michael walked directly toward the bishop to greet him. Holding out his right hand, he said, “You must be Bishop McCarthy.”

In the corner of his eye, Michael could see Sindy Steele observing them. Ever so briefly, his eyes met hers as he and the bishop walked right past her on their way to the dining room.

___________

The bottle of Chianti was nearly empty. Michael had just finished his grilled calamari and was savoring his plate of
fusi alla grappa
, a homemade pasta with mushrooms, grappa and parmigiano. Despite the company, Michael was enjoying it. The bishop was eating a T-bone steak. Michael noticed the waiter wince when he ordered it “well done.”

“So, how did you come to be on our illustrious board, Bishop?”

The bishop finished chewing, looked up from his plate and responded, grinning slightly. “I guess we have a mutual friend, Michael. John Hightower seems to be a very close friend of a monsignor at the Vatican, Monsignor Petrucceli. The monsignor and I have collaborated on spiritual issues for many years.”

Michael tried to control his rising slow burn. He couldn’t wait to tell Sindy about the connection with Hightower. He knew he couldn’t afford to show the bishop any concern or displeasure on his part. So, instead, he played the congenial host, happy to have a member of the clergy on the board of the company he ran. But it was now clear that Bishop Kevin McCarthy was his mortal enemy.

“You know, Michael, I have no intention of interfering with your affairs at Gibraltar or challenging how you run the company. We just want you to know that we’re there.”

“That ‘we’re there?’” Michael challenged, his voice escalating, “Who’s ‘we’?”

“Michael, please. Relax. I am not here to threaten you. When I say ‘we,’ I refer to the Holy Trinity.”

Michael chose to let the Holy Trinity response go unanswered. He had already revealed more than he intended and was annoyed with himself for letting his emotions show.

“God is with you, Michael. At all times.” Bishop McCarthy smiled. Michael was sure that McCarthy had had his eyes done. A sure sign of divine vanity, he thought.

___________

Later that evening, in the bar at the St. Regis, Sindy Steele sipped her Ketel One cocktail while Michael nursed his limoncello from a small, frosted glass. He filled her in on the ominous dinner conversation with Bishop McCarthy.

“The Vatican put him on the board to get to you. To play with your head. They want to show you who’s boss, that you can’t shield yourself from their influence,” Sindy said. “He’s as dangerous and as wicked as they come, Michael. Don’t forget, after those poor kids were going to expose him for the pervert that he is, he pulled every string he had to have them killed. He’s probably been put near you to do the same thing.”

“I know, my brother said the same…” Michael caught himself. “Alex was never big on priests; he thought most of them were just holier-than-thou hypocrites.”

“Your brother was right—and they don’t get any worse than this guy.”

“What did you do at the bar for almost two hours?” Michael asked, still thinking about McCarthy.

“Just watched the crowd. The bar was full most of the time. I saw a lot of characters.”

“Anyone interesting?” Michael asked.

“Not really, but there was one guy who came in right after you and the bishop went to your table. He stayed the whole time while you ate. He seemed to watch everything and then got up just as you and the bishop were leaving.”

“What did he look like?”

“He was in his mid-forties, trim and well-dressed in a too-shiny grey suit, blue shirt, gold cufflinks and a bright red tie. It’s funny, I watched that pretty Russian bartender serve him his Campari. She seemed drawn to him but somehow but as she drew closer, handing him his drink, she suddenly turned away and never made eye contact with him again. And then, I stared at him more closely, trying to size him up, you know? It was then that I noticed his eyes—they were strange, somehow unnerving.”

“What do you mean?”

“They were different colors; one a pale blue, the other a deep dark black. They were deep set. I can’t quite put my finger on it except that he seemed to lower the temperature in the bar by ten degrees; that’s how cold he appeared.”

“Do you think it was just a coincidence that he was there?” Michael asked.

“Two things you should know. I don’t believe in coincidences, and I will never forget those eyes.”

Chapter 15

Queens Village, New York

J
ohn Rizzo didn’t like losing, especially when it came to his money. Today he had a plan to make it back.

Rizzo, a former cop, and Fat Lester, an old family friend of Alex’s and now one of Michael’s trusted bet-takers and collector, sat at the soda fountain counter of Irving’s Luncheonette, drinking their morning coffee and watching while Irving Friedman waited on the morning’s neighborhood customers.

Rizzo had just handed Fat Lester a wad of bills that Lester quickly counted and placed in his pants pocket, his large 250-pound frame perched uneasily on the luncheonette stool.

“That should even us up, Lester. Those fuckin’ Mets are killin’ me. By the way, how’s Michael doing? I haven’t spoken to him since that party you guys had last month.” Rizzo suspected that Michael didn’t like him. He didn’t know why exactly, it was just a feeling but he knew his instincts were usually correct.

“He’s good, man. He’s good,” Fat Lester said. But Rizzo could see that Fat Lester was not himself, he looked nervous, perspiring despite the unusual coolness of the summer morning.

“John, I want to ask you for a favor.”

Before even hearing the request, Rizzo sensed an opportunity for himself. It was a sixth sense he had fine-tuned over the years while he was on the beat as a cop. He knew vulnerability when he saw it.

“Hey, sure, you name it.”

“Nothing man, never mind.”

Rizzo could see that Lester wasn’t looking him in the eye but instead was glancing somewhere else, at the pinball machine over to his right.

Rizzo took his time, looking around also. He knew how to play people in need.

“You know, Lester, Irving’s is one of the last of the city’s luncheonettes. Remember, we used to call them ‘candy stores’ when we were kids? There used to be one on every corner. Not anymore. It’s hard to even find a place to get an egg cream anymore.” As he said it, Rizzo found himself with an urge for one of the unique New York City drinks, a concoction of chocolate syrup, milk and seltzer water from the soda fountain, briskly stirred until a perfect one-inch creamy head formed at the top.

Rizzo had been a cop; he knew when someone needed to talk.

“Lester, we’ve known each other for a lot of fuckin’ years. I know you, buddy. You can trust me.”

“Oh man, I can’t go to Michael with this. He’s OK, but he won’t be able to understand this situation, this problem I got.”

Rizzo put his hand on Lester’s shoulder. It was his “good cop” routine.

“What ‘situation?’ What can I do? What do you need, my friend?”

“Listen, I’m gonna pay you. I don’t want anything for nothing. I need to score some H.”

Rizzo looked up and around, suddenly concerned that anyone overheard their conversation.

“Heroin?” Rizzo asked. Lester lowered his eyes and nodded.

“Jesus, pal, I thought you were clean.”

“Listen,” Lester quickly added, “Never mind. I haven’t done anything in years. I don’t know what I’m saying, you know?”

Rizzo looked at him. He knew already that he was about to “own” Fat Lester.

“Yeah, I know.” Rizzo let several seconds go by, just enough, he thought, to make Lester sweat a little more. Make him wonder if he’ll help him. Then he began again.

“Listen, maybe we can help each other. You know, so maybe you won’t feel like you owe me or anything, or like you’re indebted to me.”

For just a moment, Lester’s face appeared to loosen up. “What do you mean?”

“I mean we all have fuckin’ problems. Nobody’s perfect. You know what I’m saying?”

“I dunno, I dunno what you’re saying. I dunno even know what I’m saying.”

“Listen to me. You’re gonna to be alright, OK? Listen to me. I got problems too, you understand what I’m saying? Since I’ve been off the force, it’s been tough, the money. I mean I’m almost living off my damn pension. We can help each other out here.”

“What are you talkin’ about, what do you mean?”

“Lester, I can get you whatever the fuck you need. Let’s start with that. But, here’s the good part. Here’s the fuckin’ best part. You don’t have to pay me for it. You just do me some favors. You know? Just some help.”

“John, what are we talking about here? “

“It’d just be for a short time. Maybe just a couple of deals, you know?”

“No, I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. What do I need to do?”

“Let’s say I make some bets, you know. But maybe you don’t put all of them in. You understand?”

“I’m not sure …”

“OK, let’s say I place four bets. Let’s say I call you in the morning with bets on four teams, the Yanks, Phillies, whatever, it doesn’t fuckin’ matter, OK?”

“Yeah, so what, what then?”

“So,” Rizzo continued, “maybe you don’t give ’em to Michael until later in the day —after the games are over or maybe sometime after they’re going. And maybe if the Phillies are losing, maybe you get rid of that bet. You just drop it; you forget that I made it. You understand what I’m saying here?”

“Shit. You mean ‘past posting’—on Michael?”

“Yeah, whatever you want to call it. What difference does it make? Listen, you’re confused. The way I see it, Alex was our friend, God rest his fuckin’ soul. But you don’t really know Michael. He’s a suit trying to play Alex. You can’t trust him, Lester. You understand that, don’t you? Yeah, it’s ‘past posting’ or whatever you want to call it, but, you know, you get what you need and I get what I want. Nobody loses.”

“I can’t do that. I just can’t.”

Rizzo didn’t like that. He looked at Lester, “Then I can’t fuckin’ help you. I can’t fuckin’ help you, unless you’re willing here to help yourself.”

Lester was silent for a time. He looked away again. Rizzo looked also looked away. He knew that Lester would be the first one to break the silence. He’d been there before. The addict always gives in.

“I’ll never get away with it.” Lester looked even more nervous now, beads of perspiration formed on his forehead and under his nose, just above his upper lip. Rizzo noticed that Lester’s hand was shaking.

Rizzo smiled. “If the only question is now whether you can get away with it, then we can do it, buddy. I’m tellin’ you, we can do this. Just a few times, that’s it. I get a little money. You get your dope. Then, we go back to the way things were and nobody knows from nothin’. That’s it. It’s not a forever thing. We both then forget about it. It never happened. You understand what I’m sayin’?”

Lester took a deep breath.

Rizzo continued, “And nobody, and I mean no-fuckin’-body knows about it except you and me. Not your skinny cousin. Nobody. You understand? That’s the only way I’m in. It’s the only way I’m doin’ this for you.”

Lester sat silent and finally shook his head.

Rizzo felt a familiar feeling of satisfaction. It was just like old times, and in a candy store, no less. He saw Irving looking up behind the counter.

“Irving, how about an egg cream—and one for my friend here. I think he needs a drink.”

Chapter 16

New York City

“M
ichael, I know it’s short notice, but why don’t you join us for dinner at the Four Seasons?”

Michael and Sindy Steele were casually walking down Park Avenue on their way to their own private dinner at Fiorini’s on East Fifty-Sixth Street when Michael answered his cell phone without checking who was calling. Annoyed and initially reluctant, he accepted the invitation after Steele’s whispered insistence that it would be a good idea. “Michael, you have to do it. I’ll have a drink by myself and take off.”

Now he wished he was anywhere else but in the exclusive Pool Room of the Four Seasons restaurant. As though choreographed, Michael sipped his Blue Sapphire martini, Perkins his Knob Creek bourbon on the rocks, Hightower his Chivas Regal scotch and Bishop McCarthy his Chianti. It was an unlikely assembly of disparate characters made possible by Perkins’ impromptu cell phone call ten minutes earlier.

From a table in an obscure corner of the restaurant with a partially obstructed line of sight, Michael could see Sindy, sitting alone, watching the four men.