Critical

6

Michael Calabrese was in a foul mood from an amalgam of fear and anxiety as he pulled his black Mercedes SUV alongside a row of parked cars and then backed into an empty spot. From where he was parked, he could see the entrance to the Neapolitan Restaurant on Corona Avenue in Corona, Queens. Corona was the next town over from Rego Park, where he'd grown up in a largely Italian neighborhood. A lot of people thought all the Italians in New York lived in Little Italy in Manhattan, but it wasn't true. They had all moved out, many to Long Island, including Michael's grandfather Ziggy who'd started the family masonry-and-tile business in Rego Park.

Michael eyed the restaurant's entrance and tried to think of a strategy for his upcoming meeting. The restaurant's fame extended as far back as the 1930s when it was the favorite nighttime hangout of the Lucia organization. It had continued with the dubious association over the years with some ups and downs, but mostly downs, until Mayor Rudolph Giuliani managed to discourage a lot of mid-level mafioso bosses from schmoozing at night in Manhattan, and at that point, it had enjoyed a remarkable resurgence. Its revival had continued with Vinnie Dominick having chosen the joint to be his haunt when he was selected as the local Lucia capo.

As a sign of the times, the competing Vaccarro crime family had chosen a considerably newer establishment two blocks down the street, the Vesuvio, as their rendezvous. Both organizations believed it made sense to open a handy avenue of communication with the Asians, Russians, and Hispanics coming in and jockeying for some of the action. The only problem, of course, was that Paulie Cerino, the titular Vaccarro head, was still in the slammer, so communication wasn't what it should have been.

In a fit of unbridled rage, Michael pounded his steering wheel repeatedly while yelling "shit" over and over again. He'd experienced temper tantrums since he was a child, and back then they'd gotten him into more than his share of fights and a number of beatings from his father. Yet there was a positive side. Once the energy was expended, he'd calm down, and could deal with the bothersome issue at hand. As he'd matured, he'd learned to control his outbursts until he was alone, except when he'd been married to Angela.

As suddenly as he had started pounding the steering wheel, he stopped. "Spoiled bitch," he grumbled, thinking about Angela. She'd been his bane from the moment they'd gotten married. Up until then she'd been a doll, but within weeks of the big ceremony at Saint Mary's Church, he was no longer good enough the way he was. She wanted him to do this, and she demanded he do that, and she resented his going out, even for business dinners. In short, she wanted him to change, and he had no intention of changing for a spoiled, upper-middle-class Jersey girl who'd gotten everything she'd ever wanted by snapping her fingers. As far as the divorce settlement was concerned, he didn't want to go there in his current state of mind. Whenever he thought about it, it made him furious. For nothing but causing him grief, she walked away with the West Side triplex apartment and a ridiculous amount of child support.

And now, as the final twist of the knife, she'd sucked him into this business with Angels Healthcare that might be putting his life at risk. Of course, he couldn't fault himself. As a business plan, it was terrific. As she had explained to him, the government, in its infinite wisdom, had created a system via Medicare and essentially adopted by all health insurance companies that paid doctors vastly more money for doing procedures than they paid for taking care of people in general. The trick, then, was to recruit a host of physician investors to fund the construction of private hospitals, which did only procedures and avoided all the money-losing ventures, such as running emergency rooms and taking care of the uninsured or the chronically ill. Such a scenario took advantage of a loophole in the law that generally prevented doctors from referring patients to their own facilities, such as laboratories or imaging facilities, because it was thought that when physicians owned a share in a whole hospital, they were very small cogs in a very large wheel. What it all meant was that for the doctors, it was like a kickback, which encouraged them to admit their paying patients, since they got paid for doing the procedure and then got paid again from the hospital according to their small percentage ownership. For the real owners, who held the majority of stock, it was an unbelievable cash cow. This was why Michael had committed so damn much of his own assets and so much of his client's capital, and how he'd talked Morgan Stanley into underwriting the IPO.

Everything had gone according to plan to such an extent that Michael had pooled most of his remaining personal assets just six months ago and committed the capital to Angels Healthcare to strengthen his position before the IPO process started. As any financial analyst knows, diversification is key as an investment strategy, yet Michael was so certain about Angels Healthcare that he'd allowed himself to violate the cardinal rule, and now he was paying big-time in terms of anxiety. His problem was that he hadn't understood the scientific details or the potential economic consequences of the infection problem that had started three and a half months ago in the Angels hospitals. Now he did. He also knew all too well how Vinnie Dominick hated losing money.

Michael glanced back at the entrance to the Neapolitan. It was deceivingly serene, with plastic flowers stuck in the fake window boxes. Even the brick facade was fake. It was fiberglass sheets. There was no coming and going of patrons, because the restaurant wasn't open for lunch except for Vinnie and his close minions. For the owner, it was a small price to pay for the right to do business, and in the evenings he did a land office business, except for Sunday when it was closed and all the wiseguys spent the mandatory day with wives and family.

Michael checked himself in the rearview mirror and smoothed his hair, which he purposefully wore in the same style as did Vinnie Dominick. They'd known each other since elementary school, where Vinnie had been one year ahead of Michael. As far back as the fourth grade, Vinnie had dominated the playground of PS. 157 by dint of his father's position in the Lucia organization. Even the sixth-graders gave way. From that time on, Michael had tried to copy Vinnie, even during their high-school years at Saint Mary's.

Since no particular strategy had come to mind as to how to handle the conversation with Vinnie, Michael reluctantly decided he'd just have to wing it, because ultimately everything depended on Vinnie's mood. If he was in a good mood, the ordeal might be a piece of cake. If he wasn't, anything could happen.

Climbing from his SUV, Michael had to wait for the traffic before crossing Corona Avenue. When Angela had left his office more than an hour earlier after delivering her depressing news about Angels Healthcare's bleak liquidity, Michael had reluctantly decided that he had to talk with Vinnie. If worse came to worse, and Vinnie was blindsided by the potential loss of the organization's money, Michael would have to literally disappear, and without money of his own, that would not be easy. Although he knew Vinnie was not going to like what Michael had to say today, he was confident the worst case would be having to suffer a lambasting followed by a threat of some kind. With that mildly reassuring thought in mind, Michael had phoned Vinnie to ask for a meeting, and Vinnie had invited him to the restaurant.

Entering the restaurant, Michael had to push aside a heavy drape that protected nearby tables from the draft of the open door. Then he had to let his eyes adjust to the dim interior. To the left was a long bar and a lounge area with a fake fireplace. In the middle of the room was a sea of various-sized tables. All the chairs were upside down on the tables to facilitate the cleaning crew's activities. To the right were a series of six red velvet-upholstered booths, which were considered the most desirable tables. Two of them were occupied. At the first were Franco Ponti, Angelo Facciolo, Freddie Capuso, and Richie Herns. Michael knew them all from Saint Mary's. Of all of them, Franco Ponti was the one who scared Michael the most. It was common knowledge that he was Vinnie's main enforcer. Angelo wasn't as well known to Michael, as he had socialized in another group in high school, but his appearance was enough to make Michael shiver. Freddie was the most familiar and Richie the least, though both were essentially lackeys.

Vinnie, at the next table, waved Michael over. Sitting with him was Carol Cirone, Vinnie's girlfriend for years. With her bleached-blond bouffant, skintight white sweater, and string of pearls, she looked like a caricature from West Side Story, but no one kidded her about it, at least not in front of Vinnie.

"Mikey," Vinnie called. "Get over here! Have you eaten?"

Michael passed the table with the hired hands. "Hey, guys," he said to be respectful. They all nodded but didn't speak.

Vinnie took his napkin from his shirt collar, pushed out of his side of the banquette, stood up, and gave Michael a hug. Michael hugged back but felt awkward, knowing the news he was bringing was not going to make Vinnie happy.

With one hand resting on Michael's shoulder, Vinnie gestured toward his lunch companions. "You know Carol, of course."

"Of course," Michael said. Michael took the demurely extended hand and gave it an equally demure shake.

"Sit down, sit down," Vinnie repeated as he regained his seat. In contrast to his diction, his voice was more cultured than one would expect considering his line of work, and when he lost his temper, which was not infrequent, it didn't change, a characteristic Michael found unnerving.

Michael slid in on the opposite side, pinning Carol between himself and Vinnie.

"How about some spaghetti Bolognese?" Vinnie suggested. "And a glass of Barolo? It's 'ninety-seven and out of this world."

Michael agreed to everything rather than start out on the wrong foot. Vinnie hadn't changed much since high school, where he'd always wowed the girls. His nickname was "The Prince." His features were full and well sculpted. Like Michael, he favored the tailored look and dressed in a suit and tie every day. Also like Michael, he prided himself that he weighed the same as he did in high school, and worked out regularly to maintain his physique.

"So, how are our investments going?" Vinnie asked. When it came to business, Vinnie didn't waste a lot of time. Michael had been doing business with Vinnie for more than a decade. It had started small when Michael had joined Morgan Stanley and come to Vinnie with the idea of laundering the Lucia organization's take from drugs, loan-sharking, gambling clubs, fencing, extortion rings, hot-car rings, and hijacking, mostly from Kennedy Airport. Michael had proposed to use the money as venture capital for IPOs through a series of shell companies, and the relationship had proved remarkably beneficial to both parties. Michael not only laundered the money but often doubled it, whereas previously Vinnie had to pay for such a service. With ever-increasing capital available as Vinnie had become more and more comfortable, Michael had been able, on amicable terms, to leave Morgan Stanley and establish his own boutique investment-banking firm.

"To be truthful," Michael said, in response to Vinnie's direct question, "there's a problem I need to talk to you about."

"Oh, really?" Vinnie questioned with the deliberately calm, soft voice that made Michael's hackles rise.

"I'm afraid so," Michael said. His voice had a quavering quality that he hoped only he could hear.

"Carol, honey," Vinnie said. "Could you excuse us? Mikey and I need to talk."

"I'm not finished with my spaghetti," she whined.

"Carol!" Vinnie said in a slightly lower tone and looking at her askance.

"Oh, all right," Carol responded, throwing her napkin on top of her plate. "But where am I supposed to go?"

"Wherever you like, doll. Freddie or Richie can drive you."

After watching Carol depart, Michael regained his seat and again faced Vinnie, who stared him down. Michael inwardly squirmed.

"I hope this trouble isn't about Angels Healthcare, because if it is, I'm getting a bad feeling," Vinnie said at length.

Michael cleared his throat and was about to speak when the waiter appeared tableside with a steaming plate of spaghetti, a glass, and flatware. Sensing the tension, the waiter quickly laid out the place setting, poured wine into the glass, and disappeared.

"It is about Angels Healthcare," Michael admitted. "Angels Healthcare needs more money to keep the doors open. The problem has been getting rid of the bacteria. The bacteria required shutting the ORs, which turned off the revenue spigot."

"That's the same story I heard a month ago," Vinnie said. Although his voice stayed calm, his eyes reflected his rising ire. "My recent loan was supposed to cover expenses until the IPO."

"That was my understanding as well, until my ex told me differently an hour ago," Michael said, with the idea of transferring responsibility to her.

"Why didn't it happen?"

"The ORs stayed closed longer than expected, keeping revenue down, and the disinfecting process cost more than expected."

"Are the ORs open now?"

"Yes, but it will take a few weeks for the doctors to trust that the problem is over."

"Is it over?"

"Yes, that's my understanding."

"Your understanding about how much money was needed missed the mark. What makes you think your understanding about the infection problem is any more accurate?"

"I don't know," Michael said with a shrug. "I can only relate what I'm told."

"How much money is needed to get through the IPO?"

"I was told two hundred thousand."

Vinnie went back to drilling Michael with his eyes. Michael flinched first and glanced down at his food. Under the circumstances, he didn't know which was more disrespectful: eating or not eating. The last thing he wanted to do was irritate Vinnie over manners. Vinnie could be touchy about such issues.

"Eat!" Vinnie said, breaking the silence.

Michael wasn't hungry, but he picked up a fork and struggled to twirl a mouthful of spaghetti.

"I'm not at all happy about all this," Vinnie said. He leaned forward menacingly. "I'm starting to feel like your lackey. First you come to me for money, next it's about an accountant who wants to blab to the Feds about the negative cash flow, and now it's more money. When does this end?"

"I never expected any of this," Michael said in his defense. "But it's still a great investment. Trust me! I wouldn't have committed your money if it wasn't. I've even hocked just about everything I own to maximize my own position."

"In all honesty, I don't care about your money," Vinnie said. "I care about the money I'm responsible for. I don't want it to be lost. I'd have a lot of explaining to do."

"The money is not going to be lost," Michael said decisively even though he wasn't as sure as he sounded. "Worst case is the IPO is postponed."

"I don't want that to happen, and I'm doing my part. I've already kicked in an extra quarter of a mil. I'm also dealing with the accountant issue."

"You haven't spoken to him?" Michael asked with alarm.

"Oh, I've spoken with him. Even Franco and Angelo have spoken with him."

"He's not being cooperative?"

"I wouldn't say that. I'm absolutely sure he's not going to file. It's just his secretary is an unknown quantity who, unfortunately, has a copy of the potentially troublesome report. It seems we have to talk with her as well."

"I'd never thought of that," Michael admitted. "Good idea!" He was relieved. The last thing he needed was the resurgence of a problem he'd thought had been solved. Although Michael liked doing business with Vinnie, he didn't want to know where the money came from or any of the details of Vinnie's operations. Michael's imagination was enough, which was why he was as nervous as he was in the current imbroglio.

"The point is, Mikey, I'm certainly doing my part," Vinnie continued, "and I'd like you to do yours. If more money is needed to get Angels Healthcare though the IPO, it comes from you."

"But -" Michael started.

"No buts, Mikey," Vinnie said calmly, interrupting Michael. "We've known each other for a long time, but this is business. I want this IPO to go through. You've been a good salesman and have raised my expectations. If the IPO doesn't happen as you've described, I'm going to blame you, and we'll no longer be friends. At that point, you'll be dealing exclusively with Franco."

Michael tried to swallow but couldn't. His throat had gone dry Instead, he reached for his untouched glass of wine and took a sizable swig.

DETECTIVE LIEUTENANT Lou Soldano looked at his watch. It was almost one-thirty in the afternoon, which explained why his stomach was growling. After leaving the medical examiner's office that morning sometime after eight, he'd driven home to his apartment on Prince Street in SoHo and passed out on his couch. He'd been so exhausted that he didn't even make it into his bedroom.

When he'd awakened at noon, all he'd had was coffee while he shaved and showered. At that point, he'd called the OCME. He was curious about what Jack had found on the two homicides whose autopsies Lou had skipped. Jack was still in the pit and unavailable, so Lou asked to be connected to the NYPD liaison, Sergeant Murphy. Lou's biggest concern was the apparently gangland-executed, unidentified floater. What he wanted to know was whether Murphy had any leads as to the identity through Missing Persons. There hadn't been any calls about a missing Asian-American male, which made Lou even more curious. One way or another, Lou was becoming progressively interested in the case, in hopes of trying to prevent more bodies from popping up. In addition to the way the individual was shot, the fact that he had been tossed far out in the harbor strengthened Lou's conviction that the homicide was organized crime-related. In the spring, summer, and fall, such bodies were invariably buried in the woods upstate. In the winter, when the ground was frozen, they were tossed into the river or, if the perpetrators were more resourceful, into the harbor or even out beyond the Verrazano Bridge.

With his stomach growling, Lou began to look for a fast-food outlet. He was in his old PD-issued Chevy Caprice. He had a sentimental attachment to the car as the only connection to his previous life, since he was divorced and both his kids were in college.

"My God! Johnny's Sub is still here!" Lou said out loud, catching sight of the joint on his left. He snapped on his turn signal and quickly slowed, only to be blasted by a car horn six inches from his vehicle's rear. Lou rolled his window down and motioned for the irate driver to pass him, all the time trying to maintain his composure. Eventually, the guy took the hint and, still leaning on his horn, passed Lou. As he did so, he gave Lou the finger.

"Some things don't change," Lou murmured philosophically. He was in the familiar environment of Corona in the borough of Queens. Not only had he grown up in the immediately neighboring Rego Park, but when he'd been assigned to the Organized Crime unit of the NYPD, after having been a patrolman for three years, he'd spent a lot of time in Queens, both because he knew the area and because there was a lot of organized crime going on. During the six years he'd spent in the unit, he'd been promoted to sergeant and then to lieutenant when he switched to Homicide.

Lou made the turn into the restaurant's parking area. The establishment itself was a mere stand in the middle of an expanse of macadam. Patrons had to park, go up to the window, and order. When the appropriate number popped up, the patron had to hike back to the window and then eat the foot-long sub in his car. Lou could remember patronizing the place in high school when he got his first jalopy.

Fifteen minutes later, Lou couldn't have been happier as he indulged both his appetite with his old favorite sub called Johnny's Meatball Extravaganza and his nostalgia. It warmed his heart to remember coming to Johnny's late at night with Gina Pantanella during his senior year of high school. He'd parked way in the back, had the same sub, and then got laid.

The other reason Lou was content was that Johnny's was directly across the street from the Neapolitan. From his years in Organized Crime, he knew the restaurant was the de facto office of Vinnie Dominick, who ran the Queens arm for the Lucia family. Lou knew that the fragile equilibrium between the traditionally competing crime powers in the area – namely, the Lucias and Vaccarros – was being challenged, mainly by new Asian gangs in Flushing and Woodside. Lou had it in his mind to find out if this situation had anything to do with the floater, and he zeroed in on Vinnie Dominick because Vinnie's counterpart in the Vaccarro organization, Paulie Cerino, was in the slammer. But it wasn't Vinnie who Lou was going to approach but rather one of his flunkies, Freddie Capuso. Back when Lou was still working Organized Crime, he'd recruited Freddie as an informer, and Lou still had something to hold over the kid. Serendipitously, Lou had discovered the boy was living a dangerous, duplicitous life as a kind of double agent. Although ostensibly working for Vinnie, he was passing information to Paulie, sometimes real, sometimes misinformation. At the time, Lou had wondered how the kid could sleep at night, because if either side had known what he was up to, he would have simply disappeared, probably feeding the fish out beyond the Verrazano Bridge.

Lou wasn't certain Freddie still worked for Vinnie or if he was still alive, but he intended to find out. He guessed Vinnie was around, because there was a black Cadillac double-parked in front of the restaurant. The only trouble was that it was a vintage model, which Lou doubted was Vinnie's style.

All at once, Lou stopped chewing. Someone emerged alone from the restaurant. For a second, Lou thought it was Vinnie because of the hairstyle and the clothes. Lou was confused because Vinnie would never come out by himself. But then, as the man ran across the street directly at Lou, Lou saw that it wasn't Vinnie. It was someone Lou didn't recognize but who was acting suspicious. He was either nervous or afraid as he fumbled with his remote while repeatedly glancing up and down the street and back at the restaurant. A second later, he was in the car, then pulling out into the street, where he made an illegal U-turn before accelerating with screeching tires in the direction of Manhattan. Lou tried to get the tag number, but he wasn't fast enough. All he'd managed was 5V and the fact that it was a New York plate.

Lou looked back at the restaurant, half expecting one of Vinnie's men to come bursting out the door in hot pursuit, but it didn't happen. All was serene. Lou relaxed back into his seat and took another bite of his sub. While he chewed, he pondered what the meeting was between Vinnie and the Vinnie lookalike that had made the stranger as nervous as he'd seemed to be. Lou guessed it was about money, and considering the guy's clothes and the fact that he drove an SUV, Lou suspected it had to do with gambling. And if it did, and the guy owed Vinnie big money, he was in a lot of trouble. Vinnie and his counterparts didn't tolerate people owing them money for very long. If they did, the whole house of cards would collapse. Thinking such thoughts made Lou wonder if that was the story with the floater. Maybe it wasn't indicative of an incipient syndicate war but merely the elimination of a deadbeat.

All of a sudden, Lou again stopped chewing. A new black Cadillac sedan with heavily tinted windows appeared stage right and proceeded to pull up behind the older model. In the next instant, Lou tossed his sub to the side, scattering bite-sized meatballs on his car's front passenger seat. He was out of the door in a flash and across the street as the driver of the Cadillac was rounding the car's rear. For once, luck was on Lou's side, since the driver was Freddie Capuso, and he was alone.

"Freddie, my friend," Lou called out.

Freddie stopped and turned as Lou came up to him. As soon as he recognized Lou, his face blanched. Nervously, he looked around, especially over to the nearby restaurant door.

"Gosh!" Lou effused. "How long has it been, Freddie, old boy?" The last time Lou had seen Freddie, he was a scrawny kid who artificially held his arms out from his body as if he were muscle-bound. Now he was a man: well, sort of.

"Holy shit, Lieutenant! What the hell are you doing here?"

"Just having a sub across the street for old time's sake. I used to go there when I was in high school, and then I see you pull up. What a coincidence."

"Nice to see you," Freddie said quickly. "But I gotta go."

"Not so fast," Lou said. He wrapped a restraining hand around Freddie's upper arm while Lou's other hand was holding on to his holstered gun. Lou knew these people were nasty and unpredictable.

"You could get me killed if I'm seen with you!" Freddie blurted.

"I could have you killed with a single phone call, my friend. I just want to talk to you for two minutes. My car is across the street in Johnny's parking lot. Let's hightail it over there, and we can talk out of sight."

Freddie looked around Lou over toward Johnny's, as if he didn't believe Lou, and then back at the Neapolitan's door.

"The longer you put this off, the more chance you're taking," Lou said. He gave Freddie's arm a tug in the direction of Lou's Caprice.

It didn't take long for Freddie to realize that he didn't have a choice. He nodded and quickly crossed the street. Lou followed Freddie all the way to the front passenger-side door. Freddie opened it quickly but took one look at the tiny meatballs, tomato slices, and onion rings fanned out on the seat and said, "I'm not sitting in that mess!"

Lou glanced around Freddie to see what he was referring to. "I can understand your reluctance," Lou said. He closed the door and opened the back. He motioned to Freddie to enter, then climbed in after him.

"Make this fast," Freddie commanded, as if he had a say in the matter.

"I'll try," Lou said, ignoring Freddie's bravado. "First up, who's the current local capo for the Vaccarros? I've been out of the loop."

"His name is Louie Barbera, but he's only a temp, because Paulie Cerino's supposedly getting out on parole."

"Really?" Lou commented. He'd not heard the rumor about Cerino.

"What the hell are you bothering me for with that kind of question?" Freddie grumbled. "You could learn that from any number of people."

"How do Vinnie and Louie get along?"

Freddie merely laughed.

"Is it that bad?" Lou asked.

"Vinnie made hay right after Paulie got sent up, especially with drugs. The Vaccarros want their old territory back."

"What about the Asians, Hispanics, and Russians?"

"They are getting to be a pain in the ass for everyone."

"All three groups."

"Mainly the Asians bringing in drugs from the East rather than South America."

"It was rumored there was an apparent hit last night," Lou said, finally getting around to the point. "Do you know anything about it?" He purposefully didn't want to give any of the details.

Freddie's eyes flicked over toward the restaurant door in a nervous fashion, which for Lou was a giveaway. From his years of experience, he guessed skinny Freddie knew something.

"I don't know anything about no hit," Freddie said unconvincingly.

"Come on! Don't make me threaten, and don't make me call Vinnie for old times' sake."

"Okay, I know there was a hit last night, but that's all I know about it."

"Please! Don't drag this out."

"I don't know who it was, honest. All I know, it was some guy who was going to rat."

"What was the victim going to rat about and to whom?"

"Who knows?"

"Are you pulling my chain here or what?"

"Honest, I'm telling you all I know, which is close to zilch. Vinnie's upset about something, but I have no clue. He doesn't talk about such things, except to Franco Ponti."

Lou eyed the hopeless kid-turned-man. In one sense, he felt sorry for him, because Lou was sure he was going to end up in a Dumpster some night. He'd been playing two ends against the middle but wasn't intelligent enough to carry it off over the long haul. In another sense, Lou was angry with him because like all these other misfits, the shithead was abetting a tiny group of people who made all Italian Americans look bad.

"All right," Lou said after a pause. "I want you to find out who this guy was who got whacked. I don't want a war breaking out between the Lucia and Vaccarro factions, which is what I'm worrying about."

"There's no way for me to find out any such thing. Vinnie is tight-mouthed. If I asked him anything, he'd know something was screwy."

"Don't ask him, ask Franco."

"That would be worse than asking Vinnie. You know the guy's crazy."

"Figure out a way," Lou said. He reached across Freddie and opened the door.