Cure

7

March 25, 2010

Thursday, 11:35 a.m.

Carlo Paparo pulled into the strip mall on Elmhurst Avenue that housed the Venetian restaurant. The restaurant was situated between Gene’s Liquors, which was more of a wineshop than a liquor store, and Fred’s DVD Rental. Several years previously Fred’s had gone out of business, but the old sign was still in place.

Sitting shotgun was Brennan Monaghan. They regularly commuted together from their homes in New Jersey to Elmhurst, Queens, on Tuesdays and Thursdays to play penny ante with their boss, Louie Barbera.

Several years previously Louie had been ordered by the don of the Vaccarro crime family to take Paulie Cerino’s place in Queens while Paulie was in the slammer. Previously Louie had been head of the New Jersey operation, but the Queens branch was considerably bigger and much more important. Initially, the higher-ups thought Paulie would be paroled in five years or so, but the years had dragged on. Every time Paulie had come up before the parole board, he’d been turned down.

“Should we bring up about last evening and what went down with those crazy Yakuza guys right away or put it off until after lunch?” Brennan asked as he got out of the car. “I know Louie’s going to be fucking fit to be tied.”

“That’s a good question,” Carlo said. He slammed the Denali’s door and started toward the Venetian’s entrance. “I think we should tell him right off. I don’t want him taking it out on us in any way or form, which he might do if we delay it.”

“Yeah, but it’s going to ruin his game, and he hates to have his game ruined.”

“True. So in a way we’re caught between a rock and a hard place. What do you say we flip for it?”

“Good idea.”

The two men stopped in the middle of the parking area while both searched their pockets for a coin. Brennan was the first to come up with a quarter. “Heads, we tell him right away; tails, we wait until after lunch and after the game.”

“Right on!” Carlo said.

Brennan used his thumb to flip the coin up over his head before snatching it out of the air on its way toward the ground. With a quick motion he slapped the coin onto the back of his left wrist. The two men leaned forward. It was heads.

“It’s decided,” Brennan said.

A car horn beeped, making the two men jump out of the way. When they glared at the offending vehicle, they saw the driver was Arthur MacEwan, one of their colleagues, who was laughing at having startled Brennan and Carlo. As he drove past, Brennan gave him the finger. Behind Arthur was a black Chevrolet Malibu driven by another colleague, Ted Polowski. Both cars found slots in the angled parking lot, and their drivers joined the others.

“What are you two losers doing out here in the middle of the parking lot?” Arthur asked, still chuckling about how much he’d scared Carlo and Brennan. He had a high-pitched voice that drove everyone nuts.

“Screw you,” Carlo said.

“We were deciding when to tell Louie what happened last night,” Brennan said, immune to Arthur’s antics.

“What happened?” Arthur questioned.

“You’ll know soon enough,” Carlo said.

Together the group walked toward the restaurant, the façade of which was sheathed in fake stone. Beyond the door, they pushed through a heavy dark green curtain whose job it was to seal out the cold on frigid nights. Inside, the walls were full of paintings of Venice on black velvet. Most of the classic scenes were represented, such as the Ponte dei Sospiri, Saint Mark’s Basilica, the Ponte di Rialto, and the Doge’s Palace.

To the left was a small bar with a half-dozen barstools. Running along the right wall was a row of tufted red velvet-upholstered booths with white tablecloths, which were considered the coveted tables from dinner to the wee hours of the morning. The establishment was open for lunch only on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and then only for the owner, Louie Barbera, and his soldiers: Carlo, Brennan, Arthur, and Ted. The other tables in the room featured a newly added Chianti bottle nestled within a straw basket and covered with layers of candle drippings. In keeping with the rest of the décor, the tablecloths and napkins were red-and-white checkered fabric. The room was dimly lit from several hanging fixtures over the bar and over each booth.

“You guys are late,” Louie snapped. He folded his newspaper and pushed it aside as he glanced at his watch. “When I say noon, I mean noon. You got it?” Louie was an overweight man in his mid-forties with dull features indistinctly indented into a full face the color and texture of dough. He was dressed accordingly in stretched-out corduroy with worn patches over the knees and elbows. The only thing exceptional about his appearance was his eyes. They were sharp and piercing between flaccid lids, reminding one of a sluggish, fat reptile.

The men didn’t respond, knowing that no matter what was said, Louie would pounce on whoever had the nerve to speak. The one thing everyone learned over the years was that when Louie was in a bad mood, which seemed to be the case that day, it was better to say as little as possible. As they slid into the booth from both sides, since Louie was sitting in the very back, they were all silent.

Louie looked from one to the next to find a victim to appease his irritation, but no one was willing to lock eyes with him.

“Benito!” Louie finally called out, loud enough to be heard from the kitchen, making everyone at the table jump. Then he added, “You guys are pathetic,” recognizing that no one was willing to stand up for the group.

Benito burst out of the double swinging doors and sprinted to the booth. He was a slight man with a pencil mustache and was dressed in a tired tuxedo. “Yes, Mr. Barbera?” he questioned with an Italian accent seemingly from central casting.

“What’s for lunch?”

“Pasta con carciofi e pancetta.”

Louie’s eyes brightened. “Terrific! Let’s also have some Barolo and San Pellegrino and arugula salad.” He then glanced around at the group. “Everybody happy with that?”

Everyone nodded in turn. “That’s it, then,” Louie said to Benito with a wave of his hand. He then yelled after him, “And tell John Franco it’s gotta be al dente or it’s all coming back.”

Louie turned his attention to his guests, looking directly at Carlo. “Well, did you bring the cards or not?”

Carlo pulled out a new box, broke the seal, and placed the deck in front of Louie, all the while continuing the debate with himself whether to bring up the issue of the two crazy Yakuza guys and what had gone down the previous evening then or later, despite the results of the coin toss. As Brennan had reminded him, Carlo was certain Louie was going to go through the roof, because he’d been making it a strict point over the last several years to tone down violence, meaning murder, with all of the local gangs, be they Asian, Hispanic, Russian, or American. His leadership in this regard had been paying off dramatically, and everybody was thriving, even in the depressed economic environment. His point was that by eschewing killings the police were leaving everybody alone, allowing the gambling and drug businesses to prosper, particularly on the drug end. Without police interference, Louie had actually spearheaded an association with the Japanese Yakuza group Aizukotetsu-kai, run by Hideki Shimoda, who called himself a saiko-komon, which Louie interpreted to be equivalent to capo, like himself. The association afforded Louie an inexhaustible supply of “ice,” as well as access to high-stakes Japanese gamblers. The association had increased to an extent that it now comprised a very large portion of the Vaccarros’ income. Of course, Louie’s main rival, the Lucia family, got wind of the operation and found a rival Yakuza group, the Yamaguchi-gumi, to form an equivalent association. They were now competing directly, a situation that in the past would have resulted in some sort of turf war. But not under Louie’s leadership. Instead, he saw the competitive situation as a plus rather than a minus in that it stimulated demand. Ice was becoming an extremely popular recreational drug in the city, a fact he used to convince Vinnie Dominick of the Lucia family that there was more than enough room for both their organizations.

As Louie dealt out the first hand, Carlo found himself focusing on a compelling reason to break the bad news right away. If he did, he was reasonably confident Louie could not blame him, as Louie had ordered Carlo to help the Yakuza guys. On the other hand, if Carlo waited, as he was tempted to do for convenience’ sake, there was a good chance he would be blamed, at least to some degree, for the killings, making a bad situation even worse. Carlo understood that Louie was not fun to be around when he was angry, but it was also much worse when he was specifically angry at him.

“Yesterday afternoon when you sent us to help the Aizukotetsu-kai guys, things went...” Carlo paused, trying to think of the most soothing way to bring up the issue, but no words came to mind until he thought of the word awry. He’d probably never used the word in his life, and he questioned himself where it had come from when it came out of his mouth.

Louie stopped organizing his cards, and after slowly lowering them, he stared at Carlo. “ ‘Awry’?” he questioned with true confusion. “What do you mean?”

“Sorta unexpected,” Carlo explained.

“‘Unexpected’ is as confusing as ‘awry.’ Unexpectedly good or unexpectedly bad?”

“I’d have to say bad.”

Louie glanced at Brennan, as if he expected Brennan to explain Carlo’s word choice. When Brennan refused to make eye contact, Louie said, “Okay, you guys, I think you’d better tell me what the hell happened.”

“We’re not a hundred percent sure about the first part, but we’re totally sure about the second part.”

“Come on, quit beating around the bush.”

“You told us that we were supposed to help these two Yakuza guys shake down a Japanese named Satoshi who worked for a company called iPS USA.”

“That was what Hideki Shimoda told me. There was some problem with this Satoshi back in Japan. I assumed it was probably a big gambling debt, since the man had recently fled Japan and showed up here in New York City.”

“Well, it wasn’t much of a shakedown. They followed the dude down into the Fifty-ninth Street subway station. But they weren’t down there for more than ten or fifteen minutes. When they came back they were kinda jazzed up and had the man’s athletic bag, the contents of which seemed to disappoint them. When I asked them what had happened they told me that Satoshi had had a heart attack, which caused one of the dudes to burst out laughing.”

“I know about this supposed heart attack,” Louie said. “Hideki Shimoda called me earlier to thank us for the help you guys gave his boys. Actually, what he really called about was that he’d heard from his boss in Japan. Anyway, the big boss asked him to ask me for your help again for tonight, which made me ask if everything had gone okay last night and if he’d gotten what he wanted. He then told me no, he hadn’t gotten what he needed, which is why he needed help again tonight. He also told me Satoshi had had a heart attack, which he finally admitted was actually a hit. When I blew up at him, saying we American families have learned to avoid all killings to keep the authorities off our collective backs, he told me to calm down, that the hit was done in a way that would look like a heart attack, or at least natural, and that no one was going to figure out that the guy had been whacked. I mean, those weren’t his exact words, but that’s what he was saying.”

“I knew it was a hit!” Carlo said with an air of self-congratulation. “It was over too quickly. It ticks me off they weren’t square with us. They should have told us what they were up to. They were treating us as taxi drivers, which I guess we were. I tell you, I’m not excited about helping them again.”

“I can understand,” Louie said, “but the situation is a little more complicated. So what is this second part you’re referring to?

“When Susumu and Yoshiaki popped up out of the station, they had Satoshi’s wallet as well as his athletic bag. From the wallet they found out where the guy was living with his family out in Fort Lee, New Jersey. Then they argued with each other in Japanese, which ended up with all of us driving to Fort Lee.”

“I didn’t tell you to drive them to New Jersey. What the hell did they do in New Jersey?”

“Yeah, well, you didn’t specifically tell us not to drive to Jersey; you told us to drive them around wherever they wanted to go.”

“So what happened in Jersey?” Louie asked while beginning to wonder if he did not want to know. He was already out of sorts concerning the hit.

“We found Satoshi’s house, and the two guys went inside, but before they did, they pulled out handguns like in the movies, holding them with two hands. I mean, I never hold my gun with two hands.”

“Don’t tell me!” Louie raged. He knew what was coming.

“While we were sitting there, we heard six shots. Bam, bam, bam, bam, bam, bam! At that point I got my cell phone out to call you to ask you what the hell you thought we should do. I mean, now we’re murder accomplices for just driving them around.”

“I never got a call,” Louie snapped.

“No, I didn’t get a chance to make it. The next thing we saw was Susumu and Yoshiaki hightailing it out of the house, carrying pillowcases full of stuff and leaping into the back of my car. At that point all I wanted to do was hightail it myself — plus, I wanted to get rid of the two trigger-happy nuts. I mean, that was it! I’d had it. I didn’t want to have anything more to do with those assholes. I wouldn’t have taken them out there to Jersey if I knew they were going in with guns blazing.”

“This is a disaster!” Louie growled. “A freaking hit on a subway platform and a massacre of the victim’s entire family. It spells organized crime in capital letters. And to think of all the work I’ve done to keep violence down and the cops happy. It’s outrageous. Why kill the family? What did they take from the house? Drugs?”

“We don’t know what they took, but we know what they didn’t take.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that what they were looking for was a couple of lab books, whatever they are, because as we were heading back across the GW Bridge, they specifically told us that was what they had been seeking.”

“Shit!” Louie shouted, causing his guests to flinch. “That’s what Hideki wants to get tonight. For a couple of lab books, which obviously weren’t even found, we’re going to have to deal with the fallout from a subway hit and the hit on the family,” he raged while everyone else remained silent. “And if the so-called heart attack is proved to be homicide and not a natural death, the authorities are going to go nuts, because the public will demand it. For us around here it could become a war zone, forcing us to cut back on everything. Shit! Two years of effort down the drain. I have it in mind to break my own rule and whack Hideki Shimoda and let him feed the fish out in the Narrows. Actually, I’d do it in a second if we had an alternate source for crystal meth. Here we’ve built up the demand for ice, so we got to maintain a reliable source, so knocking off Hideki would be like shooting ourselves in the foot. The problem is that in these difficult times the ice has become a major source of our revenue, and the main source of ice is mainly Japan.”

“So Susumu and Yoshiaki are not done,” Carlo added. “Asking our help again tonight means they’re still going to be out causing trouble. These are obviously two guys who don’t think twice about pulling out their guns and blazing away.”

“Unfortunately, I think you are entirely correct,” Louie said, slapping his cards down on the table. “This is outrageous, all for a couple of lab books. This guy Hideki has some balls. First he tries to tell me Satoshi had a heart attack and then he doesn’t even mention what you’ve just told me about the New Jersey side of this story. I can’t believe all this.”

“Whatever you believe,” Carlo said, “I’m telling you up front, I don’t want to have anything to do with those crazy-ass bastards.”

“I’m the one who gives the orders!” Louie snapped. For a few moments no one spoke until Louie added, “What Hideki wants is help with a single attempt at burglarizing iPS USA, whatever that is.”

“This iPS USA’s office is on Fifth Avenue, for God’s sake,” Carlo said with heat. “To try something like that would take serious planning.”

“You’re probably right,” Louie said, preoccupied with his own thoughts. “But there’s still the problem of maintaining our source of crystal meth. When Hideki sensed my hesitation to supply help on the phone, he was quick to suggest the Lucia organization would love to help. Can you believe it? Along with everything else, he’s threatening to switch allegiance to Vinnie Dominick if we don’t help him get the lab books. How is it with this guy Vinnie Dominick? How is he so damn lucky? Talk about the Teflon don. First he beats the rap about being caught up in the Angels Healthcare affair, and now there’s a chance that the entire lucrative association between the Yakuza and the Mafia may fall into his lap: all because of some lab books.”

“Hideki can threaten, but I can’t imagine it could happen,” Carlo said. “There’s no love lost between the Aizukotetsu-kai and the Yamaguchi-gumi, at least according to Susumu and Yoshiaki. The two organizations can’t even be in the same room together, much less cooperate and work together.

“Would you like us to try to talk sense into Susumu and Yoshiaki?” Carlo continued. “We’ll explain how suicidal it would be to try to break into iPS USA. Yoshiaki seems to be more reasonable and might take our advice. At least more reasonable than Susumu. Susumu is the one who scares me.”

“One thing that we’re forgetting,” Brennan said, speaking up for the first time, “is that neither episode, the killing in the subway nor the slaughter in the home in New Jersey, has been in the papers. I think that tells us two things. The subway hit, at least so far, has been considered a natural death, and if Susumu and Yoshiaki got all his IDs, which I think they made a point to do, it’s going to be a natural death of an unknown individual, which isn’t the kind of case that causes a lot of attention. Now, the killings in Jersey are another thing entirely, and the only explanation for it not being in the tabloids is because it hasn’t been discovered. And the fact that it hasn’t been discovered is not surprising if you saw the locale. I mean, the house and the neighborhood were about as trashy as you can imagine and seemed deserted. I mean, we didn’t see a soul or a light in any other building.”

“That’s right,” Carlo chimed in.

Louie stared at Brennan and realized for about the tenth time he’d underestimated the kid. As usual what Brennan was saying made sense. Maybe the situation wasn’t as bad as he initially thought.

“If everyone in the family was killed,” Brennan continued, “and there’s no one to go to the house and find the bodies, and if there’s no one around outside to smell what it’s going to smell like around there for a couple of weeks, then, hey, the massacre might not be discovered for weeks or even months or even years.”

Silence reigned after Brennan’s comments until Louie spoke up. “You know, I think you’re right on both accounts, the hit and the house, but if we sit back and do nothing, we’re leaving it all up to chance: chance that the cops continue to view the hit as a natural death and that the postman isn’t going to lose his lunch delivering mail. My sense is that we have to be somehow proactive. Our relationship with Hideki and the Aizukotetsu-kai is in the balance.”

“I hope you are not considering sending us out with Susumu and Yoshiaki to pull off a heist on Fifth Avenue, because it would be out-and-out suicide,” Carlo said. “It would be turning a problem into a disaster.”

“I don’t know what the hell to do,” Louie admitted. “I need some expert counsel. I need some perspective before I decide.”

“Who are you going to ask?” Carlo questioned. He couldn’t imagine Louie going to the don, Victorio Vaccarro. The man was in his nineties. For all intents and purposes, Louie was running the Vaccarro crime family.

“I’m going to pay Paulie Cerino a visit in the slammer,” Louie said before shouting to Benito to bring out the freaking food!