Critical (18 page)
Angela smiled in spite of herself. "So you're admitting you have a fragile ego?"
"Absolutely Sometimes it takes me days to recover. With that said, I'm re-asking you to dinner tonight to stave off a depression."
Angela couldn't help but laugh. "You are persistent."
"I'm not sure that's accurate. Calling up like this and asking for more abuse is not my style."
"Well, your honesty and humor have intrigued me, though I didn't like the joke about the two hundred thousand. It was like you were mocking me."
"Absolutely not," Chet said.
"I wasn't joking about the need for short-term capital, and that is honestly why I cannot accept your gracious offer. I truly am distractedly busy. I wouldn't be good company even if I had the time."
"Well, I'm disappointed, but my ego is still intact, thanks to your diplomacy. I tell you what, if you are suddenly successful with your money-raising or depressed you are not, call me. I'll be available at a moment's notice."
When the call ended, Angela spun around in her chair, looking down the length of Fifth Avenue clogged with traffic. The unexpected dinner invites from two seemingly charming but different men, one obviously social and the other an apparent homebody, were remarkably unusual. And unsettling, in the way they made her question her choices and her lifestyle, causing her to wonder again about how she'd gotten sidetracked in her life. In a moment of insight, she sensed that the combination of the government reimbursement rules that caused her inner-city primary-care practice to go bankrupt and the demoralizing experience of divorce from Michael had worked to undermine her value system. She'd become jaded. Success from business, as measured by wealth and its trappings, had trumped notions of altruism, charity, and, apart from her daughter, the pleasures of interpersonal intimacy.
Angela swung back around to face her desk and the problems besieging Angels Healthcare. Pushing the flowers away from her work area, Angela moved the afternoon schedule to center stage. A moment later, Loren brought in a sandwich and a Coke. While she ate, Angela's mind switched back to the new problem about Paul Yang's whereabouts and the laptop with the 8-K file. It was like missing a loaded grenade with its pin half out.
With that thought in mind, Angela reached for her BlackBerry to e-mail Michael about what he might know of Paul's failure to show up for work. As her thumbs danced across the miniature keyboard, she applauded the ability the instrument gave her to communicate without having to talk to the man. It meant she could get the information she wanted without the aggravation she'd otherwise have to endure.
Once the message had been composed, she was about to send it when she had a second thought. She was well aware of Michael's background and childhood, and at times had had unsettling questions about some of his friends and their current lifestyles, including his so-called clients, but she'd never asked because at the time she didn't want to know. Now, as she was about to send the message to Michael, she had a similar feeling and wondered if she wanted to know the answer to what she was asking. Vaguely sensing she might not, she saved the message as a draft and put the BlackBerry aside. She'd deal with the issue later.
6
APRIL 3, 2007 1:05 P.M.
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.
