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!
8
MARCH 25, 2010
THURSDAY, 12:45 p.m.
As he backed his new Mercedes SUV into a plum parking spot by the Neopolitan Restaurant, Michael Calabrese could not help but marvel how one’s course though life could change. Just three years earlier he was making the same trip, but the situation had been entirely different. Back then he was scared to death and had reason to believe he might be killed. It was so bad that in the back of his mind he was beginning to plan on trying to disappear. At the time he was the placement agent for Angels Healthcare LLC, which was about to go public while not having revealed it was insolvent. That day he was visiting Vinnie Dominick with the unenviable task of having to tell Vinnie of the regrettable situation that was unfolding. The problem was that Michael had talked Vinnie into investing a huge portion of Mob money, more than fifteen million dollars, into the company.
Just thinking about the situation still brought a shiver of fear down Michael’s spine, despite what ultimately happened. Angels Healthcare went on, as Michael had originally believed, to have a truly amazing IPO and was now a thriving company, returning to Vinnie and the Lucia organization hundreds of millions and to Michael himself millions. Instead of being considered a lackey, Michael was held up to be a genius and a favorite son of the Queens neighborhood of Rego Park, where he and Vinnie had grown up together.
Now out of the car, Michael had to wait to cross Corona Avenue, as it was a four-lane road with lots of traffic. When a spot opened up, Michael dashed across and then slowed to walk. This time, Michael was arriving as a welcome guest. After Ben’s visit that morning, Michael had called Vinnie Dominick to request a lunch visit for himself and Saboru Fukuda, with the explanation that he had some good news about iPS USA.
As Michael approached the restaurant, he had to smile. Besides its name, Neapolitan, it was so obviously American Italian that it was like a joke. With vain hopes of being more elegant than it was, the facade was fake brick that came in fiberglass sheets, which didn’t even come close to appearing real. Under its windows were fake window boxes sporting out-of-season plastic flowers. No customers were coming in or out as the restaurant was not open to the public for lunch. The noonday meal was open only to Vinnie, his dedicated minions, and guests. For the owner it was a small price to pay to do his evening business, which was quite a business. The restaurant had a mythic appeal due to its long history of association with the underworld, particularly in the thirties, during prohibition.
Inside, Michael pushed through the entrance drape and paused until his eyes adjusted. To the left was a newly constructed U-shaped bar with glasses hanging down from a wooden valance structure running around the area’s ceiling. Off to the side, near a cluster of small cocktail tables, was a fake fireplace whose fire was a rotating drum covered with crinkled aluminum foil. The logs were made of concrete. The origin of the fake fire was a red bulb hidden behind one of the fake logs. Above the mantel was a large, dark painting of the Virgin Mary holding the Christ child in a huge tarnished gilt frame.
To the right were the coveted booths extending down into the depths of the restaurant. The first two were occupied, one by Vinnie’s close associates, several of whom Michael recognized as former schoolmates. There was Richie Herns, who had taken over Franco Ponti’s position as head enforcer. Franco was in prison along with Angelo Facciolo, the two people who had always terrified Michael. Freddie Capuso, who’d been the class clown, was there as well. There were three other physically impressive guys Michael didn’t know.
Vinnie Dominick was seated at the next table. He caught sight of Michael and waved him over. Sitting next to Vinnie was his girlfriend, Carol Cirone, who had lunch with Vinnie every day except Sunday, when Vinnie stayed home with his wife and family. Next to Carol was Saboru Fukuda, a slight, elegant man in a superbly tailored glen plaid suit. To Michael he looked more like a Fifth Avenue ophthalmologist than the head of a branch of the violent Yamaguchi-gumi Yakuza organization.
As Michael approached the table, Vinnie slid across the vinyl seat and stood.
“Hey, brother,” Vinnie exuded, and enveloped Michael in a brotherly hug. He too was dressed to the nines, with even more panache than his Yamaguchi-gumi guest. Whereas Saboru had a carefully folded dark brown pocket square in his jacket’s breast pocket, Vinnie had a wildly colorful Cartier silk that billowed out with an explosion of color.
With his arm still draped over Michael’s shoulders, Vinnie tapped Saboru on the arm to get his attention. “Hey, psycho! Mikey’s here,” Vinnie said. He and Saboru had spent significant time together as their business relationship had blossomed, and Vinnie had come to use the word
Saboru stood, quickly bowed, and gave Michael a business card. Michael took the card after a quick, awkward bow and dispensed one of his own. Back at his desk in his office, he had a collection of Saboru’s cards.
“Sit down, sit down!” Vinnie repeated to Michael but then remembered Carol. “Listen, sweetie, we have to talk business. How about you sit with the men for a little while.” He gestured to the group at the next booth.
“I want to sit with you people,” Carol whined.
“Carol, dear,” Vinnie said slowly, without raising his voice, “I said how about you sit at the next table.”
Michael felt the hackles on the back of his neck rise. Vinnie had a short-fuse temper and a penchant to be violent. For a few moments Vinnie and Carol stared each other down. The entire room was silent until Carol wisely relented and slid out from the table. With a pouty expression and a petulant air she changed tables. The moment she did so, conversation returned to the room.
“Please,” Vinnie said, gesturing for both of his guests to sit. As if by magic, a waiter appeared and asked Michael what he preferred to drink, gesturing to an open bottle of Sassicaia, Vinnie’s favorite, and then at an ice bucket containing a pinot grigio and a bottle of San Pellegrino.
“So what’s the good news?” Vinnie questioned once Michael had his wine and water. When it came to business, Vinnie was impatient. He didn’t mind small talk, but it was for after business, not before.
Leaning over toward Vinnie and in a voice that suggested importance, Michael said, “Yesterday an exclusive agreement was signed with Satoshi Machita for iPS cells.”
For a moment there was silence. Vinnie and Michael merely stared at each other. The only sounds in the room were from those at the neighboring table, who were busily entertaining Carol. Back when Michael had first
