by Robin Cook
“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!
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 façade 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 psycho versus saiko from saiko-komon, as humorous wordplay. Saboru found it entertaining, once it had been explained to him.
Saboru stood, quickly bowed, and gave Michael a business card. Michael took the card after a quick, awkward bow and disp
ensed 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 explained iPS USA to Vinnie, he’d gone into great detail about the unbelievable promise of stem cells and the regrettable entanglement that the promising science and fledgling industry had encountered with the highly emotional abortion issue. He then explained how induced stem cells skirted the issue. Aware of Vinnie’s innate intelligence, Michael had also explained the patent issues involving stem cells and how important it would be to control the big patents. It was Vinnie who finally broke the silence.
“And it’s this iPS cell patent that’s going to be the mother of all patents?”
“That’s what Ben Corey believes, and the guy’s a genius who wants to control regenerative medicine.”
“And we’ll be right there with him,” Vinnie proclaimed.
“Right there,” Michael agreed.
Vinnie picked up his glass of wine and held it out to the others. He had a wry smile on his face. “I never knew that it was health care where all the real money was. First hospitals and now biotech. I love it.”
They all clinked classes and drank.
Vinnie turned to Saboru. “I told you this guy was great,” he said, nodding toward Michael.
“Thank you!” Saboru said several times, nodding first toward Michael and then toward Vinnie.
“Now I want to bring up another subject,” Michael said, putting down his wineglass and moving forward on his seat as if he was about to tell a secret. “I met with Dr. Corey just this morning. With the new contract signed, the market value of the company will soar. There’s no telling what its value will be. On top of that, this morning he confided in me that there is a new company that controls a patent for a process that will speed up the production efficiency of making induced stem cells. He’s interested in either acquiring the company or, at the very least, exclusively licensing its intellectual property. The question is, do either of you want to acquire more equity before the IPO? If so, this would be the time.”
There were questions from both Vinnie and Saboru, which Michael fielded, cleverly honing his client’s interest so that if Ben wanted or needed more equity, it would be immediately available.
After an interruption with the waiter coming to take their lunch orders, Michael then broached the third, last, and most sensitive subject on his agenda—namely, Ben’s interest in distancing iPS USA from their respective organizations. When he finished and fell silent, he could sense a change in mood. Clearly both Vinnie and Saboru were not pleased, feeling blindsided by the issue’s even being broached.
“It’s rather late for Dr. Corey to feel he’s not interested in our help,” Saboru said. It was Saboru who’d engineered the theft of the lab books from Kyoto University and getting Satoshi and his family from Japan through Honolulu to New York City, the same route he used for drugs and child porn.
“I agree,” Vinnie said in that particularly calm voice that Michael feared and that all too often presaged a temper tantrum of one sort or another.
“There is no disrespect intended here,” Michael quickly added. “It is only something that Dr. Corey feels will be in the best interest of the company if and when the company goes public. If such association were to suggest itself during any due diligence, the company would probably have to cancel the IPO to avoid a full SEC investigation.”
“He knows that the Lucia holdings are held secure under a series of shell companies, does he not?” Vinnie questioned.
“Of course he does,” Michael added quickly to defuse the situation, “and he’s tremendously thankful for what you gentlemen have done for the company. He even mentioned that some significant additional equity would be involved to recognize your special contributions if it comes to that.”
At that point Michael felt as if he’d been saved, as several waiters burst from the kitchen with a wide variety of steaming pastas for the first course. Relieved, Michael sat back and took in a deep breath. From his perspective the downside of dealing with criminal organizations is that one always felt as if he was standing on the edge of a precipice.
9
MARCH 25, 2010
THURSDAY, 1:05 p.m.
Louie Barbera took the chair that had just been vacated at the very end of the visiting room at the Rikers Island visitors center. He’d been there about a half-dozen times over the years to visit Paulie Cerino, the capo he’d replaced when Paulie had been sent to prison more than a decade previously. Louie had visited mostly to ask specific questions about specific people or events, since it was difficult to take over someone else’s operation, especially when that person was expected to return. Like in all businesses, even illegal ones, consistency was important.
Louie’s visits to Paulie had grown less frequent over the years, as Louie became more familiar with Queens and its characters and specific challenges. But now Louie was at a loss. He had no idea what to do about the situation with Hideki Shimoda, and especially Vinnie Dominick, Paulie’s old archrival. It was like a balancing game over a cauldron of molten lava. One slip and everybody might fall in.
Louie used a tissue and some Purell to wipe off the telephone handset, which was still warm from the previous user. Paulie had yet to arrive. Louie’s plan was simple: give Paulie the details, get Paulie’s response, then get the hell out. Although Rikers Island was the biggest and busiest penal institution in the world, the place was also notorious for its run-down condition. Louie shivered at the thought of staying in the place overnight, much less for more than a decade.
Glancing to his right, Louie looked at the long line of other visitors, most of whom appeared to be women talking to husbands. Many appeared as if they were barely making ends meet, though some tried to dress up. There were guards on both sides of the glass with glazed eyes and bored expressions. Louie looked at his watch. It was after two, and he already wanted to leave. He promised himself he’d never come back to this place.
At that moment he caught sight of Paulie and started. The last time he’d seen him, Paulie had looked much the same as always, plus the scars he’d suffered after someone had thrown acid in his face a year or so before he had been imprisoned. He’d always been heavy and unconcerned about his appearance. Now he was comparatively skinny, and his prison outfit hung on him like an oversized shirt on a metal hanger.
As Paulie took his seat on the other side of the glass, Louie had to briefl
y look away. He’d forgotten about Paulie’s double corneal transplants, where the clear area of his eyes contrasted so sharply with the scarred area as to be startling.
Controlling himself, Louie picked up the telephone and raised his eyes to Paulie even though it was like looking down a couple of gun barrels. After a bit of chitchat, Louie said, “Paulie, you look different, like you lost some weight.”
“I am different,” Paulie agreed wistfully if not mystically. “I’ve found the Lord.”
Good grief, Louie thought but didn’t say. He lamented the fact that he’d made the effort to come all the way to Rikers Island to seek advice about a difficult underworld conundrum now that Paulie had found God. It made the whole situation so absurd that Louie thought about leaving, when Paulie suddenly refocused and said, “I know you probably came out here to get some advice about some problem, but I want to ask you a question first. How did that bastard Vinnie Dominick weasel his way out of all those indictments last year? I thought for sure he was going to end up in here with me. Nobody’s told me nothing.”
The question took Louie by surprise. Maybe Paulie wasn’t quite as overwhelmed by his newfound Christianity. Maybe he could still offer some advice.
“Strange you should ask, because I was the problem with Vinnie Dominick and most of the others getting off, and it’s related to how they were caught with their hands in the cookie jar.”