by Robin Cook
“Thank you,” Laurie said. She was mildly surprised to hear that her father had spoken of her at all, let alone spoken well. “Likewise,” said Laurie. “Frankly, you’re not what I’d expected.”
“What did you expect?” Jordan asked.
“Well,” said Laurie, suddenly slightly embarrassed, “I thought you’d look like an ophthalmologist.”
Throwing his head back, Jordan laughed heartily. “And just what does an ophthalmologist look like?”
Laurie was relieved when her father came back with Jordan’s refill, thus sparing her an explanation. Her father told Jordan that he wanted to show him some ancient surgical instruments in the den. As Jordan obediently followed his host, he sent a conspiratorial smile Laurie’s way.
At dinner, Jordan was responsible for lightening the atmosphere. He managed to force even the most reserved of Laurie’s parents’ friends to open up. Hearty laughter filled the room for the first time in recent memory.
Sheldon encouraged Jordan to tell certain stories he’d told Sheldon about his famous patients. Jordan was only too happy to oblige, and he recounted the stories in an exuberant, almost boastful manner that had everyone laughing. Even Laurie’s emotional day receded into the background as she heard Jordan’s amusing tales of the rich and famous who passed through his office each day.
Jordan’s specialty was the anterior part of the eye, particularly the cornea. But he also did some plastic surgery, even cosmetic plastic surgery. He’d treated celebrities ranging from movie stars to royalty. He had everyone in stitches about a prince from Saudi Arabia who’d come to his office along with dozens of servants. Then he went on to name drop a few sports figures he was treating. Finally, he mentioned he’d even treated the occasional Mafioso.
“As in Mafia?” Dorothy asked with horrified disbelief.
“Absolutely,” Jordan said. “God is my witness. Honest-to-goodness mobsters. In fact just this month I’ve been seeing a Paul Cerino, who is obviously connected to the underworld over in Queens.”
Laurie choked on her white wine at Jordan’s mention of Paul Cerino’s name. Hearing it for the second time that day startled her. The conversation stopped as everyone looked at her with concern. She waved off their attention and managed to say she was all right. Once she could speak again, she asked Jordan what he was treating Paul Cerino for.
“Acid burns in his eyes,” Jordan said. “Someone had thrown acid into his face. Luckily he had been smart enough to rinse his eyes with water almost immediately.”
“Acid! How dreadful,” Dorothy said.
“It’s not as bad as alkali. Alkali can eat right through the cornea.”
“Sounds ghastly,” Dorothy said.
“How are Cerino’s eyes doing?” Laurie asked. She was thinking of Frank DePasquale’s right eye, wondering if that could be the beginning of the break that Lou had been hoping for.
“The acid opacified both corneas,” Jordan said. “But the fact that he washed his eyes out saved the conjunctiva from extensive damage. So he should do well with corneal transplants which we’ll be doing soon.”
“Does it frighten you to be involved with these people?” one guest asked.
“Not at all,” Jordan said. “They need me. I’m of use to them. They wouldn’t harm me. In fact I find it all rather comical and entertaining.”
“How do you know this Cerino is a mobster?” one of the other guests asked.
Jordan gave a short laugh. “It’s pretty apparent. He comes in with several bodyguards who have obvious telltale bulges in their suits.”
“Paul Cerino is a known mobster,” Laurie said. “He’s one of the midlevel bosses of the Vaccarro crime family, which is currently warring with the Lucia organization.”
“How do you know that?” Dorothy asked.
“This morning I autopsied a gangland-style execution victim. The authorities believe the murder was a direct result of the feud, and they would like nothing better than to associate the killing with Paul Cerino.”
“How hideous!” Dorothy said with disdain. “Laurie, that’s enough! Let’s talk about something else.”
“This isn’t appropriate dinner conversation,” Sheldon agreed. Then, turning to Jordan, he added: “You’ll have to excuse my daughter. Since she abandoned her medical education and went into pathology, she’s somewhat lost her sense of etiquette.”
“Pathology?” Jordan questioned. He looked over at Laurie. “You didn’t tell me you are a pathologist.”
“You didn’t ask me,” Laurie said. She smiled to herself, knowing that Jordan had been too busy talking about his own affairs to have asked about hers. “Actually I’m a forensic pathologist currently working for the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner here in New York.”
“Maybe we should talk about this season at Lincoln Center,” Dorothy suggested.
“I don’t know much about forensics,” Jordan said. “We only had two lectures on it in medical school and before them we were told that the material would not be on the exam. So guess what I did?” Jordan pretended to fall asleep by snoring and allowing his head to drop onto his chest.
Sheldon laughed at Jordan’s antics. “We only had one lecture and I cut it,” he confessed.
“I think we should change the subject,” Dorothy said.
“The problem with Laurie,” Sheldon said to Jordan, “was that she didn’t go into surgery, where she could have been dealing with the living. We have a gal in the thoracic program who’s unbelievable, as good as a man. Laurie could have done equally as well.”
It took every ounce of self-restraint Laurie possessed not to lash out at her father’s inane, sexist remark. Instead, she calmly defended her specialty. “Forensics very much deals with the living, and it does it by speaking for the dead.” She told the story of the curling iron and how knowledge of the cause of that fatality could potentially save someone else’s life.
When Laurie finished, there was an uncomfortable pause. Everyone looked down at their place settings and toyed with their flatware. Even Jordan seemed strangely subdued. Finally Dorothy broke the silence by announcing that dessert and cognac would be served in the living room.
By the time the group had reassembled in the living room, Laurie was uncomfortable enough to consider leaving. As she watched the others fall effortlessly into conversations, she debated taking her mother aside and making the excuse that it was a “school night.” But before she could decide, a discreet maid hired for the evening appeared at Laurie’s side with her serving tray filled with brandy snifters. Accepting a cognac, Laurie turned her back on the group. With drink in hand, she slipped down the hall and into the den.
“Mind if I join you?” Jordan had followed her from the living room.
“Not at all,” Laurie said, mildly startled. She thought her exit had not been noticed. She tried to smile. She sat in a leather club chair while Jordan leaned comfortably against a massive rear-projection TV. Sounds of laughter drifted in from the living room.
“I didn’t mean to make fun of your specialty,” he said. “I actually find pathology fascinating.”
“Oh?” Laurie said.
“I enjoyed the story about the curling iron,” he added. “I had no idea you could get electrocuted with such an appliance unless you dropped it in the tub while you were taking a bath.”
“You might have said so at the time.” She knew she wasn’t being polite, but she wasn’t feeling particularly hospitable just then.
Jordan nodded. “Sorry,” he said. “I guess I felt a little inhibited by your parents. It’s pretty obvious they are not wild about your specialty choice.”
“Is it that obvious?” Laurie asked.
“Indeed,” Jordan said. “I couldn’t believe your father’s remark about that woman in their thoracic program. And your mother kept trying to change the subject of the conversation.”
“You should have heard my mother’s comment the day I told her I was going into forensics. She said: “What will I tell
people at the club who ask me what you do?’ That gives you a pretty good idea of her feelings. And my father, the quintessential cardiac surgeon! He thinks that anything other than surgery, specifically thoracic surgery, is for the weak, the timid, and the retarded.”
“Not an easy pair to please. It must be hard on you.”
“Frankly, I’ve caused them some heartache through the years. I was a pretty rebellious kid: dating rough types, riding motorcycles, staying out late, the usual. Maybe I trained my parents to be wary of everything I do. They’ve never been particularly supportive. In fact they’ve kind of ignored me, especially my father.”
“Your father certainly speaks highly of you now,” Jordan said. “Practically every time I run into him in the surgical lounge.”
“Well, it’s news to me,” Laurie said.
“Anybody want more cognac?” Sheldon called. He’d stuck his head into the den, waving the bottle of cognac.
Jordan said no. Laurie merely shook her head. Sheldon told them to give a yell if they changed their minds. Then he left them.
“Enough,” said Laurie. “This is much too serious a conversation. I didn’t mean to put a damper on the evening.” She actually was sorry she’d revealed so much to Jordan. It wasn’t like her to confide in a relative stranger this way, similar to what she’d done with Lou Soldano. But she’d been feeling vulnerable all day, ever since she’d been assigned Duncan Andrews.
“You didn’t put a damper on anything,” Jordan assured her. Then he looked at his watch. “Say,” he said. “It’s getting late, and I have surgery in the morning. My first case, at seven-thirty, is an English baron who sits in the House of Lords.”
“Really,” Laurie said without much interest.
“I think I’ll be calling it a night,” Jordan added. “I’d be delighted to give you a lift home. That is, of course, if you are intending to leave.”
“I’d love a ride home,” Laurie said. “I’ve been thinking about leaving since we got up from the table.”
After the appropriate goodbyes during which Dorothy let Laurie know her coat was far too thin for late fall, Jordan and Laurie left the party and waited at the elevator.
“Mothers!” Laurie said once the doors had closed behind them.
As they rode down, Jordan started talking about the parade of celebrities due in his office the next day. Laurie wasn’t sure if he was trying to impress her or merely cheer her up.
Emerging from the building into the cold November air, Jordan switched the conversation to the surgical aspect of his practice. Laurie was nodding as if listening. In reality she was waiting for some signal from Jordan whether he’d parked his car to the north or to the south. For a moment they stopped directly in front of the building while Jordan told Laurie how many surgical cases he did in a year.
“Sounds like you’re busy,” Laurie said.
“Could be busier,” Jordan admitted. “If I had my way, I’d be doing twice the amount of surgery I’m doing now. Surgery is what I enjoy; it’s what I’m best at.”
“Which way is your car?” Laurie finally asked. She was shivering.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s right here.” He pointed to a long black limousine sitting directly in front of her parents’ building. As if on cue, a liveried driver leaped out and held the rear door open for Laurie.
“This is Thomas,” Jordan said.
Laurie said hello and slipped in the sleek automobile. Thomas looked as though he could have moonlighted as a bouncer; he was powerfully built. The limo’s interior was elegantly luxurious, complete with a cellular phone, dictaphone, and fax.
“Well,” Laurie said, noticing all the equipment. “You look ready for business or pleasure.”
Jordan smiled. He was clearly pleased with his style of living. “Where to?” he asked.
Laurie gave her address on Nineteenth Street and they pulled out into traffic.
“I never imagined you had a limo,” Laurie said. “Isn’t it a bit extravagant?”
“Perhaps a bit,” Jordan agreed. His white teeth shone in the half-light of the car’s interior. “But there is a practical side to this ostentation. I do all my dictation work to and from work and even between work and the hospital. So in a sense, the car pays for itself.”
“That’s an interesting way of looking at it.”
“It’s not merely a rationalization,” Jordan said. He went on to describe other ways he’d organized his practice to boost his productivity.
As Laurie listened she couldn’t help compare Jordan Scheffield with Lou Soldano. They couldn’t have been more opposite. One was self-effacing, the other arrogantly narcissistic; one was provincial, the other sophisticated; and where one could be awkward, the other was smoothly adroit. Yet despite their differences, Laurie found each attractive in his own way.
As they turned onto Nineteenth Street, Jordan’s monologue stopped abruptly. “I’m boring you with all this shop talk,” he said.
“I can see you are committed,” Laurie said. “I like that.”
Jordan stared at her. His eyes sparkled.
“I’ve truly enjoyed meeting you tonight,” he said. “I wish we’d had more time to talk. How about having dinner with me tomorrow night?”
Laurie smiled. It had been a day of surprises. She’d not been dating much since her ninetieth breakup with Sean Mackenzie. Yet she found Jordan interesting despite his seemingly overbearing nature. Impulsively she decided it might be fun to see a little more of the man, even if her parents did approve of him.
“I’d love to have dinner,” Laurie said.
“Wonderful,” Jordan said. “How about Le Cirque? I know the maitre d’ there and he’ll give us a great table. Is eight o’clock okay?”
“Eight is fine,” Laurie said, although she began to have second thoughts as soon as Jordan suggested Le Cirque. For a first date she would have preferred a less formal environment.
* * *
“What the hell time is it?” Tony asked. “My battery must have died in my watch.” He shook his wrist, then tapped the crystal.
Angelo extended his arm and glanced at his Piaget. “It’s eleven eleven.”
“I don’t think Bruno’s coming out,” Tony said. “Why don’t we go in and see if he’s there?”
“Because we don’t want Mrs. Marchese to see us,” Angelo said. “If she sees us then we got to do her too, and that’s not right. The Lucia people might do that kind of stuff, but we don’t. Besides, look. Here comes the punk now.” Angelo pointed to the front entrance of the tiny two-story row house.
Bruno Marchese emerged into the night dressed in a black leather jacket, freshly pressed Guess jeans, and sunglasses. He paused for a moment on the front steps of the house to light a cigarette. Tossing the match into the shrubbery, he started toward the sidewalk.
“Get a load of those shades,” Angelo said. “Must think he’s Jack Nicholson. My guess is that he’s going socializing. He should have stayed home. The trouble with you young guys is that your brains are in your balls.”
“Let’s get him,” Tony urged.
“Hold on,” Angelo said. “Let him round the corner. We’ll nab him when he walks under the railroad tracks.”
Five minutes later they had Bruno cowering in the backseat, staring into Tony’s smiling face. The pickup had gone even more smoothly than it had with Frankie. The only casualty had been Bruno’s sunglasses, which ended up in the gutter.
“Surprised to see us?” Angelo asked after they had driven a short while. Angelo looked at Bruno in the rearview mirror.
“What’s this about?” Bruno demanded.
Tony laughed. “Oh, a tough guy. Tough and dumb. How about I give him a few whacks with my gun?”
“It’s about the Cerino incident,” Angelo said. “We want to hear about it from you.”
“I don’t know anything about it,” Bruno said. “I never even heard of it.”
“That’s funny,” Angelo said. “We’ve had it from a f
riend of yours that you were involved.”
“Who?” Bruno asked.
“Frankie DePasquale,” Angelo said. He watched Bruno’s expression change. The kid was terrified, and for good reason.
“Frankie didn’t know crap,” Bruno said. “I don’t know anything about any Cerino incident.”
“If you don’t know anything about it, how come you’re hiding out at your mother’s house?” Angelo asked.
“I’m not hiding out,” Bruno said. “I got kicked out of my apartment so I’m just staying there a few days.”
Angelo shook his head. They drove to the American Fresh Fruit Company in silence. Once they were there, Angelo and Tony brought Bruno to the same spot they’d brought Frankie.
As soon as Bruno saw the hole in the floor, his tough-guy stance melted. “All right, you guys,” he said. “What do you want to know?”
“That’s better,” Angelo said. “First sit down.”
Once Bruno had complied, Angelo leaned toward him and said, “Tell us about it.” He took out a cigarette and lit up, blowing smoke up toward the ceiling.
“I don’t know much,” Bruno said. “I only drove the car. I wasn’t inside. Besides, they made me do it.”
“Who made you do it?” Angelo asked. “And remember, if you give me any bull now, you’ll be in deep trouble.”
“Terry Manso,” Bruno said. “It was all his idea. I didn’t even know what was going on until after it was all over.”
“Who else beside you, Manso, and DePasquale were involved in all this?” Angelo said.
“Jimmy Lanso,” Bruno said.
“Who else?” Angelo demanded.
“That’s all,” Bruno insisted.
“What did Jimmy do?” Angelo asked.
“He went into the place early to locate the electrical panel,” Bruno said. “He made the lights go out.”
“Who ordered this hit?” Angelo asked.
“I told you,” Bruno said. “It was all Manso’s idea.”
Angelo took another long pull on his cigarette, then tilted his head back as he blew out the smoke. He tried to think if there was anything else that he needed to ask this punk. When he decided there wasn’t, he glanced at Tony and nodded.