Although Laurie had grown up in Manhattan, she’d never been to Little Italy. As they drove up Mulberry Street she was delighted by the ambience. There was a multitude of restaurants and throngs of people strolling the streets. Just like Italy itself, the place seemed to be throbbing with life.
“It’s definitely Italian,” Laurie said.
“It looks it, doesn’t it?” Lou said. “But I’ll tell you a little secret. Most of the real estate here is owned by Chinese.”
“That’s strange,” Laurie said, a bit disappointed although she didn’t know why.
“Used to be an Italian neighborhood,” Lou said, “but the Italians for the most part moved out to the suburbs, like Queens. And the Chinese with a nose for business came in and bought up the properties.”
They pulled into a restricted parking zone. Laurie pointed to the sign.
“Please!” Lou said. He positioned a little card on the dash by the steering wheel. “Once in a while I’m entitled to take advantage of being one of New York’s finest.”
Lou led her down a narrow street to one of the less obvious restaurants.
“It doesn’t have a name,” Laurie said as they entered.
“It doesn’t need one.”
The interior was a kitschy blend of red and white checked tablecloths and trellis interlaced with artificial ivy and plastic grapes. A candle stuck in a jug with wax drippings coating the sides served as each table’s light fixture. A few black velvet paintings of Venice hung on the walls. There were about thirty tables packed tightly in the narrow room; all seemed to be occupied. Harried waiters dashed about attending to the customers. Everyone seemed to know each other by their first names. Over the whole scene hung a babble of voices and a rich, savory, herbed aroma of spicy food.
Laurie suddenly realized how hungry she was. “Looks like we should have made a reservation,” she said.
Lou motioned for her to be patient. In a few minutes a very large and very Italian woman appeared and gave Lou an enveloping hug. She was introduced to Laurie. Her name was Marie.
As if by magic, an available table materialized and Marie seated Laurie and Lou.
“I have a feeling you’re pretty well known here,” Laurie said.
“With as many times as I’ve eaten here I’d better be. I’ve put one of their kids through college.”
To Laurie’s chagrin there were no menus. She had to listen to the choices as they were recited by a waiter with a heavy Italian accent. But no sooner had he finished his impressive litany than Lou leaned over and encouraged her to choose the ravioli or the manicotti. Laurie quickly settled on the ravioli.
With dinner ordered and a bottle of white wine on the table, Lou disappointed Laurie by lighting a cigarette.
“Maybe we could compromise,” Laurie said. “How about you having only one.”
“Fine by me.”
After a glass of wine, Laurie began to revel in the chaotic atmosphere. When their entrées arrived, Giuseppe, the owner-chef, appeared to pay his respects.
Laurie thought the dinner was wonderful. After the last few nights in such formal settings, this lively spot was a welcome relief. Everyone seemed to know—and love—Lou. He received much good-natured kidding for having brought Laurie along. Apparently he usually dined solo.
For dessert Lou insisted they take a walk up the street to an Italian-style coffee bar that served decaf espresso and gelato.
With their espressos and ice creams before them, Laurie looked up at Lou. “Lou,” she said, “there’s something I want to ask you.”
“Uh-oh,” Lou said. “I was hoping we could avoid any potentially troublesome subjects. Please don’t ask me to go to the narc boys again.”
“I only want your opinion,” Laurie said.
“OK,” Lou said. “That’s not so scary. Shoot.”
“I don’t want you to laugh at me, OK,” Laurie said.
“This is starting to sound interesting,” Lou said.
“I have no definitive reason why I’ve been thinking this,” Laurie said. “Just some little facts that bother me.”
“It’s going to take you all night to get this out at this rate,” Lou said.
“It’s about my overdose series,” Laurie said. “I want to know what your opinion would be if I suggested that they were homicides, not accidental overdoses.”
“Keep talking,” Lou said. Absently he took out a cigarette and lit it.
“A case came in where a woman died suddenly in the hospital,” Laurie said. “She has lots of cardiac disease. But when you looked at her and you examined her carefully, you couldn’t help but think that she could have been smothered. The case is being signed out as “natural’ mainly because of the other details—where she was, the fact that she was overweight, and had a history of heart disease. But if the lady had been found someplace else, it might have been considered a homicide.”
“How does this relate to your overdoses?” Lou asked. He leaned forward, the cigarette stuck in the corner of his mouth. His eyes were squinting from the smoke.
“I started thinking about my overdoses in the same light. Take away the fact that these people were found alone in their apartments with syringes by their sides. It’s hard not to view murders in context. But what if the cocaine wasn’t self-administered?”
“Wow—that would be a twist,” Lou said. He sat back and took the cigarette from his mouth. “It’s true; homicides have been committed with drugs. There’s no doubt about that. But the motive is usually more apparent: robbery, sex, retribution, inheritance. A lot of small-time pushers get killed by their disgruntled clients that way. The cases in your series don’t fit that mold. I thought the whole reason these cases are so striking is the fact that in each case the deceased was apparently such a solid citizen with no history of drug abuse or run-ins with the law.”
“That’s true,” Laurie admitted.
“Do you mean to say you think these yuppies were forcibly administered the cocaine? Laurie, get real. With users willing to pay big bucks for the stuff, why would anyone go on a personal crusade to rid the city of some of its best and brightest? What would they have to gain? Isn’t it likelier that these people were really into drugs on the sly, maybe even dealing?”
“I don’t think so,” Laurie said.
“Besides,” Lou said, “didn’t you say that these people were shooting the coke rather than sniffing it?”
“That’s right,” Laurie said.
“Well, how is someone going to stick a needle in someone who isn’t cooperating? I mean, don’t nurses in hospitals have a hard enough time sticking patients? Now you’re telling me some struggling victim who’s trying to just say no can get shot up against his will? Give me a break.”
Laurie closed her eyes. Lou had stumbled upon the weakest point of her homicide theory.
“If these people were being injected against their will, there would be signs of struggle. Have there been any?”
“No,” Laurie admitted. “At least I don’t think so.” She suddenly recalled the shattered statue in Julia’s apartment.
“The only other way I could conceive of this happening is if the victims had been drugged to beat the band with some kind of knockout cocktail beforehand. Correct me if I’m wrong, but you people at the M.E. office would have found a drug like that if there’d been one. Am I right?”
“You’re right,” Laurie conceded.
“Well, there you go,” Lou said. “I’m not going to fault you for considering homicide, but I think it’s a mighty remote possibility.”
“There are a few other facts I’ve discovered that have made me suspicious,” Laurie persisted. “I visited the apartment of one of the more recent overdose cases today, and the doorman said that on the evening the woman died, she’d come home with two men he’d never seen before.”
“Laurie, you can’t mean to tell me that the fact a woman comes home with two men the doorman doesn’t recognize has spawned this huge conspiracy theory. Is that
it?”
“OK! OK!” Laurie said. “Go easy on me. Do you mind that I bring this stuff up? The problem is that these things are bothering me. It’s like a mental toothache.”
“What else?” Lou said patiently. “Out with it.”
“On two of the cases the respective girlfriend or boyfriend was called by the victim an hour or so before and asked to come over.”
“And?” said Lou.
“And nothing,” said Laurie. “That’s it. I just thought it was curious that these people who were allegedly hiding their drug abuse invited their non-druggie significant others over if they were planning a night of coked-out debauchery.”
“These two could have called for a million different reasons. I don’t think either had any idea this trip was going to turn out the way it did. If anything, it’s more support for self-administration. They probably believed in the popular myth of cocaine’s aphrodisiac powers and wanted their playmates to be available at the height of their turn-on.”
“You must think I’m nuts,” Laurie said.
“Not at all,” Lou insisted. “It’s good to be suspicious, particularly in your line of work.”
“Thank you for the consult. I appreciate your patience.”
“My pleasure,” Lou said. “Any time you want to run something by me, don’t hesitate.”
“I enjoyed dinner very much,” Laurie said. “But I think I’d better be thinking of getting home. I still have to make good on my plans to get some work done.”
“If you liked this restaurant,” Lou said, “I’d love to take you to one in Queens. It’s out in the middle of a real Italian neighborhood. Authentic Northern Italian cuisine. How about tomorrow night?”
“Thank you for asking,” Laurie said, “but I do have plans.”
“Of course,” Lou said sarcastically. “How could I forget Dr. Limo.”
“Lou, please!” Laurie said.
“Come on,” Lou said, pushing back his chair. “I’ll take you home. If you can stand my humble, stripped-down Caprice.”
Laurie rolled her eyes.
Franco Ponti pulled his black Cadillac up in front of the Neapolitan Restaurant on Corona Avenue up the street from the Vesuvio and got out. The valet recognized him and rushed over to assure him that good care would be taken of his car. Franco gave the valet a ten-dollar bill and walked through the door.
At that hour on a Friday night, the restaurant was in full swing. An accordion player went from table to table serenading the customers. Between the laughter and din, an air of conviviality marked the evening. Franco paused for a moment, just inside the red velvet curtain separating the foyer from the dining area. He easily spotted Vinnie Dominick, Freddie Capuso, and Richie Herns at one of the upholstered booths along with a pair of buxom, miniskirted bimbos.
Franco walked directly to the table. When Vinnie saw him, he patted the girls and told them to go powder their noses. As soon as they left, Ponti sat down.
“You want something to drink?” Vinnie asked.
“A glass of wine would be fine,” Franco said.
Vinnie snapped his fingers. A waiter instantly appeared for instructions. Just as quickly, he reappeared with the requested glass. Vinnie poured Franco some wine from the bottle standing on the table.
“You got something for me?” Vinnie asked.
Franco took a drink and twisted the bottle around to look at the label.
“Angelo Facciolo and Tony Ruggerio are with Cerino tonight. So they’re idle. But last night they were out hustling. I don’t know what they did early in the evening because I’d lost them. But after some midnight pizza I picked them up again, and they were busy. You read about those murders in Manhattan last night?”
“You mean that big-shot banker and the auction house guy?” Vinnie asked.
“Those are the ones,” Franco said. “Angelo and Tony did both those jobs. And they were messy. They almost got nabbed both times. In fact, I had to be careful not to get picked up for questioning, especially on the banker job. I was parked out front when the cops came.”
“What the hell did they whack them for?” Vinnie said. His face had gotten quite red and his eyes started to bulge.
“I still don’t know,” Franco said.
“Every day the cops are more agitated!” Vinnie bellowed. “And the more of an uproar they’re in, the worse it gets for business. We’ve had to shut most of our gambling clubs down temporarily.” He glared at Franco. “You got to find out what’s going on.”
“I’ve put out some feelers,” Franco said. “I’ll be asking around as well as tailing Angelo and Tony. Somebody’s got to know.”
“I have to do something,” Vinnie said. “I can’t sit around forever while they ruin everything.”
“Give me a couple more days,” Franco said. “If I can’t figure it out, I can get rid of Angelo and Tony.”
“But that would mean a war,” Vinnie said. “I’m not sure I’m ready for that either. That’s even worse for business.”
“You know something, Doc?” Cerino said. “That wasn’t so bad at all. I really was worried but I didn’t feel a thing when you operated. How’d it go?”
“Like a dream,” Jordan said. He was holding a small penlight and shining it in the eye on which he’d just performed surgery. “And it looks fine now. The cornea’s as clear as a bell and the chamber’s deep.”
“If you’re happy,” Cerino said, “I’m happy.”
Cerino was in one of the private rooms of the Goldblatt wing of Manhattan General Hospital. Jordan was making late postoperative rounds since he’d finished his last corneal transplant only half an hour earlier. He’d done four in that day alone. In the background Angelo was leaning against the wall. In an armchair next to the door to the bathroom, Tony was fast asleep.
“What we’ll do is give this eye a few days,” Jordan said, straightening up. “Then if all goes well, which I’m sure it will,” he hastily added, “we’ll do the other eye. Then you’ll be as good as new.”
“You mean I have to wait for the other operation, too?” Cerino demanded. “You didn’t tell me about that. When we started you just said I had to wait for the first operation.”
“Relax!” Jordan urged. “Don’t get your blood pressure up. It’s good to put a little time between operations so that your eye has a chance to recover before I work on the other one. And at the rate we’ve been going today, you shouldn’t have long to wait.”
“I don’t like surprises from doctors,” Cerino warned. “I don’t understand this second waiting period. Are you sure this eye you operated on is doing OK?”
“It’s doing beautifully,” Jordan assured him. “No one could have done better, believe me.”
“If I didn’t believe you I wouldn’t be laying here,” Cerino said. “But if I’m doing this good and if I got to wait for a few days what am I doing in this depressing room. I want to go home.”
“It’s better that you stay. You need medication in your eye. And should any infection set in—”
“Anybody can put a couple of drops in my eyes,” Paul said. “With all that’s happened, my wife Gloria has gotten pretty good at it. I want out of here!”
“If you are determined to go, I can’t keep you,” Jordan said nervously. “But at least be sure to rest and stay quiet.”
Three quarters of an hour later an orderly pushed Cerino to Angelo’s car in a wheelchair. Tony had already moved the Town Car to the curb in front of the hospital’s entrance. He had the engine idling.
Cerino had paid his hospital bill in cash, a feat that had stunned the cashier who was on duty. After a snap of his boss’s fingers, Angelo had peeled hundred-dollar bills off a big roll he had in his pocket until he’d surpassed the total.
“Hands off,” Cerino said when Angelo tried to help him out of the wheelchair when it reached the side of the car and the orderly had activated the wheel brakes. “I can do it myself. What do you think I am, handicapped?” Cerino pushed himself into a standing po
sition and swayed for a moment getting his considerable bulk directly over his legs.
He was dressed in his street clothes. Over his operated eye he had a metal shield with multiple tiny holes.
Slowly he eased himself into the front passenger seat. He allowed Angelo to close the door for him. Angelo got in the backseat. Tony started driving, but as he reached the street he misjudged the curb. The car bounced.
“Jesus Christ!” Cerino yelled.
Tony cowered over the steering wheel.
They drove through the Midtown Tunnel and out the Long Island Expressway. Cerino became expansive.
“You know something, boys,” Cerino beamed, “I feel great! After all that worry and planning, it finally happened. And as I told the doc, it wasn’t half bad. Of course I felt that first needle stick.”
Angelo cringed in the backseat. He’d been squeamish about going into the operating room from the start. When he’d seen Jordan direct that huge needle into Cerino’s face, just below the eye, Angelo had almost passed out. Angelo hated needles.
“But after the needle,” Cerino continued, “I didn’t feel a thing. I even fell asleep. Can you believe that? Can you, Tony?”
“No, I can’t,” Tony said nervously.
“When I woke up it was done,” Cerino said. “Jordan might be an ass, but he’s one hell of a surgeon. And you know something? I think he’s smart. I know he’s practical. We might very well go into business, he and I. What do you say about that, Angelo?”
“An interesting idea,” Angelo said without enthusiasm.
12
* * *
7:45 a.m., Saturday
Manhattan
Since it was Saturday, Laurie did not set her alarm. But she woke up before eight anyway, again troubled by her nightmare about Shelly. Vaguely she wondered if it would help if she were to see someone professional.