"We think it is Full Speed Ahead. It was dark and hard to see, but Brennan brought along some binoculars, and that was what it looked like."
Brennan nodded to acknowledge Carlo's giving him the credit. "You guys are doing a good job," Louie said. "That could be very interesting information. As far as I know, no one is aware Vinnie Dominick is hiding a yacht in New Jersey. It could be the answer to how he's getting his drugs these days."
"What do you want us to do?"
"Hang out and see when they come back and whether the girl's with them or not. If it's early enough, go back to the Trump Tower. I want a list of the businesses with office space. Something's going on with one of those businesses, and I'd like to know what it is."
Carlo disconnected with Louie and turned to Brennan. "Did you hear? We've got to sit tight."
"Thanks for giving me credit about the boat's name."
"Hey, you deserved it. What do you say we go find some coffee? Who knows how long these dorks will be out for their romantic cruise."
"That's the best idea you've had today," Brennan said.
"WELL?" FRANCO ASKED when Angelo came back up onto the bridge deck. Franco had the big boat up to a reasonable speed so that it was just planing. He could have gone considerably faster, but there was no need, and the diesels made a tremendous, earsplitting roar when they were pushed much faster.
"She said she liked me better because your dick is so small."
Franco took a playful swing at Angelo, which Angelo easily evaded. Earlier, Franco had won the coin toss, and while Angelo piloted the boat, he'd gone down to have his way with the unconscious Amy. After that, it had been Angelo's turn.
"How far are we going to go?" Angelo asked. He looked out at the New York City skyline to the left and the Jersey shoreline to the right. In the middle distance ahead was the illuminated Statue of Liberty.
"About the same as last night. Did you get the chain out?"
"Not yet."
They rode in silence for a short while until Angelo said, "What are we going to do?"
"Why are you asking? We're going to do just what we did last night. Shoot her and throw her overboard."
"Why bother to shoot her?"
Franco took his eyes off the water in front and regarded Angelo in the half-light of the bridge. "She'd be still alive when we tossed her into the drink."
"So what?"
Franco shrugged. "It doesn't seem right throwing her into the water alive. It's not human."
"So you think you are human. Is that it, Franco?"
Franco redirected his attention to the water in front. He saw some running lights of a boat off the starboard side on a course across their bow. He backed down the engines and the boat slowed quickly.
"What the hell are you driving at?" Franco questioned angrily. "Are you trying to play with my mind somehow?"
"Hell, no!" Angelo exclaimed. "Jeez, calm down! I'm just asking because actually, I feel the same way. It's just not right throwing her in without icing her first. But that makes me wonder if we're two old softies."
"Hey, speak for yourself."
"Franco, this is a discussion, not an argument. In comparison with the wiseguys of old, particularly the enforcers like us, we're pussycats."
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"I saw a movie once about what it was like when the real bosses were in control. When one of the musclemen of the day took someone out to knock 'em off like we're doing, they tied the person to a chair and put their feet in cement, and while the cement dried, the person being knocked off could think about what was soon to happen. Now, those guys were the real baddies, not like us."
"You're out of your freakin' mind."
"Maybe, but someday I'd like to have a chance to do it. Besides it would be easier and faster today, with stuff like quick-set and the like on the market."
"Well, I can tell you one thing for sure. We're not going back to Home Depot tonight so you can have some fun and games."
12
Angela hurried out onto Fifth Avenue from the commercial entrance to the Trump Tower, and merged into the heavy pedestrian traffic heading south. She had to wait for the light at 56th Street, and glanced at her watch. She was already late for her scheduled seven-fifteen dinner with Chet McGovern. It seemed that lately she was always running and always late. The pressure was unrelenting. She knew she shouldn't be taking the time to dine formally, but the coincidence of having had a confrontation of sorts with Dr. Laurie Montgomery and being persistently asked to dinner by one of the medical examiner's colleagues on the same day was too much not to take advantage of. Angela was concerned that Laurie Montgomery could be the biggest current threat to the secrecy Angels Healthcare had managed vis-a-vis the MRSA problem and its cash-flow consequence. Angela needed to know how big a threat.
When the light changed, Angela's mind went back to her other problems. Paul Yang still had not returned, and just before leaving the office, Angela had checked with Bob. She thought he would have called if the accountant had contacted him, but Angela wanted to be sure. It would have been nice to be able to cross off one of her concerns. At the same time Angela was checking with Bob about Paul Yang, she had asked him if all had been arranged with Michael about the extra fifty thousand. Bob had said everything had been taken care of except the money itself, which he hoped would be wired in the morning.
The last thing Angela had had to take care of before she left the office was a blowup between Cynthia Sarpoulus and Herman Straus, the president of Angels Orthopedic Hospital. Cynthia demanded to keep David Jeffries's OR closed for another twenty-four hours, while Herman wanted it available. It was his contention that there had been four operations after Jeffries, which had had no infections, and the OR had been fastidiously cleaned. Cynthia, on the other hand, wanted to wait a day to check it again before giving it a green light. Under normal circumstances the chief operating officer, Carl Palanco, would have handled the problem, but mercurial Cynthia had threatened to quit, meaning Angela had to step in to mediate. Angela did not want to lose their infection-control professional with MRSA still a potential threat.
At 54th Street, Angela turned left and hurried her step. Despite all the current problems and pressures, she resigned herself to at least enjoy the meal even if it was, like everything else she was doing, in the line of work. After all, on the positive side, it was one of her favorite restaurants.
Coming through the front door and then the inner door, she peeled off her coat and gave it to the coat check person. Approaching the hostess desk, she expected to see one of the owners, of which there were two. Although she didn't know for certain, she suspected they were brothers. The one whom she expected to see, since he acted as the maitre d', was the elegant Italian male with the omnipresent and superbly fitted Italian suit, crisp white shirt, bold Italian silk tie with matching pocket square, and luxuriously dark, rather long and flowing hair. The other was the tough, no-nonsense Italian male exuding testosterone, who could have played the part of a mobster. He dressed considerably more casually yet commanded significant respect tinged with a touch of fear. He usually hung out behind the small bar, and when Angela stepped farther into the room, she caught sight of him in his usual location. When he caught sight of her, he waved and greeted her by name. Prior to the disastrous MRSA problem, Angela had patronized the restaurant nearly on a weekly basis, but it had been for lunch, not dinner. She quickly surmised the brothers probably rotated evenings, since the power lunch was the establishment's forte.