“How about coming by and seeing my apartment?” Jordan said. “If you like the office, you’ll love the apartment. It was designed by the same people.”
“Sure,” Laurie said, mainly as a reflex. She was still trying to absorb Jordan’s comment about his income.
As they retraced their route through the office, Laurie asked after Jordan’s secretary. “Did you ever hear from her?”
“No,” Jordan said, obviously still angry about the no-show. “She never called and there was never any answer at her home. I can only imagine it has something to do with her no-good husband. If she’d not been such a good secretary, I would have gotten rid of her just because of him. He has a restaurant in Bayside, but he’s also involved with a number of shady deals. She confided in me in order to borrow bail on several occasions. He’s never been convicted, but he’s spent plenty of time on Rikers Island.”
“Sounds like a mobster himself,” Laurie said.
Once they got into the back of the car, Laurie asked Jordan his missing secretary’s name.
“Marsha Schulman,” Jordan said. “Why do you ask?”
“Just curious,” Laurie said.
It didn’t take long for Thomas to pull up to the private entrance of Trump Tower. The doorman opened the door for Laurie to get out, but she held back.
“Jordan,” she said, looking at him in the dim light of the interior of the limo, “would you be angry if I asked for a raincheck on seeing your apartment? I just noticed the time, and I have to get up for work in the morning.”
“Not at all,” Jordan said. “I understand perfectly. I’ve got surgery again myself at the crack of dawn. But there is a condition.”
“Which is?”
“That we have dinner again tomorrow night.”
“You can put up with me two evenings in a row?” Laurie asked. She’d not been “rushed” like this since high school. She was flattered but wary.
“With pleasure,” Jordan said, humorously affecting an English accent.
“All right,” Laurie said. “But let’s pick a place not quite so formal.”
“Done,” Jordan said. “You like Italian?”
“I love Italian.”
“Then it will be Palio,” Jordan said. “At eight.”
Vinnie Dominick paused outside of the Vesuvio Restaurant on Corona Avenue in Elmhurst and took advantage of his reflection in the window to smooth his hair and adjust his Gucci tie. Satisfied, he motioned to Freddie Capuso to open the door.
Vinnie’s nickname since junior high school was “the Prince.” He’d been considered a handsome fellow whom the neighborhood girls had found quite attractive. His features were full but well sculpted. Favoring a tailored look, he heavily moussed his dark hair and brushed it straight back from his forehead. He looked considerably younger than his forty years and, unlike most of his contemporaries, he prided himself on his physical prowess. A high school basketball star, he’d kept his game over the years, playing three nights a week at St. Mary’s gym.
Entering the restaurant, Vinnie scanned the room. Freddie and Richie crowded in behind him. Vinnie quickly spotted whom he was looking for: Paul Cerino. The restaurant still had a few diners since its kitchen stayed open until eleven, but most of its clientele had already departed. It was a good location and time for a meeting.
Vinnie walked to Paul’s table with the confidence of one meeting an old, good friend. Freddie and Richie followed several steps behind. When Vinnie reached the table, the two men sitting with Paul stood. Vinnie recognized them as Angelo Facciolo and Tony Ruggerio.
“How are you, Paul?” Vinnie asked.
“Can’t complain,” Paul said. He stuck out a hand for Vinnie to shake.
“Sit down, Vinnie,” Paul said. “Have some wine. Angelo, pour the man some wine.”
As Vinnie sat down, Angelo picked up an open bottle of Brunello from the table and filled the glass in front of Vinnie.
“I want to thank you for agreeing to see me,” Vinnie said. “After what happened last time, I consider it a special favor.”
“When you said it was important and involved family, how could I turn you down?”
“First I want to tell you how much I sympathize with your eye problem,” Vinnie said. “It was a terrible tragedy and it never should have happened. And right now in front of these other people I want to swear on my mother’s grave I knew nothing about it. The punks did it on their own.”