his mind’s eye, he could see Cindy Carlson either scrounging around in
the medicine cabinet for her mother’s sleeping pills or hanging out in
the local hardware store buying a length of rope.
‘Yeah, what is it?’ a voice said on the other end of the line.
‘I’d like to speak to Mr. Vincent Dominick,’ Raymond said with as much
authority as he could muster. He detested the necessity to deal with the
likes of these people, but he had little choice. Seven years of intense
labor and commitment were on the line, not to mention his entire future.
‘Who’s calling?’
‘Dr. Raymond Lyons.’
There was a pause before the man said: ‘Hang on!’
To Raymond’s surprise he was put on hold with one of Beethoven’s sonatas
playing in the background. To Raymond it seemed like some sort of
oxymoron.
A few minutes later Vinnie Dominick’s dulcet voice came over the line.
Raymond could picture the man’s practiced and deceptive banality as if
Vinnie were a well-dressed character actor playing himself.
‘How did you get this number, Doctor?’ Vinnie asked. His tone was
nonchalant, yet somehow more threatening because of it. Raymond’s mouth
went bone-dry. He had to cough.
‘Dr. Levitz gave it to me,’ Raymond managed.
‘What can I do for you, Doctor?’ Vinnie asked.
‘Another problem has come up,’ Raymond croaked. He cleared his throat
again. ‘I’d like to see you to discuss it.’
There was a pause that went on for longer than Raymond could tolerate.
Just when he was about to ask if Vinnie was still there, the mobster
responded: ‘When I got involved with you people I thought it was
supposed to give me peace of mind. I didn’t think it was supposed to
make my life more complicated.’
‘These are just minor growing pains,’ Raymond said. ‘In actuality, the
project is going extremely well.’
‘I’ll meet you in the Neopolitan Restaurant on Corona Avenue in Elmhurst
in a half hour,’ Vinnie said. ‘Think you can find it?’
‘I’m certain I can,’ Raymond said. ‘I’ll take a cab, and I’ll leave
immediately.’
‘See you there,’ Vinnie said before hanging up.
Raymond rummaged hastily through the top drawer of his desk for his New
York City map that included all five boroughs. He spread the map out on
his desk, and using the index, located Corona Avenue in Elmhurst. He
estimated that he could make it easily in half an hour provided the
traffic wasn’t bad on the Queensborough Bridge. That was a concern
because it was almost four o’clock: the beginning of rush hour.
As Raymond came flying out of his study, pulling his coat back on,
Darlene asked him where he was going. He told her he didn’t have time to
explain. He said he’d be back in an hour or so.
Raymond ran to Park Avenue, where he caught a cab. It was a good thing
he’d brought his map along because the Afghan taxi driver had no idea
even where Elmhurst was, much less Corona Avenue.
The trip was not easy. Just getting across the East Side of Manhattan
took almost a quarter of an hour. And then the bridge was stop-and-go.
By the time Raymond was supposed to be at the restaurant, his cab had
just reached Queens. But from there it was easy going, and Raymond was
only fifteen minutes late when he walked into the restaurant and pushed
aside a heavy, velvet curtain.
It was immediately apparent the restaurant was not open for business.
Most of the chairs were upside down on top of the tables. Vinnie
Dominick was sitting by himself in one of the curved, red
velvet-upholstered booths that lined the walls. In front of him were a
newspaper and a small cup of expresso. A lighted cigarette lay in a
glass ashtray.
Four other men were smoking at the bar, sprawled on bar stools. Two of
them Raymond recognized from their visit to his apartment. Behind the
bar was an overweight bearded man washing glassware. The rest of the
restaurant was empty.
Vinnie waved Raymond to his booth.
‘Sit down, Doc,’ Vinnie said. ‘A coffee?’
Raymond nodded as he slid into the banquette. It took some effort