Critical (29 page)

“My father was a dentist, quite a successful and good one, actually, but he had in one of his rare flashes of honesty admitted he'd wanted to be a doctor but had been unable to get into medical school. To please him, back when I was only ten or eleven I told him I would go to medical school, which wasn't entirely a surprise, since one of my favorite child games was being a nurse or a doctor, which at the time I thought was the same thing.”

“You were just being clairvoyant. Year by year, the two fields are coming closer and closer. The major difference now is nurses work harder and doctors are paid more.”

Angela smiled but was preoccupied by her own story. She had never before expressed it even to herself quite so succinctly.

“So part of your motivation to go to medical school was to spite your father?” Chet asked.

“I think it was a part. It was like a personally rewarding way to get a kind of revenge. My getting an M.D. challenged him to the extent he skipped my graduation.”

“I don't know if I can quite buy this theory in its entirety,” Chet remarked.

“Why?”

“The fact that you subsequently did an internal-medicine residency, one of the most demanding, took a lot of commitment.”

“I'm still not practicing.”

“And why is that?”

“Actually, because my practice literally went bankrupt. I ran up a considerable debt because the Medicaid reimbursement was either slow or nonexistent, and the Medicare too low to cover the shortfall.”

“Wow,” Chet said. “My life in comparison with yours has been a walk in the park. As a child growing up, my most emotionally draining moment was when some older kids kicked in the face of my Halloween pumpkin. My folks are still together, my father came to every athletic event and graduation I ever had from kindergarten on up.”

“With that kind of stable background, how come you're such a Casanova? I hope you don't mind me asking, especially since I don't know it's true. You seemed so at ease when you approached me last night, and your repartee seems so polished.”

Chet laughed. “It's all an act. I'm always nervous on the inside and worried about being rejected. Calling me Casanova gives me more credit than I deserve. Casanova was successful; I'm usually not, although once I do go out with a woman a half a dozen times or so, I find myself yearning for the chase. Whether it represents a problem or not, I don't know. It started in medical school, when I had to work as well as go to school. I didn't have time for a real relationship, because a real relationship takes time.” Chet shrugged. “So the seeds were planted back then.”

“Well, that sounds honest.”

“Honest, yes; admirable, probably not. I'd like to say I just haven't met the right woman, but I can't because I usually don't hang around long enough to find out.”

“Have you ever had a long-term relationship?”

“Oh, yeah! Practically all the way through college. My girlfriend and I had plans for her to follow me to Chicago where I went to medical school, but at the last minute she ditched me for somebody here in New York.”

“I'm sorry.”

“All's fair in love and war.”

“Maybe that episode affected you more than you give it credit for.”

“Maybe,” Chet said. Then, to change the subject back to her, he said, “You mentioned you were divorced. Do you want to talk about that?”

Angela hesitated. Normally, she avoided talking about her divorce, not only because she was by nature a private person but because the whole sad affair could still infuriate her even after six years. Yet, since Chet had been so open and she herself had already related even more private matters, she suppressed her usual reticence and said, “At the very end of medical school I was, like a teenage girl, swept off my feet by a man who I thought was the antithesis of my father. Sadly, that was not the case. He too was ultimately threatened by my medical degree. He also had affairs and, worst of all, developed a penchant for hitting me.”

“Ouch,” Chet said with a wince. “Domestic violence is intolerable and inexcusable. Unfortunately, we see more of it in the morgue than people realize.”

The waiter suddenly appeared and whisked away their plates, then asked if they cared for dessert. Chet looked across at Angela.

“I'm not a big dessert person,” she confessed.

“Nor I,” said Chet. “But a cappuccino would hit the spot.”

“I'll finish the wine,” Angela said, pointing to the bottle. The waiter happily poured it and took the empty bottle away.

“Okay,” Chet said, sitting back in his chair. “Your inner-city practice went bankrupt. When was that?”

“Two thousand one,” Angela said. “Hopefully, that year will be my nadir. I mean, it couldn't get much worse. My medical practice went bankrupt and I got divorced, two ugly experiences that I don't recommend for anyone. It's the one year I would not like to live over again.”

“I can well imagine. So, how did you make the transition from private medical practice to a company executive? By the way, what is your position, some sort of medical adviser?”

“I'm the founder and the CEO.”

Chet's wry smile reappeared, and he shook his head in disbelief. “You are a trip! Founder and CEO! I'm awestruck. How did that happen?”

“The bankruptcy was a humiliating disaster, but it did have one saving grace. It impressed upon me the detrimental power that economics plays in medicine. I mean, I was somewhat aware before my bankruptcy, but not the extent I was after. Anyway, I had an idea to try to do something about it, but medical school taught me nothing about medical economics. In fact, I knew nothing about economics or business, which medical care has unfortunately become a slave to, so I went back to school and got an MBA at Columbia.”

Chet put his head back and slapped a hand to his forehead. “That's enough,” he pleaded. “I can't take any more. You're making me feel too blasted inadequate.”

“You're kidding, of course?”

“I suppose,” he admitted. “But, lady, you have one hell of a CV.”

The waiter came and served Chet's cappuccino.

“I have a question for you,” Angela said, suddenly realizing she'd been so engrossed in their conversation that she'd not yet touched on the issue that had brought her out to dine.

“Shoot,” Chet responded.

“I wanted to ask you about Dr. Laurie Montgomery.”

“What would you like to know?”

“Would you characterize her as a persistent, get-the-job-done person, or would you think of her as laid-back?”

“The former for sure. In fact, I'd characterize her as one of the most persistent people I know, both she and her husband. A few of the other MEs think of them as such compulsive workers that they make the rest of us look like slackers.”

Angela felt the muscles in her gut tighten. She had hoped and expected Chet would say something to mitigate her worries, not fan them. “I actually met her today. It wasn't under the best of circumstances. We have had an outbreak of postoperative methicillin-resistant staph that has bedeviled us for a month or so and which has required us to go to extraordinary effort to control, even to the point of hiring a full-time epidemiologist and infection-control specialist.”

“Laurie mentioned the problem,” Chet said. “She also reminded me that I had posted one of your cases.”

“Oh, she did?”

“Yes. She came by my office to pick up the case, which I'd done a number of weeks ago, and was still waiting for some lab results. She had just done a similar one this morning. I guess both cases came from one of your hospitals.”

“Did she say what she was going to do about it, if anything? I mean, we are already doing everything in our power. I personally have authorized our infection-control person free rein.”

“Well, you can relax, because Laurie specifically said she was going to solve your problem if it kills her.”

Angela's throat went dry. She took a sip of wine. “Did she use those exact words?”

“Absolutely.”

Suddenly, Angela wanted the evening to be over. Although she had enjoyed herself more than she would have imagined prior to talking about Laurie Montgomery, she now had a problem that could not wait. Without concern of its precipitousness, she put down her glass, folded her napkin, and placed it on the table. She then made a show of looking at her watch.

“How is it I sense our most delightful evening is over?” Chet said, with a touch of melancholy. “I was hoping you'd be willing to walk one block north for a drink at the elegant Saint Regis King Cole Bar.”

“Not tonight. Duty calls,” Angela said. “Let's get the check, and how about we split it?”

“Oh, no!” Chet said. “This is my treat. I made that clear at the beginning.”

“Okay, if you insist, and if you'll pardon me, I have to get back to the office. There's a call I must make.” Angela pushed back her chair and stood. Chet did the same. The unexpectedly precipitous end to such an enjoyable evening flummoxed him.

“We'll talk soon,” Angela said, extending her hand, which Chet shook.

“I hope so,” Chet said.

With a final smile, Angela threaded her way across the room, got her coat from the coat check, and after casting a final glance and wave toward Chet, hurried out of the restaurant.

Chet slowly sat down. His eyes caught those of the waiter, who shrugged in sympathy.

M
ichael flipped his cell phone closed and gritted his teeth. He was in the lavatory on the mezzanine floor of Downtown Cipriani in SoHo. Before he'd fled to the restroom from the intimate private club on the second floor to escape the pounding disco music, he'd been with two of his buddies, entertaining three chicks from New Jersey. His phone had buzzed, and since it was Angela, he'd taken the call but, unable to hear, he'd fled to the john. Now he wished he hadn't.

With great restraint, Michael resisted the temptation to pound the graffiti-covered wall, which was smart, since the wall was lath and plaster, not plasterboard.

“Fuck!” Michael shouted as loud as he could. Within the confines of the small room, the expletive careened around the walls in an explosion of acoustical energy, making Michael's ears ring in protest. He gripped the sides of the only sink and tensed his muscles as if he were about to rip it off the wall. Slowly, he let his eyes rise up and stare at himself in the mirror. He looked terrible. His product-coated hair was standing on end as if ten thousand volts of electricity had gripped his body, and his eyes looked like those of Dracula.

He then breathed out. He was furious but under control. His bitch of an ex had just thrown another problem at him, as if he were some pissant lackey. If he weren't already in up to his eyeballs, he would have simply told her with glee to go screw herself, but that was not possible. He had to handle it, and the only way was to go out to Queens and again grovel at Vinnie's highly polished, wingtipped feet.

Suddenly giving in to his urges, he pounded the wall, but he was smart enough to use his palm, not his fist, so that the force of the blow was delivered over a wider area. Still, his hand tingled when he pulled it away.

Even calmer after the blow, he opened his phone. With trembling fingers, he punched in Vinnie's private cell phone number. It was the phone Vinnie carried with him night and day.

“Tell me you are calling me with some good news for a change,” Vinnie said, in the overly calm voice Michael feared. Michael remembered a time that Vinnie had used that very same voice when he dismissed a guy. Then, as soon as the fellow was out of sight, Vinnie merely nodded to Franco, who also left. And that was the end of the guy, who was never seen again.

“I got to talk to you,” Michael said, with as much equanimity as he could muster.

“Tonight?” Vinnie questioned serenely. In the background, Michael could hear festive chatter and the sound of Frank Sinatra crooning, a sure indication that Vinnie was still at the Neapolitan.

“The sooner, the better,” Michael said. “Sorry to bother you, and I wouldn't have done so it if wasn't important.”

“Well, suit yourself, Mikey, but don't dillydally. The later it gets, the less tolerant I am for screwups, if that's what you are coming to tell me.”

Michael put himself in high gear. He dashed back to the club, which was all but empty, save for his two friends and the three Jersey girls, since it didn't start to rock until after eleven. He told them he had an important meeting but that he'd be back. He then dashed down the fire-escape stairs that were used as the entrance to the club, jumped in his Mercedes parked across the street, and motored off. Since he was so far downtown, he took the Williamsburg Bridge and then the expressway all the way to 108th Street in Corona. In just slightly more than twenty minutes, he had the Neapolitan in sight.

Michael had calmed down significantly during the short drive. He'd even pondered what plan B might be if Vinnie simply refused to help, as he'd done that morning. Michael couldn't come up with any likely alternatives, meaning he had to convince Vinnie that he had to help. Such reasoning may have been well and good while Michael had been in the car, but now that he was crossing the street and about to confront Vinnie, his fears came back with a vengeance.

Just outside the door, he stopped, trying to think up an appropriate intro. Vaguely, he thought he'd try to appeal to Vinnie's vanity, which was at least a big target. With that thought in mind, Michael went through the door and slipped through the curtain.

The restaurant was filled with birthday party revelers. The ceiling was clogged with balloons, and streamers were everywhere. The tiny dance floor was littered with confetti, and a large banner hung behind the bar with the words
Happy Birthday Victorio.
Vinnie was at the same table as he was in the afternoon, with Carol at his side. Michael did not recognize his other friends. Frank Sinatra was still droning away.

When Michael looked at Vinnie, he did a minor double take. He couldn't help but be buoyed. Vinnie was laughing so hard his eyes were apparently tearing. Michael stayed rooted where he was in hopes of catching Vinnie's eye, but after five minutes it was apparent it wasn't going to happen. With reluctance, Michael started off in Vinnie's direction. He recognized a few people, but most everybody else was a stranger. Michael couldn't help but notice that neither Franco nor Angelo seemed to be present, although he did see Freddie and Richie at the bar.

As he neared the table, he finally caught Vinnie's eye, and he was pleased that Vinnie's smile did not falter. Vinnie introduced everyone, and Michael dutifully shook hands around the table. Then Vinnie excused himself, waved for Michael to follow, and walked deeper into the restaurant, waving at some of the guests and shaking hands with others. They then walked quickly through the kitchen, which was in a mild panic to get out the entrées. In the far back of the kitchen was a door to an office. Vinnie went through without hesitation. Paolo Salvato, the owner, looked up from his desk in surprise.

“Paolo, my friend,” Vinnie intoned. “Would it be an imposition if we used your office for a few moments?”

Paolo stood up. “Not at all.” He hustled out from behind the desk and disappeared into the kitchen, pulling the office door closed in the process.

“Okay, Mikey,” Vinnie said, turning to Michael. “What's this new problem that couldn't wait until morning?”

Michael started by saying it was the kind of problem that only Vinnie could deal with. That was the attempt at appeasing Vinnie's ego. Then Michael hurriedly outlined what Angela had told him, namely that there was a woman doctor—a medical examiner, to be precise—who had suddenly taken it upon herself to solve the problem of the bacteria that had been causing the problems at the Angels hospitals. Michael added that this was a very unfortunate development, in that this doctor could go to the media and the IPO would be dead. He finished by saying that someone uniquely persuasive had to talk with her and convince her it was in her interest to cease and desist.

To Michael's relief, Vinnie didn't respond negatively, nor did his expression change while Michael had run through his quick summary. But when Michael was through, in the most unexpected manner, Vinnie cocked his head to the side and with an impenetrably wry smile asked, “By any chance, is the doctor's name Laurie Montgomery?”

“It is,” Michael replied with amazement and not a little confusion.

“Oh, what a tragedy,” Vinnie said, clapping his hands in delight.

“Do you know this individual?”

“Oh, yes,” Vinnie said calmly. “Miss Montgomery and I have a history. She caused me one hell of a blowup with my wife over her brother's funeral home and also got me indicted and thrown in prison for two years. I'd say that means we know each other. But do you know who has had even more trouble than I have had with this bitch?”

“I can't guess,” Michael said. He was astounded and thankful at this unexpected but fortuitous situation.

“Angelo! Fifteen years ago, she was responsible for his face getting so badly burned he almost died.”

Vinnie fumbled in the side pocket of his jacket and tried to pull out his cell phone. In his haste, the phone seemed to resist. When he finally got it free, he quickly made a call. Franco answered. Vinnie put the phone on speaker.

“How are you two guys doing? Enjoying the cruise?”

“We're having a ball,” Franco said. “The first part of the evening was a pain in the balls, but the second part has made up for it. The fish have been fed.”

“Terrific,” Vinnie said. “Is Angelo there?”

“He's right here.”

“Put him on.”

Angelo's unique voice came through the phone's speaker. Since he could barely oppose his lips, his b's, d's, m's, and p's had a distinctive muted quality.

“Angelo,” Vinnie said. “What if I were to tell you that Dr. Laurie Montgomery…You remember her, don't you?”

Instead of answering, Angelo merely laughed in a decisively mordant fashion.

“What if I were to tell you she is endangering an important deal of ours and that you and Franco need to talk some sense into her like you boys did yesterday with Mr. Yang.”

Angelo laughed again, but this time with obvious glee. “I'd tell you that you wouldn't even have to pay me. I'd do it for free, provided I could do it my way.”

“Guess what? Frankie boy just sang that song a few minutes ago here at the Neapolitan. It appears that you're going to get your wish.”

Vinnie disconnected. He put his arm around Michael's shoulder and guided him back through the kitchen. “Seems that this is your lucky day, too. The eight-K problem has been put to bed, and you can stop worrying about Laurie Montgomery. Not bad for a night's work.”

Michael merely nodded that he'd heard. He was speechless. Twenty minutes later, after having a glass of wine at Vinnie's table, he sat in his car, still marveling at the unpredictability of life.