Shedrow (10 page)

Catroni continued, “You see, we know what kind of man Chet is, which is actually good for you, Doc. Chet never had the stomach for this business—my business that is. He’s not the kind of guy who could stand to see his friend the surgeon lose a few fingers. Now me, it wouldn’t bother me a bit. For me, it’s just business.”

Gianni was still holding the bloody bandage around his finger. Briefly removing it, he looked down and it still gushed bright red blood. He reapplied the pressure. The finger throbbed.

Hector came up behind Gianni and blindfolded him again. “Time to go home, Doc. Today’s your lucky day…nothing but a little skin off your pinky, right. Don’t look no worse for the wear, actually.
Now it’s time to show Chet where you had the operation started on your hand. Too bad I couldn’t finish it today, huh, Doc?”

Gianni, relieved for the moment, thought back to that first day at the training track with Chiefly Endeavor. He remembered the serenity of the scene, with the fog lifting and the sun becoming more intense. How had he swayed from the serenity of that morning to this wretched, criminal scene.

Gianni folded his hands on the desk in front of him. The bandage on his ring finger was gone. A small rubber finger cot protected the wound now. Two days had passed since the Catroni incident, and he now contemplated how he would manage the next few days. He dialed the number for Pat Ferris, his long-time office manager.

“Pat,” he said, “Sorry to bother you on a Sunday, but I have a little dilemma. Friday after work, I had this freak accident and managed to slice a little sliver off my ring finger.”

“Little sliver?” she asked.

“Yeah, a couple millimeters, nothing that could be sutured. But it will have to stay covered for a few more days until I can properly scrub. So I won’t be going to the OR for a few days, anyway. I’m at the office looking at my schedule now and…”

“Dr. Gianni, would you care to tell me how this happened, and how serious it is, and never mind your schedule just yet.”

“It was this freak accident. I was putting the new registration
sticker on my car. So I used one of those razor blade scrapers to take off the old one. I put in a fresh blade, scraped off the old sticker, then set the blade on a towel that was sitting on the passenger seat. Then I forgot all about the damn thing. I came back later, opened the passenger door, and thought I was just grabbing the towel. Except that the scraper was kind of hidden in the towel, and my finger hit it just right, or just wrong I should say. So I took a clean slice off the tip. Damn thing bled like crazy. I can see why patients who take a daily aspirin like I do can bleed to death after a car wreck. I probably lost close to a pint of blood from this little cut.”

“My God! So you went to the ER, I trust.”

“Actually I didn’t. There was really nothing to do for it, Pat. It’s just going to have to heal by secondary intention. It just wasn’t anything that could be sutured or grafted.”

“Who determined that, and how did you stop the bleeding?”

“With lots of pressure. Trust me, Pat. This isn’t that bad. I’ll be able to see consults and post ops in the office Monday. I just have a finger cot on it right now. By mid week I’ll probably be up to some simpler office surgeries, and I can be back in the OR by next Monday. Fortunately, it’s on my left hand, the ring finger. But it will keep me from doing a full surgical scrub for a few days yet. Can you help me contact some patients and adjust Monday’s schedule? I’m looking at it now and it really shouldn’t be too bad making the adjustments. By the way, I see that ER follow-up still hasn’t been scheduled, you know, the machete man. Did we send him a registered letter?”

“It was returned with a signature but he never did call to make a follow-up appointment. I know you really wanted to see his result, but he’s impossible. I left at least three phone messages and followed
up with the registered letter. Did you know that he had no medical insurance but he paid his bill in full? So I doubt that he’s unhappy in any way. He just won’t respond.”

“I never even saw him for suture removal.”

“I suppose those folks have their own network of doctors, sort of like a medical
consigliere
.”

“Careful, Pat. Those are my folks you’re talking about.”

“Dr. Gianni, I don’t expect you share much of anything with that patient, apart from a name that ends in a vowel. Now are you sure there’s nothing else you need right now?”

“I’m sure, Pat. Thank you.”

Once they finished, he picked up the phone again, this time to call Chet Pawlek’s cell phone.

“Chet, it’s Gianni. We have to talk.”

“It’s Sunday. What the hell is so important?”

“I had a visit, I guess you might call it that, from your pals the Catroni boys.”

“Fucking bastards, Anthony. What the hell did they want with you, cocksuckers?”

“I’m at my office right now. No one else is here. I think you better come in right now.”

GIANNI HEARD THE POUNDING on the door, four loud thumps, Chet’s signature knock. He walked to the entrance and unlocked the door.

“What the fuck is going on,” Chet bellowed.

Gianni walked back to his office with Chet bounding behind.

“You tell me,” Gianni said.

Chet looked at the walls of Gianni’s office, at the diplomas and a framed newspaper clipping that featured Dr. Gianni. “How did you ever get mixed up in this b-b-business? My business, I mean. Look at all these awards and shit.”

“If I had known this would be part of the package, Chet, I would have just adopted some retired thoroughbred and kept him on a farm near my house in Westchester. No one told me I might lose a finger or two if I bought a race horse.”

Chet picked up an antique surgical instrument from Gianni’s desk, holding it in his large fat hands. “I could use something like this though, might come in handy,” he said smiling.

Gianni took the finger cot off his ring finger and waved it at Chet, then pressed the fingers of both hands into a steeple and stared at him across the desk. “Listen to me Chet. Catroni told me to show you this. Some guy named Hector did it to me.” He gestured again with the cut finger. “They told me to tell you that if Chiefly Endeavor doesn’t die, then there are more fingers to go, mine and yours. They told me they didn’t think you’d want that to happen to me.”

Chet raised his voice, “You didn’t go to the p-p-police, did you?”

“I didn’t think it would do any good. Plus, it’s not the sort of publicity I need for my practice right now. Mobster takes a slice off surgeon’s finger! Great for business. I need that like a bull needs tits.”

“Well you’re sure as hell right about it not doing any good. These fucking bastards have no morals. You go to the police and next thing you know your wife shows up dead.”

“Actually, they asked me about Janice, in a mocking way. Just to
let me know they knew her name, I suppose.”

Chet exploded again, “Jesus Christ, those mother fucking bastards.”

“Why were you asking me those questions a while back, about equine influenza, and the equine herpes virus? Gianni said. Did you have a horse contract some viral illness?”

“No…I mean, well y-yeah, a while ago. All right, truth be told, they came to me a while back. I owe them some money. A lot of money, actually. And I can’t pay it, not right now anyway. So they asked me about insurance and all. I mean, I thought about it, about something happening to the horse, but I would n-n-never do
anything
to that horse, never.”

“Chet, so help me God,
if you ever
do anything to harm that horse, I will kill you. I may be a surgeon, but I’m also a hunter and a damn good marksman. I have a collection of rifles and some very accurate pistols too, like my 38 Special 1911. Believe me, I know how to use them. And believe me, I will protect that horse with the same vengeance that I would my family. I will hunt you down first and worry about the consequences later.”

“Look Anthony, I’m sorry this all happened. I never in a million years thought you’d be dragged into this whole mess. This is my problem, and those bastards had no right…”

“So what do we do now?” Gianni interrupted.

“I have to think. I don’t know. I’ll have to speak with my advisors, you know. Did they say how long b-b-before…”

“Before what, Chet?”

“Well, before they’d be back.”

“No, but I expect we’ll hear. Clearly a dead horse is worth
more for them than a surgeon’s finger. How much money do you owe them?”

“Five mill, give or take a little interest.”

“How much can you get together?” Gianni asked.

“I can work this out, I promise. I don’t want you involved. And nothing is going to happen to the h-h-horse, you have my word on that. I’ll speak with my advisors and we’ll work this out with those Catroni pricks.”

“It better happen fast, Chet.”

“It will, Anthony. Trust me, it will. I mean your nerves must be shot.”

“I’m a fighter, Chet. My nerves are fine. But it better happen fast.”

Two weeks later

“Dr. Gianni, you have a call on line two, Mr. Duncker calling.”

“Can you tell him I’ll call him right back, please? I’m just finishing a report.”

The receptionist buzzed him back a moment later. “Dr. Gianni, he says it’s urgent. He asked if you were in surgery.”

“Hello, Stu.”

“Anthony, do you have some time? I’m afraid I have some terrible news. It’s Chiefly Endeavor. I received a call from Midway earlier today. The night watchman found him in his stall early this morning. He died this morning, Anthony. I’m so sorry.”

“How…”

“We don’t know anything yet, I’m afraid. There will be an autopsy, of course. And a huge insurance investigation, no doubt. I plan to speak with the press in the morning. I’ll get the news out to that Resnick chap who works with Associated Press.

I like his style, and I trust he’ll be fair. And of course I’ll let you talk directly with your old pal, Dr. Highet. He has some real concerns. Medically, I mean. He’s a bit baffled by the whole thing, or so he led me to believe. I wish I knew more. You’re the first of the partners I called. I know how attached you were to that horse.”

“I’ll call Highet,” Gianni replied faintly. “Goodbye, Stu.”

Gianni hung the receiver up and tapped his left hand on the desk. He heard the dull thump of his blunted ring finger on the wood and stopped when he felt the stinging still present in the healing digit.

He flipped open his Rolodex and dialed the number for Rood and Riddle, the world famous equine hospital in Lexington. He had meant to call his old college acquaintance for some time now, but never quite got around to it. Now it couldn’t wait.

“Dr. Steven Highet, please. This is Dr. Anthony Gianni calling.”

Highet came to the phone quickly. “Dr. Anthony Gianni, I can’t believe it.”

“Hello Steven. Do you know I’ve wanted to call you ever since I got into this crazy horse business and just never got around to it? And now…”

“I’m really sorry, Anthony. And we will get together and catch up on all the years. But this whole thing is just tragic and quite frankly, confusing to me right now.”

“What in hell happened?” Gianni asked.

“I don’t know, but I promise you, I intend to find out. About all I can tell you now is that I received a panicked call from the night watchman at Midway early this morning. It wasn’t even light yet, but
I had started my rounds there and I was just two barns over when I got the call on my cell. So I literally ran to his stall and found him on the ground. Looked at first glance like he could have just been sleeping, but he had no pulse and he wasn’t breathing. He’d been dead for some time, and there was no chance of resuscitation. The necropsy, or autopsy, is scheduled for tomorrow and we’ve ordered full toxicology screens. It’s my case, Anthony, and believe me I’m going to be all over it.”

“I loved that horse. Can we work together on this?”

“I intend to keep you informed every step of the way. Even Stu Duncker has said I can communicate with you primarily, which he doesn’t often do. He usually likes to keep his partners just slightly stupid, from what I’ve seen. We normally have instructions to speak only with him. I guess he thinks your medical knowledge may come in handy here, and he does know we’re old friends.”

“Call me any time, Steven. I want to know what’s going on, and I want to help in any way I can.”

Gianni hung up the phone and stared out the window at nothing in particular.
Chester Pawlek. Could the stupid bastard have actually done it after all?

John Pawlek paused at the entrance to the Newark Division Office of the FBI. He had spent weeks rehearsing, mulling over how much information he was willing to give. He figured he could discover enough to put his father away for life. He also knew he had little to lose, having already rejected any ties to the family business. In his mind, he had abandoned his family ties long ago, though he and his father still spoke.

John Pawlek was not the stereotypic mafia kid. In fact, he was a bundle of contradictions. John was a voracious reader but a poor student. He hated his father’s business associates, as Chet called them, but he loved to go target shooting with one of them, a man dubbed “Uncle Ralphie” by Chet.

John stood nearly six feet tall, with a muscular frame sculpted by years of weight training, but spoke with a soft, womanish voice. His voice sounded a lot like his mother’s, with the same New Jersey accent; yet he was far more articulate than either of his parents.

His father often made fun of his effeminate voice, and his reading habits, too. Chet would stroll into John’s room, pick up a novel he was reading and ask, “What’s this, another girlie book?”

As much as he hated Chet, John still found it difficult to complete this act of betrayal. It would be completed with little sense of satisfaction or revenge. What motivated him and steadied him now was the recollection of that evening when he heard his father and mother talking about Chiefly Endeavor.

Al Hollis, the senior investigator on the Pawlek case, introduced himself and sat across the table from John. He was a shorter man who looked to be about forty, with a balding head and diminutive grey eyes that disappeared into his plump face. John thought he looked a little too soft for an FBI man, but still frightening. The office was plain, rather stark. John imagined that some really hardened criminals had sat in the same chair, as he readied himself for his own interrogation.