"Absolutely," Vinnie said without hesitation. "Franco and Angelo are like family."
"In that case, I have to admit the rumors are true. There is a very serious cash-flow problem." Paul's voice had an uncharacteristic lisp, as if his tongue was swollen.
"And I've also been told that SEC rules require that such a material change in the company's fiscal situation must be reported within a stipulated time frame."
"That is also true," Paul admitted guiltily. "The required form is called an eight-K, and should be filed within four days."
"And I've been further informed that this required form has not been filed."
"Once again, you are correct," Paul confessed. "The form has been composed but not filed. I was told not to file it by my boss, the CFO."
"How is it normally filed?"
"Electronically, online," Paul said. He glanced out the window, wondering why they had not changed course. He felt slightly dizzy, and his stomach was doing flip-flops.
"Just so I understand: Since this report has not been filed, we are in violation of SEC rules."
"Yes," Paul said reluctantly. The fact that he had been told not to file it did not resolve him of responsibility. The new Sarbanes-Oxley rules made that very clear. He glanced at Angelo, whose presence still bothered him, considering the nature of the conversation and despite Mr. Dominick's assurances.
"It has also been pointed out to me that not filing in a timely fashion could be considered a felony, which leads me to ask if you plan to file so that neither of us are considered accessories."
"I'm going to have one more talk with my boss tomorrow. No matter what, I'm going to take it upon myself to file. So the answer is yes."
"Well, that's a relief," Vinnie said. "Where exactly is the file?"
"It's here, in my laptop."
"Anyplace else?"
"It's on a USB drive. My secretary has it," Paul said. He felt the engine vibrations slacken. Looking back out the window, he could see they had slowed down.
"Is there some particular reason for her having it?"
"Just for a backup. Obviously, my boss and I have not seen eye to eye on this issue, and the laptop actually belongs to the company."
"I'm certainly glad we had this talk," Vinnie said, "because it appears that you and me see eye to eye. I want to thank you for having a moral compass. We got to do the right thing, even if it means temporarily delaying the IPO. By the way, what's your secretary's name?"
"Amy Lucas."
"Is she loyal?"
"Absolutely"
"Where does Amy live?"
"Someplace in New Jersey."
"What does she look like?"
Paul rolled his eyes. He had to think. "She's very petite, with pixie-like features. She looks much younger than she is. I suppose the most notable thing about her is her hair. Right now it is blond with lime-green highlights."
"I'd say that is unique. Does she know what is on the digital storage device?"
"She does," Paul said, aware the engines had come to a near stop. Through the window, he could see from the distant lights along the shore that they had essentially come to a stop. Looking out the other direction, he could see the illuminated Statue of Liberty.
"Was there anyone else involved in either preparing the eight-K or just knowledge of its existence? I don't want to worry about some would-be whistle-blower who might be in the process of filing the damn thing before you do in order to get a few bucks, claiming it wasn't going to be filed."
"No one that I know," Paul said. "The CFO could have told somebody, but I doubt it. He was very clear he didn't want the information to get out."
"Terrific," Vinnie said.
"Mr. Dominick," Paul said, "I think you will have to talk to your men again about getting me back to the marina."
"What?" Vinnie questioned with exaggerated disbelief. "Let me talk to one of those lumpheads."
Paul was about to call out to Angelo and give him the phone when Franco noisily descended, as if on cue, from the bridge deck and approached Paul with his hand outstretched. Paul was surprised at the timing. It seemed that Franco might have been listening in on the conversation.
While Franco stepped away to talk, Angelo stood up. He couldn't have been happier about the prospect of heading back to the marina. Even though he had to make frequent trips on the Full Speed Ahead, he had never become accustomed to being on the boat. It was always at night and usually to pick up drugs from ships coming from Mexico or South America. The problem was that he couldn't swim, and being out on the water, particularly in the darkness, made him more than uneasy. What he needed at the moment was a stiff drink.
At the bar, Angelo took out an old-fashioned glass and poured himself a knuckle of scotch. In the background, he could hear Franco on the phone repeating over and over "yeah" and "okay" and "sure," as though he was talking to his mother. Angelo tossed down the drink and faced back around into the room at the moment Franco said, "Consider it done," and flipped the cell phone closed.
"Time to get you home," Franco said to Paul.
"It's about time," Paul grumbled.
"Finally" Angelo silently mouthed as he slipped his hand under his jacket's lapel and allowed his fingers to close around the butt of his shoulder-holstered Walther TPH.22 semiautomatic.
1
At age thirty-seven, Angela Dawson was no stranger to adversity and anguish, despite having grown up in an upper-middle-class family in the affluent suburb of Englewood, New Jersey, where she had enjoyed all the associated material advantages, including the benefit of an extensive Ivy League education. Armed with both M.D. and MBA degrees as well as excellent health, her life on this early April night in the middle of New York City should have been relatively carefree, especially considering that she had every advantage of a wealthy lifestyle at her fingertips, including a fabulous city apartment and a stunning seaside house on Martha's Vineyard. But such was not the case. Instead, Angela was facing the biggest challenge of her life and suffering significant anxiety and distress in the process. Angels Healthcare LLC, which she had founded and nurtured during the previous five years, was teetering on the edge of either mind-numbing success or utter failure, and its outcome was to be decided in the next few weeks. The outcome rested squarely on her shoulders.
As if such an enormous challenge was not enough, Angela's ten-year-old daughter, Michelle Calabrese, was having a crisis of her own. And while Angela's CFO and COO, the presidents of Angels Healthcare's three hospitals, and the recently hired infection-control specialist waited impatiently in the boardroom down the hall, Angela had to deal with Michelle, with whom she'd been talking on the phone for more than fifteen minutes.