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his third vodka martini and staring at himself in the smoky mirror behind the bar, he suddenly decided he would file the required report the following day. He’d been flip-flopping for days, but all at once he thought maybe he could have his cake and eat it too. In his mildly inebriated state, he reasoned that it was now so close to the IPO closing that maybe the report would sit around at the bureaucratic SEC and not get to the investors in time. That way, he’d have assuaged his conscience and, he hoped, not killed the IPO. Feeling a sudden euphoria at having made a decision even if he would change his mind overnight, Paul rewarded himself with a fourth cocktail.
    Paul’s final vodka seemed more pleasurable than the previous, but it might have been the reason he did something an hour later that he normally would not have done. Weaving slightly while walking home from the train station, he allowed himself to be approached a few doors away from his house and to be engaged in conversation with two nattily dressed yet vaguely unnerving men who had emerged from a large, vintage black Cadillac.
    â€œMr. Paul Yang?” one of the men had questioned in a raspy voice.
    Paul stopped, which was his first mistake. “Yes,” he responded, which was his second mistake. He should have just kept walking. Coming to such a sudden halt, he had to sway slightly to maintain his balance, and he blinked a few times to try to sharpen his mildly blurry vision. The two men appeared about the same age and height, with hatchetlike faces, deeply set eyes, and dark hair carefully slicked back from their foreheads. One of the men had considerable facial scarring. It was the other man who spoke.
    â€œWould you be so kind as to afford us a moment of your time?” the man asked.
    â€œI suppose,” Paul responded, surprised by the disconnect between the gracious syntax of the request and the heavy New York accent.
    â€œSorry to delay you,” the man continued. “I’m certain you are eager to get home.”
    Paul turned his head and glanced at his front door. He was mildly discomfited that the strangers knew where he lived.
    â€œMy name is Franco Ponti,” the man added, “and this gentleman’s name is Angelo Facciolo.”
    Paul looked briefly at the man with the unfortunate scarring. It appeared as if he didn’t have eyebrows, which gave him an otherworldly appearance in the half-light.
    â€œWe work for Mr. Vinnie Dominick. I don’t believe you are acquainted with this individual.”
    Paul nodded. He had never met a Mr. Vinnie Dominick, as far as he knew.
    â€œI have been given permission by Mr. Dominick to tell you something financially significant about Angels Healthcare that no one at the company knows,” Franco continued. “In return for this information, which Mr. Dominick is certain will be interesting to you, he only asks that you respect his privacy and not tell anyone else. Is that a deal?”
    Paul tried to think, but under the circumstances it was difficult. Yet as Angels Healthcare’s chief accountant, he was curious about any so-called significant financial information. “Okay,” Paul said finally.
    â€œNow, I have to warn you that Mr. Dominick takes people at their word, and it would be serious if you don’t honor your pledge. Do you understand?”
    â€œI suppose,” Paul said. He had to take a sudden step back to maintain his balance.
    â€œMr. Vinnie Dominick is Angels Healthcare’s angel investor.”
    â€œWow!” Paul said. In his position as accountant, he knew that there was an angel investor to the tune of fifteen million dollars, whose name no one knew. On top of that, the same individual recently provided a quarter-of-a-million-dollar bridge loan to cover the current shortfall. From the company’s perspective, and Paul’s, Mr. Dominick was a hero.
    â€œNow, Mr. Dominick has a favor to ask. He would like