Headstone City

by Tom Piccirilli

  “Sure.”

  “But why heaven? And where's the canopy?”

  “Everything is dependent on test screenings,” she explained. “They show the movie to a couple hundred people and have them fill out forms on what they don't like about the film. It allows them to feel powerful. You turn two hundred fans into film critics and they start tearing the whole movie to shreds. So a bunch of them said they didn't like the title.”

  “Why not?”

  “They said it didn't resonate enough. That's one of the boxes they could check. If the title resonated with them.”

  “And Under Heaven's Canopy resonates?”

  “They thought it sounded more like a date movie. And the producers were already hung up on the hell part, you know? It was in their heads. They couldn't clear their minds of it, so they just turned it around, turned the hell into heaven. If the viewers in the screenings didn't like hell, then they've just got to love heaven, right?”

  “These producers, they make a lot of money?”

  “Christ, yes.”

  Dane was starting to think maybe he should move to the West Coast, where it seemed like any shithead could make a bundle. Dane tried to picture Under Heaven's Canopy as a date flick. A couple of teenagers out on a Friday night, feeding each other popcorn, and then Glory Bishop comes out onto the stage and goes buck wild. It might make a few watchdog groups unhappy, but maybe that was really the whole point.

  As they drove down to the south shore and started getting closer to the Hamptons, Dane felt her personality begin to shift. Getting into movie star mode, putting up a front that was attractive but still a wall.

  The theater was much smaller than he'd anticipated and he nearly drove past it. On the main drag, about a hundred yards from the beach. With a bait & tackle shop on one corner and a boatyard across the street.

  “Good, we're right on time,” Glory said. “A few cheesecake photos up front as we enter. We watch the damn movie, and we're out of here.”

  “It starts this early? It's barely even dark.”

  “This is the indie circuit. Personal projects. It's for the fans and the new directorial geniuses just making their mark.”

  “Which are you?”

  “I'm only going as a favor to a friend.”

  “To make the movie look more important?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you're not in the hot tub with another chick?”

  Home to dozens of the wealthiest, most notable celebrities of the day, Bridgehampton stood out as one of the swankiest areas in New York, but that didn't mean they knew how to throw a party.

  The premiere was held at a regular, small movie theater, was small with an old-fashioned ticket booth and velvet-rope barricades out front. Dane kept waiting for stewards to come around with caviar and champagne, but everyone who showed up looked fresh from a frat house. He recognized two movie stars dressed down in jeans and wearing stocking caps, their clothes so wrinkled it looked like they'd just gotten off a bus.

  There were maybe a dozen members of the press and a couple of reporters from the local station. About a hundred fans lined up, folks taking pictures and waiting for autographs. Dane knew he was going to feel out of place, but he never thought it would be because he was overdressed.

  Salty mist blew heavily over the building, and sand wove along the sidewalk. Memories of Atlantic City heaved again but Dane fought them back, trying hard to hold on to his good mood.

  He caught on quickly. He wasn't really allowed to talk. Just grin noncommitally at people, wave like he knew them. Every time he asked Glory Bishop a question, she nodded and let out a little laugh. No matter what it was, he got the nod and the laugh for the benefit of the cameras. So he shut the hell up.

  She kept finagling him to walk in front of her. He realized he was supposed to look like a bodyguard more than anything else. He decided to pose as much as possible. He imagined one of the Monti mooks handing Vinny a supermarket tabloid with Dane's face on the cover. At a premiere with a movie star only a week after getting out of the can, and with a Monticelli death warrant hanging over his head. Not too shabby.

  None of the celebrities talked to each other. They went out of their way to ignore everyone but the paparazzi and entertainment reporters. Glory answered a few questions and Dane stood in the background, glancing left and right, playing his part. When she peeled from the press, Dane kept a step in front of her and walked into the well-lit theater.

  “How'd I do?” he asked.

  “You smiled too much. All bright-eyed and happy. Fame and wealth are supposed to make you sullen.”

  “I'll start mauling photographers next time.”

  The director of the film jumped up onto the stage and gave an introduction to his movie. It was an artistic vision he'd had since he was in high school. It had cost 1.2 million to make and was already up for a Spirit Award. Dane didn't know what a Spirit Award was, but the crowd was impressed, so he applauded with them. He asked Glory how the flick could already be up for awards when this was the premiere and she explained that it had already done the festival circuit. This was just the general release. It would be shown on about twenty screens in three cities and then go straight to DVD and do well on cable.

  “That'll get them their one point two back?”

  “Hell yes.”

  “All that cash in movies and your husband went in for trafficking? What'd he do wrong?”

  “He's a dumb, greedy shit. The risk was part of his juice. And the coke habit made it that much worse.”

  The film opened with a panning shot of the East Side IRT City Hall subway station. There were no gorgeous chicks in a hot tub. After a half hour he realized there were hardly any women in the movie at all. As near as Dane could tell, the film was about three homeless guys who lived in the subway riding trains all day and night long. Shaving in their seats, eating whatever the other passengers left behind, reading lost books. For a while Dane thought it was a comedy. He laughed out loud a couple of times and got shushed by a woman in back. Glory Bishop giggled beside him.

  Afterward, the director and some of the actors stood in front of the screen and answered questions from the audience. The director said the film was a metaphor for limbo. The way station between heaven and hell as represented by Manhattan social strata. Folks applauded politely.

  Dane leaned over and asked, “Is it going to be the same on the way out? You might have to give me a crash course in how the wealthy look sullen. I've been told poor people like me appear too bright-eyed.”

  “Don't worry about it, we've done our part.”

  “You mean you don't want to hang around and schmooze with your buddies?”

  “They're not my friends. The guy I'm doing the favor for isn't even here.”

  He figured she'd want to eat at one of the fancy seafood restaurants in town. He drove slowly, checking out the establishments that might meet her criteria, but Glory Bishop asked him, “You afraid of speeding tickets?”

  “No,” he said.

  “Shouldn't you be?”

  “Yes,” he told her. “Why? You in a hurry?”

  “I thought we could have dinner at my place.”

  “You should probably let your driver know about an invitation like that, he'll definitely get you home faster.”

  “Kick it, Jeeves.”

  It got his mind turning. Maybe he was charming, smirky eyes and all. He kept a lookout for cops and made it back to the Long Island Expressway in ten minutes. Traffic moved along well and he managed to keep it between seventy and seventy-five most of the way back. He felt proud of the work he'd done on the engine.

  “Where do you live?” she asked.

  “Headstone City.”

  “Where the hell is that?”

  “In Brooklyn.”

  “Well, yeah, I figured, since that's where the limo company is, but where? A nice part?”

  “Do you know Brooklyn?”

  “No.”

  He wanted to ask her what t
he difference was, then, but he held back. “Used to be called Meadow Slope. A lot of silent era movie stars lived in the area near Outlook Park.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “About silent movies?”

  “Don't be an asshole. Tell me about the place. The longer I'm in New York the more I want to learn about it. You could live in LA for ten years and never figure out all the satellite towns and the suburbs and the lines of demarcation. Here, you've got your five boroughs, no confusion. So tell me.”

  “I'm not sure I can. And even five boroughs can get pretty messy.”

  He made the effort, a little annoyed by the sound of his own voice.

  Living in Headstone City meant walking out of the house past two bakeries, three meat markets, four bars, the candy store, the ice cream shop, two bridal shops, a couple of jewelers, and the hardware store. The mob guys acting slick on the corner, but dressed like shit. The firehouse and the police precinct right around the corner from each other, their back parking lots touching. When Dane was a kid he spent a lot of time with the firemen and the cops. He'd sometimes bring his father his lunch in a big Tupperware bowl, ziti and meatballs, coffee in a Thermos. His father would eat at his desk, poring over papers or on the phone the entire time. Dane would sit beside him staring at the perps handcuffed to chairs and making statements.

  Afterward, his dad would send him home with the empty Tupperware and Thermos, and Dane would cut through the parking lot and wander into the firehouse. On slow days the fire chief would take him around and show him the gear and equipment. Occasionally he saw the ladder crews covered in soot and sweat after fighting a four-alarmer. It gave Dane another kind of pride, thinking there were men who risked their lives every day to protect the neighborhoods.

  He checked the rearview and noticed she had a faraway look in her eyes. “You all right back there?”

  “You make it sound kind of sweet.”

  “Jesus, do I?”

  “You're surprised?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  Even though he could separate the stories, he couldn't discern his feelings. He couldn't talk about his parents' lives without thinking of their deaths. You talk about Tupperware but you still see the ladder company weeping for one of their own dead. You still see your dad's head opened up like a shucked oyster shell.

  “What'd you do time for?” she asked.

  “I ran over a cop.”

  That got her. Wide-eyed but still smiling, thinking that even if it wasn't a joke, it was still sort of funny, she said, “Come on, you can't be serious. Wouldn't something like that get you life? Hey, you serious?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Were you just not paying attention or what?”

  He told her the basic facts about Angie overdosing in the backseat of his cab. “But I already had a record for stealing cars. That put the kibosh on me.”

  “I'm so sorry. You speak of her like she was your little sister.”

  He said nothing, and though the miles passed quickly as they cruised into Manhattan, the mood stiffened.

  Glory Bishop leaned forward again, her hand on the partition like she wanted to reach through and touch him. “I know that name. Monticelli.”

  “Most folks around here do.”

  “I'm not from New York. I just moved here to get away from the craziness of Los Angeles for a while. That's where I heard the name, out on the West Coast. My husband used to do business with them.”

  Dane's pulse started picking up speed. “What kind?”

  “Those people, they invested in his movies.”

  He remembered what JoJo had said about Vinny getting more like Bugsy Siegel. Was that what he meant? Vinny wanted to make movies? Was that why fate had nudged him off in a new direction?

  “You mean they did drug deals together?”

  “I don't know.”

  This time, he pulled up down the block from her building. Glory didn't wait for him to open her door. She stepped out and came around the limo to meet him. She moved in close, hugged him about the waist, and leaned into his arms, kissing him lightly. He made an effort to shake his tension and go with it, holding her gently but with need. He wondered what the hell was going on but knew well the lesson of the gift horse.

  They walked arm in arm toward the building's entrance and the doorman frowned, his upper lip curling to reveal an incisor. Dane stared at him without anger, but making it clear he wasn't going to take shit off this guy pulling faces anymore. He thought he might very much enjoy breaking this prick's neck. The doorman let his lip drop and scampered away.

  Glory tugged him into the elevator. He expected her to hit a high number, the thirty-fifth or fortieth floor, where she could look out over the city and see the action of Park Avenue below to the west, and beyond that the great lawn of Central Park. It surprised him when she hit four.

  She handed him the key to her apartment. For a second he thought she was telling him to keep it, stop over whenever he liked. Then he realized this was a throwback to more courteous times. When a man escorted a lady to her house, opened the door for her, ushered her inside. Is that how her drug dealer husband had gotten her? Lighting her cigarette for her, handing her a towel after she got done dancing the pole?

  The apartment's design was totally retro. Jesus. What they would've called mod thirty years ago, right down to the shag rugs and the sunken living room. Silver shiny furniture and geometric shapes on the walls. Dane started flashing on his childhood, seeing his dad with a big mustache, flared collars.

  Glory said, “I bought it furnished, so don't blame me if the place makes you want to put on lemon-striped bell bottoms and grow muttonchops.”

  “It certainly takes me back.”

  “Whenever I walk in, it's like somebody's got AM radio on. I start humming ‘Billy Don't Be a Hero.' Or ‘Seasons in the Sun.'”

  “‘The Night Chicago Died.'”

  “Yeah, that one too.”

  He said, “No wonder your doorman thinks you only like seventies music. Aren't you a little young to have caught these hits the first time around?”

  “I used to play my mother's old forty-fives. With the little plastic thing in the middle so they'd fit on the record player. You want something to drink?”

  “A beer if you have it.”

  “There's a fridge full of imported stuff, but I don't drink it. Mexican okay?”

  “Sure.”

  He checked around the place, the record in his brain stuck on the fuckin' Nananas from “The Night Chicago Died.” Goddamn song.

  Over in the corner of the living room there was this weird device, sort of like a swing. All these rubber cords and this freaky leather seat. He looked at her and she said, “It's a love swing.”

  He tried not to miss a beat but had already paused for too long. Nodding, he just said, “Oh.”

  He'd heard of things like this but had never seen one before. Not even in a bedroom, much less right out in somebody's living room. He pushed at it and the love swing jangled and clanked. He wasn't sure who was supposed to sit in it or how the deed was to be done. But it seemed if you used the thing wrong, you could hurt yourself pretty bad.

  It would be worth it though, as he imagined her climbing in there and hitting him with her action hero line. I'm gonna rock your world, baby!

  He tried to figure out what the swing there in the open was telling men who came into her place. That she was wild and knew how to please? Or be pleased? Or that she didn't give a damn what anybody thought of her sexual habits? Or was it part of the furnishings left behind? Fuck, gross.

  He let himself imagine what Maria Monticelli's living room looked like, and if she'd ever been in one of those devices. Strapped, tied, swaying by chains. After about three seconds his brain started to hurt.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “You look a little sick.”

  “Do I?”

  Dane's scars began to heat. He tried to keep his hands at his si
des but couldn't. He rubbed at the back of his head. Sweat coursed down the side of his face, and a sudden wave of nausea passed through him.

  He looked toward the doorway and saw a flickering image of Vinny standing there with his mouth moving. Staring at Dane but talking to himself. Wearing a gray Armani suit but no bulge beneath the jacket, so he hadn't come packed.

  Dane took a step toward him as Vinny faded in and out, solidifying for a second, then dissolving from the scene. Finally, he was gone.

  Glory Bishop came over and handed Dane a beer. “Jesus, don't worry, I'm not going to make you get in the swing. Not if you hate it that much.”

  “Thanks.”

  Dane thought he knew what had happened. This situation was one of the three tracks that Vinny had been able to step into, wander around in for a few minutes before returning to where he started. Vinny had stepped into it for a few seconds—meeting with Dane here in Glory Bishop's apartment—then rejected the reality. The same as he'd done in Chooch's that day. Facing Dane down but then vanishing, moving into some different track.

  So, Dane thought, he'd waited long enough to actually make Vinny impatient. Look at that.

  Enough with this shadow dancing around each other. Tomorrow he was going to have to visit his old buddy and get the ball rolling.

  But right now, as he sipped the Mexican beer and Glory Bishop came into his arms again, licking at his neck, he looked up at the ceiling to see what kind of supports that weird swing had. Maybe he'd try it out after all.

  FOURTEEN

  There was a new Monticelli crew member Dane didn't know standing at the door of Chooch's. Big kid, maybe twenty-one, with a flinty glare he practiced on everyone who passed him in the street. He probably gave it to his parish priest, trying to get the Jesuit altar boys to tremble during Mass.

  He had to start things off right. He stepped inside the place, noting the few goombas who were already drunk at the bar. Three in the afternoon and these guys could barely keep their faces out of the ashtrays.