The mob was a young man's organization. The old dons and their original crews, if they'd survived into their sixties, usually wound up hitting the skids and living worse than folks on social security. They lived large while they could, but over the years they slowly shrank inside their ratty sweaters until they disappeared.
The kid pressed his meaty hand to Dane's chest. There it was again, the hand, like that would be enough to stop anybody who wanted to get past.
This thug barely moved his lips when he spoke, hissing so he'd sound tougher. He said, “Listen, bud, we don't open to the public till eight tonight, so—” and Dane punched him in the gut. Even if a guy had six-pack abs, he'd still fold if he hadn't tightened up. The kid doubled over and Dane brought his elbow around and cracked him in the chin.
It felt better than when he'd fought in the showers, somehow more natural to do this sort of shit in Brooklyn.
Dane drew his .38, pressed it into the kid's nostril, and told him, “You've probably heard about me. My name's Johnny Danetello.”
The thug coughed blood and said, “Who?”
Now that just pissed Dane off. He turned the gun around and smacked the kid between the eyes with the butt, let him drop, and walked farther inside.
He spotted Vinny in the back at the VIP table, drinking with most of the main players left in the Monticelli clan: Georgie Delmare, the consiglier; Joe Fresco, the hitter; and Big Tommy Bartone, the last of the real capos.
Vinny hadn't bothered to look up yet, letting the moment drag out a touch longer. That was okay. Everybody needed a little drama in their lives, hoping to milk every drop of cool out of the scene that they could.
Georgie Delmare was pure poise. The Don's former right-hand man had been inherited by Vinny. An attorney who managed to make everything look legal when the feds and the IRS came knocking. Sharp in business and always clearheaded. Pint-sized and soft, with bland eyes and a rugged complexion like he'd taken a lot of knocks when he was a kid.
Delmare said, “John, was that show of force really necessary?”
“Ask a skinhead named Sig about being excessive, Georgie. He charbroiled himself in my cell but he still didn't get the job done.”
Delmare had heard the story. His face crumpled and he slid back uncomfortably. Even he knew the Montis were going off track.
Joey Fresco's hands were under the table and Dane knew he'd be holding a gun in one and the butterfly knife in the other. He was a real edgy bastard who used to boost cars around the Heights. Drive them down to Atlantic City for the weekend, then bring them back and leave them right where he'd stolen them, in people's driveways with a full tank of gas. He liked to consider himself a gentleman bandit, eccentric but also personable. Except sometimes the cars would have a body locked in the trunk, some charred corpse with its face blowtorched off or a bullet in each eye. That sort of thing tended to ruin his cavalier image.
Big Tommy used to be Don Pietro's number one capo, in charge of all the dirty work. He ran the legbreakers and the shooters, and clearly enjoyed his work. Tommy had a smug smile and overconfident eyes that danced with a kind of mischievous light. He was stocky and his jacket bulged with hardware. His leather holsters creaked and rasped when he moved. His ferret face was drawn into a perpetual sneer. Dane was still a little surprised that nobody had put a hit on Tommy just for the way he looked. Always grinning and arrogant as hell, ready to toss his wine on someone's shirt.
“You're brash as hell, Johnny,” Big Tommy said. “I could've used you back in the day. But right now, you should probably move out of here before something happens and we gotta do a lot of cleanup. Drag you in back and spend all night at the sausage grinder. So back away now.”
“Sure, Big, in just a minute.”
Dane still had his .38 out but kept it low against his leg, not pointing it at anybody. He stared at Vinny and waited, wondering what it was that Vinny had been saying to him last night in Glory Bishop's apartment.
“I think you should stop this thing now,” Dane told him. “Before it goes any further.”
“That right?” Vinny's fake eye looked like it might be giving Dane the malocchio, the evil gaze, but with emerald hints of chagrin mixed in. “It's only got a little ways left to go.”
“You sure about that?”
“Yeah,” Vinny said. “You will be too, soon. Don't you feel any different than you did a few weeks back? I knew all we had to do was wait and you'd step up. You're looking healthier. Happier.”
Big Tommy had been inching his left hand under his jacket, where he kept his knife upside down in a holster. You had to give it to a few of these crews, they had some style left.
Dane put the barrel of his .38 in the wiseguy's ear and said, “How about if we just remain respected adversaries, eh, Big?”
Tommy's hand strayed another half inch under his arm. Dane sighed, still not too bothered by it, but wishing he and Vinny could just go and slug this out someplace alone.
“You listening, Big?”
“Sure, Johnny.”
Vinny wiped his lips with the cloth napkin and finally glanced straight into Dane's face. You always got the feeling the fake eye knew a little more about you than it should.
He nodded to the crew, the slightest tilt of his chin. They moved off from the table, settling in close by, Joey with his gun out, the barrel angled toward Dane's belly. If it was going to happen, they wanted to keep him alive and make it last for a good long while.
Dane reached across the table, took Vinny's glass of wine, and drank the remainder of it. He asked, “Hollywood, huh? You want to produce, direct, or star?”
“You had to come back. You had to show up here. I understand. We'll get through it all eventually. Enjoy your happiness, don't feel embarrassed by it.”
“What?”
“Really, you need to stop hurting yourself.” The words coming out of him as if rehearsed for months. “What is it that pushes you down onto the blade, eh? All this inner conflict? You even got an answer?”
Dane stared at him, trying to find something to say.
“Don't worry about it.”
It was good to know that Vinny, for all the rest of their troubles, could still read Dane well. When you needed a friend, you went back to the guy who knew you best, even if he wanted to kill you.
“You know what happened to Angie wasn't my fault.”
Vinny's voice took on a different tone, like he had fallen into a deep well and couldn't climb out. “She was fifteen. You take her to Bed-Stuy and sit outside with your thumb up your ass, and you're surprised by my reaction?”
“Not really,” Dane admitted.
“Then we know where we stand. I know if you ever gave a shit about anybody or anything, maybe even yourself, she wouldn't have died in the back of your cab. You couldn't have saved her, but it wouldn't be on your shoulders.”
“You're as complacent as I am,” Dane said. “Or you would've done it by now. You send half-assed cons after me for two years, then you let me walk around for weeks after I get out of the stir?”
“I told you, don't worry. I've got something special planned for you.”
“You've had plenty of time to make it happen if that's what you wanted.”
It seemed they were both discouraged about what was going to happen. Dane felt a sudden and intense sorrow, missing his friend desperately for an instant. Then it was gone, replaced by his own anger.
One of them was going to die because Dane had been a lousy taxi driver, too lazy to go out and hunt fares, too weak to say no to a teenager with a fast rap.
It made him sigh. “Which trail do you see now, Vinny? You see me thrashing around and pissing myself? You got robbed by fate, seeing only three possibilities. Let me guess what they are. One where I pop you, one where you pop me, and one where we just walk away from each other.”
“Something like that,” Vinny told him, letting his grin out, like this had all simply been part of the warm-up act. “But not quite. At least we'll go th
rough them together.”
“Okay.”
The kid from the front door had managed to get to his feet and stumbled through the bar, his arm extended, gripping a Baretta. His hand was wavering because he couldn't see straight. If he missed, he'd take out Vinny on the other side of the table. The crew perked up over there, shaking their heads.
Might be fun to see what happened, but he didn't want the kid to get killed over nothing. Joey Fresco had already raised his pistol above the table, getting ready to fire.
“You bastard, you broke my nose!”
Dane shot the kid through the upper leg, same spot where he'd stabbed Mako and Kremitz, where it would hurt like hell but hardly do any damage.
“Settle down, junior.”
“You bastard, I'll get you for this!”
“You have no idea who you work for.” Maybe he'd saved the asshole's life, or maybe they'd already decided to bury him for being so stupid.
Dane turned to go. But he knew Vinny would have to yell something after him before he left. He waited for it.
“Hey,” Vinny called. “That swing I saw in her place. It looks like it'd crack your nuts wide open. You get into that freaky thing last night or what?”
FIFTEEN
Back at La Famiglia Bakery, with another list written out by his grandmother. It felt like he was always at a bakery, grabbing almond biscotti, cannoli, tiramisu, and napoleons. Jesus, how the hell did a seventy-eight-year-old lady eat sugar like this and not wind up with diabetes? He'd known crack addicts who didn't need a fix as bad as Grandma Lucia needed her dessert.
It had only taken two days to clean away the blood and bodies, for the crime-scene tape to go up and come down again, and then business was back to normal. There was a different girl behind the counter and she was fulfilling orders with swift efficiency. Dane glanced across the shop, hoping he wouldn't see JoJo Tormino sitting in the chair where he'd died.
JoJo wasn't there but somebody else hung back in the seat, staring at Dane. Straw-yellow hair chopped at the sides and a little too long in front. A hee-haw smile full of thick square teeth. Wearing a jacket with specially made creases so that the hardware underneath wouldn't show. Sunglasses carefully folded and lying on the little table.
Immediately Dane figured this had to be the fed who'd been nosing around. Cogan. Keeping Dane under surveillance until he'd determined his routine. Then jumping ahead and just sitting back to wait for Dane to stroll in with his grandmother's list.
It was pretty sad when the feds didn't even have to chase you around the block because you were in such a rut they knew where you'd be all the time. Buying Grandma some fuckin' cookies. It made him want to sulk.
Somebody's leftover paper stood open on the table, and Cogan sipped a cup of coffee. It wasn't his paper, no newsprint ink on his fingers. It was just a prop he used. Dane stepped over. The smile got wider.
“You got some real brass, John, stepping into an outfit-owned place like Chooch's when there's a hit on you.” He pronounced it Choochie's with a slightly Southern twang. Sounded like Tennessee or Kentucky.
“I grew up with just about everybody in there,” Dane said. “It doesn't take much backbone to go see them again.”
“It does if they want you dead, don't you think?” Talking in a normal voice, not whispering or worried about anybody overhearing. No one at the counter even looked over.
Dane took the chair across from Cogan and slipped the list into his pocket. This was embarrassing enough. “The contract's more symbolic than anything. Only one of them really wants me dead.”
“Two, including his brother Roberto.” Saying it like Robert-oh.
“Okay, you got me there. Two.”
“Maybe even one more, depending on where the old Don stands, right? Yep, and the sons do run the rest of that there crew now, am I right? They control all the button pushers and muscle?”
That cheerful smile was starting to get Dane down. “You already know that.”
“Tha's right.”
Cogan thought he was doing pretty good, right in there with the hip guy chatter. On the inside track to getting Dane cracked open and talking.
Like Dane might actually give a damn at this stage. All these mooks trying to polish their dialogue, make it sound natural without being real.
“I've got to tell you, I like Brooklyn,” Cogan said, glancing out the window at the busy street traffic. “I've been in DC most of my career, but this place, with these people . . . I could really get used to this. There's something special about this city. The atmosphere, I don't know, the mood, it makes me excited, makes my belly tingle. One heck of a sight different from Hazardsville, Kentucky, let me tell you that, son.” The broad, authentic grin reaching his eyes. “Here you can talk about mob hits and nobody even looks twice at you. It's all so natural to them, they're not even interested.”
Sure, you look around and your neighbors are flowing in and out, some catching your eye but most just going about their business. That's how it had to be in Headstone City. The same way Dane had to be when he walked in here the last time and found corpses all over the floor.
He tried to bear up under the weight of his promise to JoJo Tormino, the ring still in his pocket. Struggling not to think of Maria Monticelli right now even though he had no control over it.
Imagining her turning her head with her hair flipping back, revealing the side of her neck as she drew forward.
“Lordy, my pa would skin my back if he saw me acting with such poor manners,” Cogan said, reaching to shake Dane's hand, clasping it firmly. “I'm Special Agent Daniel Ezekiel Cogan.”
“Let me ask you,” Dane said. “I've always wondered about something. The regular agents, do they get jealous of you special types?”
More of Cogan's teeth came out for show, but his eyes hardened the slightest bit. “I think you can help me, Johnny.”
“How so?”
“Don't you want to know what's in it for you first?”
“No,” Dane said.
Cogan gave Dane a long look without altering his expression, deciding what his next move should be. At the end of it he pursed his lips and said, “Hellfire, son, I just want some information.”
“Yeah, I figured that much out. The fact that the ‘I' part in FBI means investigation sort of pointed me in that direction, you know? So what are you after?”
“Anything.”
Dane said, “I've got to ask, does this tactic work for you often? Sitting across from guys saying, ‘Hey, tell me about whatever'? It just doesn't seem too practical to me.”
“I want help with the Monticellis.”
Still playing it close to the vest, not wanting to give away any information. Use Dane, give him as few details as possible, then when it—whatever it was—went down, drop him in a world of shit and let him sink.
Dane tried to focus, but he couldn't stop seeing Maria. Seeing her beauty in his head always gave him a rush of giddy schoolboy joy, and who didn't need more of that in their day? “You sound like you've got a grudge.”
Was that it? Had the feds gone after the Don and somehow missed him? Were careers on the line?
“Naw, nothing like that. Your friend Vincenzo's just been investing money outside his usual orbits. That sort of thing makes us special agents perk up some.” Cogan kept staring over Dane's shoulder at the counter. He finally couldn't take it anymore and said, “I think I got to have me one of them napoleons. They good here?”
“Yes,” Dane said. “My grandmother says they're the very best, and believe me, that woman knows pastry. I'll get us a couple. You want more coffee?”
“I'd appreciate that, son.”
The new girl at the counter took his order without expression. He got Grandma Lucia's desserts in a pink box tied with string, a napoleon and a cup of coffee on a tray. Cogan took one bite of the pastry and groaned with delight.
Dane waited, wondering if this was the type of unbalanced fed they stuck in the field when everything else failed.
Hoping he'd get results no matter how he did it, then retire him early.
“Anyway, about Don Pietro,” Cogan said. “The old man's still pretty sharp but he doesn't get his hands dirty anymore. He leaves all that to his sons, and that Roberto, he mainly just wants to shoot craps and get laid.”
“Yeah?”
“All that money and he spends most of his time prowling around down by the river for whores. The real kinky jobs usually. Those there trannies. Latinos mostly. Ugly ones too, the ones that ain't gotten the whole procedure done yet, still got their danglin' willies.”
That got Dane's attention. He tried picturing Berto down by the Brooklyn Bridge, paying fifty bucks for half'n'half from a chick with a dick. “If you're in close enough to see that, what do you need me or anybody else for?”
“Like most of the families, they're smart about business but dumb as a bag'a hammers about almost everything else.”
Dane said, “Still sounds like you've got them in your sights.”
Carefully wiping his fingers with his napkin, now unfolding his sunglasses and putting them back on, Cogan grinned, some sugar clinging to his lips. Getting serious, covering his eyes. “I want you to help me bust it down.”
“It's already busted down. They're legit now.”
“Just 'cause everybody says it don't make it true. There's still plenty of juice in the Monticelli family.”
“Maybe. What new orbits is Vinny laboring in?”
“You already know, don't you?”
Still unwilling to say anything. Hoping Dane would roll over out of fear. Yeah, this Cogan had a grudge all right, and was probably flying without much official say-so. He was off the radar.
“Now, I don't suppose you know who did JoJo Tormino in here?” Cogan asked.
“Three Monti shooters, probably new guys trying to make their bones. JoJo said Roberto Monti was behind it.”
That took Cogan back some. He really hadn't been expecting an answer. “That right? Why you think?”
“He was mad because JoJo was in love with his sister Maria.”
Cogan appeared thoughtful. “You folks with that there Mediterranean blood sure do get your drawers twisted easy.”
Headstone City Page 12