“Not like you Hatfields and McCoys, eh?”
That got a laugh out of the fed, who tipped himself back in his chair, turning his face aside while he pondered what he'd toss at Dane next. “Oh, by the way—”
“Yeah?”
“Those two who came after you in the joint? Who told the guards they were really fighting each other?”
“Uh-huh.” Cogan was definitely plugged in if he knew about that. He had some reach. “Kremitz and Mako.”
“Tha's right, those are them. Well, they got themselves into even more of a jam. See, they were recuperating okay from their knife wounds they, ah, allegedly inflicted upon each other—”
Christ, everybody had to work on their sense of subtlety. “Yeah? And what happened to them?”
“Last night they were force-fed poisoned cocaine in the infirmary. Well, we don't really know if they were forced to do it, you see? Maybe they were just tryin' to get high and somebody made sure they got a bad batch.”
Saying nothing more than that, waiting for Dane to ask the question.
“Either of them make it?”
“Both, but they're on life support, in comas. Doctors ain't sure if they'll pull through or be brain-damaged or what all yet.”
When you got right down to it, the Monticelli clan hired some real shitheads to do their dirty work for them. They were sloppy and spent more time cleaning up after their own mistakes than getting the job done.
Cogan finished his coffee, reached into his wallet, and pulled out a business card. Dane was surprised that there wasn't only a phone number but a city address. A ritzy hotel around the corner from Glory Bishop.
“You come by some night and we'll chat. Anytime. I'm easy to get hold of.”
Dane took the card and said, “I might just do that.”
They stood, shook hands, and walked out of the bakery together, Dane carrying the pink box. Cogan made a left down the block and Dane went right, turned the corner, and watched with mild surprise as the boy with the sick brain stepped up.
He was just suddenly standing there, leering so wide that the corners of his mouth had split and leaked a little blood. He still had on his hospital jammies and slippers.
“If you've got something to say to me,” Dane told him, “let's hear it. In English.”
The kid cocked his head at that, and the smirk eased up enough that his lips managed to cover his teeth.
He took a step forward and his knees nearly buckled. Dane moved to catch the boy and felt a sense of loving, encompassing warmth, but no weight.
The boy followed him home and in through the front door without ever saying a word. Dane lay on the couch and stared at his grandmother eating her dessert while she watched soap operas and got ready for bingo.
She finished her cannoli, got her coat and kerchief on, and stood in the doorway. She looked at Dane with concern. “What's'a matter for you?”
“Nothing.”
“Don't tell me that, you've been on pins all evening. What? That dead girl bothering you again? She's got nothing better to do, that one. Always with the sassy mouth, I hear her sometimes.”
“No, Grandma.”
“The mess at Chooch's? With the gun and the shooting the strunzo in the leg? You only did what had to be done. You should be proud, not taking shit off one of those strong arms. They watch a few cable television shows, a couple Scorsese movies, and suddenly they're mobsters?”
“I know. It's not that.”
“Don't mope, it's not healthy,” she said, and shut the door.
Dane sat back and stared into the boy's eyes, looking deeply, hunting for intelligence and answers.
“Is there anything going on in there?” he asked.
“Yes,” the boy with the twisted head answered.
Then he pressed the side of his face against Grandma's afghan and appeared to go to a comforting, but not yet eternal, sleep.
SIXTEEN
Glory Bishop, on her stomach naked in bed, read through a pile of scripts with one leg tapping the air while Dane ran his hand over her thigh.
She'd wanted another go in the funky swing, but he thought maybe he was just too old-fashioned at heart. He couldn't get over the nagging fear that if they got too wild, they might go out the window.
Now he listened to her tinkling the ice cubes of her White Russian, talking about the shitty screenplays that her agent kept sending on.
“This one here,” she said. “I should fire the bastard for even wasting my time with it. Another horror movie. Naked bimbo in the woods running with her tits out while a serial killer stalks her. She's screaming her ass off, swims through an icy river—”
Dane pictured it and thought it might be something he'd like to watch. Glory Bishop in the water. Every dumbass flick should have one scene like that, so if you caught it on cable late at night, you'd sit there waiting for it to come around. Her agent wasn't so stupid.
“—she makes it to the other shore and the killer slips out from behind a tree and uses a wrench on her. Go through all that because the male audience wants hard nipples. No mention of this wrench up until now. No mention of how in the hell the bad guy managed to get to the other side of the river and still be in dry clothes. This bimbo role, it has exactly thirty-two lines, half of them are screams.”
She leaned over and showed him the page. Dane read the dialogue. Augh. Yeee. No, please, I'll do anything you want. Wah.
He asked, “These writers, they make a lot of money too?”
“Yeah, and this one is also directing.” She started working her thigh against his hand, eyes shut and face softening for a second. “He figures he doesn't need characterization if he's stylish enough, with the angles and music. Lots of rainy shots at night and quick edits. He wants to play the role of the killer too.”
“Sounds like he just wants a cheap feel but still say he was acting. While he wrenches you to death.”
She reached over the side of the bed and brought up three more scripts. “This one, they're trying to pitch it as science fiction. Called Zypho: Creature from Beyond the Edge of Space. Monster with these penislike tentacles tries to impregnate the all-female crew as they fly around the galaxy.”
“In shiny latex outfits?”
“And high heels.”
More lesbian scenes, Dane thought, shifting onto his side so he could stare at the curve of her jaw, where the light showed the soft blond hairs just beneath her ears. It couldn't be hard to make a profit in Hollywood just so long as you knew a few strippers.
He reached for her drink, took a sip, and nearly gagged. Jesus, Kaluha, the hell did anybody ever drink it? “You got only regrets about doing Under Heaven's Canopy?”
“It sorts of annoys me that all anyone remembers is the pole scene. But I wouldn't call that a regret exactly.” A crease appeared between her eyes. “Not yet anyway. Feels like it could become one.”
He looked around the bedroom, stared through the open door at the living room beyond, thinking how this place probably ran about 2 million.
She picked up on it and told him, “It's not drug money that's paying the bills here. My husband really did make a lot of cash through his films, before he fucked it all up. Property, stocks, a couple of good productions. The lawyers say more of his assets will be frozen soon. I need to start getting back into the game.”
Dane wondered why, then, if she needed to play it so straight, was she bringing him along to premieres instead of some hot director or producer or actor? “You want to break into serious roles?”
“I'm not interested in doing Lady Macbeth, if that's what you mean. But I'd like a film with some real dialogue, a fleshed-out character behind it. Maybe keep my nipples under wraps.”
“What kind of movies did the Monticelli clan want to invest in?” It was the second time he'd asked. The first was right after playing around with the swing the other night, after Vinny had stepped in, then stepped back out of that particular existence. He didn't get an answer then, as they got frisky
in the funky seat.
“I'm not sure, but it had something to do with the daughter.”
Dane's chest tightened. “How's that?”
“The old mobster's daughter. She wants to be in pictures. She wanted him to set her up with the beginning of a career. Like it's easy to do, buy your way into a production company, tell the investors your daughter's going to be the star, even though she's never even been in a high school play.”
“You sure about this?”
“I'm sure of what I heard, but I don't know how true it is. People love to sling shit, especially at anyone who might be trying to steal their credit.”
“Who'd you hear this from?”
“Just gossip between a couple of my husband's cohorts. Nothing serious, just a bunch of talk.”
She stared at him with a real curiosity, like she was waiting to see what this information might do to him. He kept getting the feeling that she knew more than she was telling him, but he couldn't see how that would fit in with anything else. He stared back at her the same way and she let out a giggle like he was just being goofy in bed.
So Vinny wasn't getting into the film industry to make money, he was doing it for Maria. Vinny used to talk a lot about the history of the neighborhood, pointing out the buildings where the silent era movie stars once lived. If Maria wanted to be in film, Dane figured it was because of that. Growing up in Headstone City, on the hill that still held on to the respect and history of Meadow Slope.
“You know her, don't you? The daughter, the one I was just talking about.”
“Yes,” Dane told her, and could hear the ache in his own voice and the hint of puzzlement. Still not sure why he cared so much about Maria, but glad to have anything in the world that made him feel this way.
“That voice you used just then,” Glory said, “the way you just spoke . . . you care a lot about her, don't you?”
“I hardly know her anymore. Haven't seen her in years. We grew up together and for a while I thought maybe—”
“You've had a thing for her since you were a kid.”
“Yeah. All the guys from the neighborhood do.”
“You want me to help her out? Introduce this mafia princess to a few people? I could make a couple calls. Get the ball rolling for the Don. Maybe he'll make a movie where I could keep my shirt on all the way through. Or at least until the third act. You want me to try?”
Dane sat up in bed, looking at her. He grabbed and lit a cigarette, trying to decide if Glory was making the offer in that jealous woman trying-to-rise-above-it sort of way. Or if she was acting buddy-buddy with him, like they were only pals now, because their relationship had just hit the wall.
He said, “No, Glory, don't do that.”
“Why not?”
“If her family has any strings to pull, let them pull 'em. You don't want to get involved with any of that again. Look where it got your husband. Besides, the Brooklyn mob should stay the hell out of Tinseltown. That place sounds too crazy even for them.”
She dug through the bundle of their clothes on the floor, searching for her panties. She found his jacket, and an uneasy grin flooded over her face.
Now a slow, dramatic turn of the head, like she was staring into a camera, preparing to speak her lines. Yeee. No, please, I'll do anything you want. Wah. There was a reason why the only scene anybody remembered was the pole dance.
He sat there smoking, waiting for it.
Glory Bishop yanked out the .38 and held it away from her like a plate of bad fish. “You got something you want to tell me?” she asked.
“Ah—”
You couldn't even lie in bed with your girl for an hour without your past catching up to you, even here between the silk sheets. If she went into his other pocket, she'd come out with JoJo Tormino's wedding ring for Maria Monticelli. The dead followed you down to the mattress.
“I'd like an answer, Johnny. The hell are you doing with this?”
Some questions you didn't bother to answer. He furrowed his brow, wondering if he should get into the whole story now. She waited for an answer, which kind of bothered him. All this time and he still didn't know her husband's name, and she wants Dane to explain himself.
“So you're packing heat.”
“Heat?” He smiled at her. “If you're going to say that, you might as well go really old school and call it a ‘roscoe.'”
“What's the Brooklyn argot, then?”
“I don't know. I just say ‘carrying my gun.'”
It got her working the muscles in her jaw, head tilted back a little so she could look down on him like Sister Bernadette squaring off on him in the fourth grade. “You want to tell me why? Explain how dangerous the world of limo driving can be? I could've gotten up in the dark to get a drink of water and blasted my foot off, for Christ's sake. You bring a gun into my home and don't even mention it to me? Why?”
“I've got some issues with an old friend.”
“Pretty serious issues, I'd say.”
“Yeah, but we'll work it out.”
The tip of her tongue jutted and wet her top lip. “Without one of you dying?”
“Well, no, probably not,” he said.
“Oh for the love of baby Jesus.”
Dane was beginning to think he should call it a night. He checked his watch. Still pretty early, not yet midnight, but he'd ruined the mood here and Glory was panicked and probably angry.
He said, “I should go.”
“You don't have to. I didn't mean to pry.”
“You haven't. I really do need to leave. I'm sorry I didn't fill you in. It wasn't a matter of trust, if that's what you're thinking. There's just a few things I need to handle on my own, and you're better off not knowing what they are.”
“At least tell me what's going on.”
“Like I just said, it's better if you aren't in on it.”
“I still have a little money. Maybe I can help. Get you out of the city. It'll be safer for you in LA, so long as there are no earthquakes or mudslides.”
“Or the wildfires and riots. And you were complaining about the possibility of shooting your little toe off? How long'd you live in that town? Staying there sounds like a death sentence.”
He turned and she started tugging at his wrist, like a little kid who wants what she wants and refuses to let go. It was the first time she'd been like this. He looked down at her hand on him and said, “What?”
She repeated herself, with a firmer voice. “Let me help you. Discuss the circumstances with me. Tell me what's going on and we can work through it. I know we can. My lawyers might be shysters, but hey, they're the best shysters around.”
“Glory, give it a rest.”
And there it was, the first edgy moment between them. Where neither of them knew what to say next. He knew he'd fucked up in a big way but wasn't sure exactly when. With the gun? Talking about Maria?
He had to leave anyway. The timing was bad. It would look like he was either pissed or scared, neither true. He searched for some way to lighten the moment as she drew her underwear on, but there wasn't anything for him to do. He got dressed too.
She straightened the bed while he poured himself a double Chivas with a splash of water. His father's drink. It went down smooth, and he waited for the fire in his chest to move along and burn into his thoughts.
Glory watched and said, “I thought you didn't touch the hard stuff.”
“I don't really. It's what my father used to have every night, to unwind. Doesn't have anything to do with the drinking.”
“After what we just did in there, you feel the need to unwind?”
“No, I just feel the need to be close to my old man.”
She sensed his honesty and it relieved some of the tension. She came up into his arms again. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
Still pushing it, like a cop nudging. “Nah.”
“I was serious about the attorneys. They might be able to help you get out from under whatever you're in.”
<
br /> “You still paying them?”
“Yeah.”
“And how much time is your husband doing?”
“He's hoping to plea-bargain it down to eighteen years.”
“I think I'll take my chances alone, thanks.”
He started to pull away and she held on for another second. She had real muscle. He drew her chin up, pecked her bottom lip, and said, “Don't worry about it, okay? I'll be fine.”
“Exactly what my husband said. If you don't get killed, maybe the two of you can share a cell.”
Dane laughed, and that made her smile. They kissed again, long and with more meaning, as they tried to get back to where they'd been before.
The Chivas was just giving Dane that relaxed feeling by the time he hit the street. He got into the Buick and drove it around the corner. He parked in front of the hotel where Special Agent Daniel Ezekiel Cogan was staying.
Dane snapped on the radio and had another cigarette, thinking about Maria. Every guy had a woman in his life who meant more to him than she should. You couldn't call it love, or even an obsession. It had a greater complexity than that. It dealt more with the man you wanted to be than with the man you were.
He had always been tied to her, just like JoJo Tormino had been, and Dane figured he'd wind up just as dead, and probably for the same reason.
He leaned his chin down on his fist and focused, feeling a little resistance at the back of his skull, where the metal doors hadn't quite opened. Cogan was in bed, fading but not yet asleep. Dane could feel him in there, starting to slip into the comfort of darkness.
It took half an hour before the music began to change, the voices shifting and growing harsher, like people starting to argue. The drumbeat got steadily stronger, more primal. The music dissipated until it became only static disturbed by faraway, forlorn cries. Dane leaned in, put his ear to the speaker, concentrated on trying to make sense of what they were saying, but he couldn't make any of it out.
For a second there though, he thought he heard his mother moaning, the way she did in the back room while she was dying, seeing angels with golden wings as shiny as coins.
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